Weekly dare

I've had time on my hands before. Specific time in specific places that maybe I didn't make the very, very most of. I would never say I regret how I spent my time. That's too harsh a word because I don't regret any of it. I don't regret, for instance, spending many a weekday evening in the pub with my friends when I spent a semester abroad in London, rather than touring castles. I don't regret getting in trouble with my friend Mark for talking through classes in high school, rather than, you know, actually learning chemistry, which might have gotten me a better grade point average and so on and so on. I don't regret all that homemade soap I made, or all the episodes of "Sex and the City" I watched, last time I was unemployed, because, first of all, it's a fun story to tell, and second, sometimes downtime - a lot of it - gets you exactly where you need to be after all. Now I've got time on my hands again and am beginning to fill in the gaps. With volunteering and possible part-time writing work on the horizon, I'm on the verge of feeling better about my schedule, although I'll need a lot more going on before I feel busy, and therefore, truly productive again.

But before I go rushing off this way and that I thought it might be good to take a step back and do a few of the things I've always thought might be fun. The things we categorize as "things we should really do," but never do. Since money is a factor, I'm not talking about a trip to Paris, which J and I should really do, but things like visiting a state park I've never seen before, or checking out a class at UNC, just for kicks. Going to the planetarium for a midday show. Touring the botanical gardens. Seeing a new beach or mountain town. Viewing an art exhibit - maybe something I'm not even, initially, that interested in. Attempting to spot a Painted Bunting before my husband does, and then play it off like I really wasn't that impressed by it, just to get to him a little.

Just kidding about that last one. Sort of.

I thought that perhaps in the interest of involving my readers, which I've tried to do before regularly, and somewhat unsuccessfully (the essay contest, and haikus, both items I should bring back, I think) I would ask all of you to provide me with a weekly dare. I fear the word "dare" might have some of you excited that you can tell me to walk down Franklin St. naked, singing, because, I told you to dare me so COME ON, JUST DO IT! But that's not what I'm getting at. My thought is that you guys might have some great ideas, or dares, for a girl with a lot of time on her hands, and I promise, in return, to provide pictures and a riveting, or at least explanatory, review of my adventure.

I'm thinking along the lines of worthwhile activities that will help me learn more about the world, or help me meet some interesting people and see some interesting places, rather than acts that will get me attention. I will not, in the course of my dares, 1) do anything solely to get attention 2) hurt anyone's feelings 3) compromise my morals or 4) go into the woods on my own, or do anything involving graveyards or, basically, anything that could be the first scene of a horror movie.

I'm putting myself in your hands. Give me some good ideas in the comments, and I promise to follow through, and tell you all about it.

Just when you thought it was safe to keep reading

I spoke too soon, it turns out, when in comments a few posts back I reported that I had successfully stopped getting urinary tract infections and thus regularly turning into a mad and uncontrollable beast who lies on the couch complaining and demanding drugs while at the same time bemoaning the fact that I have to take them. Because, you see, early this week I felt the familiar pain rise up again out of a dark and forgotten place. I thought I'd never feel it again, but that's ridiculous, is the thing. I'm just...prone...and I got another urinary tract infection and went to my regular doctor, who confirmed my fears and gave me the proper medicine to get rid of the problem, and assured me that if I was going to get them, I might as well get them one or two times a year and not every other second, and since I hadn't had one since five or six months prior, well, at least I was on the right track, right? I agreed. If I can't knock them completely, at least a brief respite between each would be nice, and if I can reduce the number through my brilliant hydration-and-cranberry-pills-plan, then good for me.

So instead of going on an extended self-loathing binge, the kind where I sit J down on the couch and, over the course of 40 minutes, involve him in a philosophical debate regarding my condition, I only involved him in a minor one. He, being a scientist, explained, for the 578th time, "Cara, this is an infection. You go to the doctor, you get rid of it. End of story." And then I usually say, "Yeah, but the infection and course of antibiotics affects me deep in my soul, in the very emotional part of my being that says I'm a good person. That I am of sound body." After a while I come around and do what the doctor says and I'm better. You guys know. Because I've told you about it before. Many times.

This time, of course, having so successfully avoided this pain for so many months, and because I am pretty much crazy, really really crazy, on my last day of the meds, feeling ever so slightly that maybe the mega dose did not completely wipe out my symptoms completely, and thinking that I'd be damned if I wasn't going to get rid of this thing entirely, I decided that I needed to go back to the doctor and make sure, absolute sure, it was gone. And that's what I did today. Lucky for him, it was a new doctor, a very nice one, one I hadn't seen before in my casing the joint on a regular basis, and therefore he didn't skip right to the problem, like my normal guy does, knowing how to appease me and get me out of there in a semi-reasonable amount of time, but proceeded to ask me questions, the normal questions you'd ask a normal person who was actually sick, like what my symptoms felt like, and when I'd taken my last dose of Cipro and, the kicker, if I thought the problem could be related to anything else, like, say, my being a total nutcase. Which he didn't ask, obviously, and so I had to explain to him as he sat, bewildered, in the chair. "You see, when I get any pain that could be referred to as 'anywhere near' the region we're talking about here, I become, like, neurotic urinary-tract girl, and everything takes on significantly more weight than it normally does, so my still feeling symptomatic? That could be due to, like, my having had about ten thousand gallons of water over the past couple of days. Surely that would make a person feel like they have to pee all the time, which is how I'm feeling. So I think I just need to know if the infection is gone (and it turned out it was), because, to be totally honest, I feel completely fine right now."

"That happens a lot," said the good-natured doctor. "People make an appointment and then come to the doctor, and they feel better, and it turns out nothing is wrong."

"Yeah," I replied, sheepish. "Yeah, I would imagine that, ah, that happens to people a lot."