The annals of my hip (Or: How I spent my summer vacation)

I joined the local YMCA, and you'll be happy to know that there are many, many naked women in the locker room. Everywhere. It's an epidemic. Talking to their friends, drying their hair, toweling off after a swim, naked. Nude. Bold, cheerful women. It's funny how one thing leads to another. How, my hip pain, associated with a running injury I'm sure, has occupied so much of my time lately, invaded so many of my thoughts. After asking all my favorite "experts" (J, over and over again, my little brother, my high school friends, a random guy in the bar) I decided to go to a doctor. I ended up, after a few references, at the Duke Sports Clinic, The Nicest Medical Facility On Planet Earth.

I realized, upon arriving, how much money had been invested in the place, by so many famous athletes, no doubt, and after getting over my momentary annoyance, thinking of the inequity...the many places in this country the money for the nice chairs, the millions of nurses, the huge pool and other gorgeous facilities...could have been used, I settled in and enjoyed the scenery. I felt a little weird. I mean, here I was, a casual runner with some semi-minor, mysterious hip pain, amongst these very toned people with awesome gear. These athletes, doing their physical therapy with their spandex and their ice packs, they were a tier above. This was their life. Whereas I'm pretty sure I hurt myself because - after coming back from a month of many Budweisers and nachos at midnight, my sole exercise walking to the pool down the road and trying not to fall down while navigating my way around the rocky shore this summer - I started running again. In my hilly neighborhood in my very old running shoes. A lot. To burn off the Budweisers.

Last week I saw a doctor who, although I'm sure he's great at what he does, didn't seem that interested in what I had to say. He didn't want to chat for hours, like I like to do when in the presence of a true professional. He asked me a few questions, moved my leg around, sent me to get an x-ray and then, not having pinpointed the problem, started talking about how the "MRI would give him a better idea of the problem." MRI? I thought I was going to be given stretches and maybe a heating pad. Not an intense body scan.

Before I could even ask why I needed an MRI, the doctor was out the door. Up front, they scheduled the procedure, and I was sent home without any stretches or a heating pad or any instruction at all, except that I shouldn't run for a while, but could ride a stationary bike or use the elliptical machine.

Because not running was completely common sense (it very clearly made my hip and leg hurt) I followed the doctor's orders. And that's why I joined the Y, choosing it over other gyms because it is so close I can walk there, and because it's nice inside - both the people and the building.

Over the next few days I researched my options, using the old experts - my friends, and strangers, too - curious why I needed an MRI. Didn't it seem a huge measure for such a small problem? My team of researchers agreed. And then the kicker, I found out that with my current insurance an MRI wouldn't be covered and would cost $2,000 (TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS). Since I hadn't been sold on the idea anyway - a seemingly unnecessary procedure dictated by an impatient doctor - I cancelled it, certain there are other ways to fix the problem so that I can run again.

Even so, the incident frustrated me. The insurance, the disappointing health care, the many phone calls. Why was it so hard? I knew I couldn't complain too much. I'm a very fortunate person, and this certainly wasn't the worst thing that could happen. Far from it. But it was enough to drum up a fairly bad mood.

Add to that a few rejection letters - I've been sending out pieces to various magazines, trying to, you know, get published. And then I got a speeding ticket.

I was driving home after volunteering (I've been doing some work at a homeless shelter, which, believe me, makes the insurance woes and rejection letters seem so incredibly small), and then having lunch with my friend Carissa yesterday, when I saw a cop sitting in the median as I pulled over the hill on the main stretch of road before you turn off on our little street. As I passed him (and hit the brakes) he put on his blinker and pulled out behind me so fast you might have thought I had a dead body hanging out of my trunk. And a gun in my hand. And that I was laughing maniacally behind the wheel, instead of what I was actually doing, which was listening to NPR, and yes, hurrying home, because I had to pee.

The factors at play in this scenario (I was in a bad mood, coming straight off the highway, and it's a big wide, road - really it is) aren't that important I realize, in light of the fact that I was speeding, which the cop pointed out to me several times. "Do you know how fast you were going?" he asked me when he approached the window. When I answered that I didn't, which was sort of a lie, because I had a feeling it was near 50, he asked, again, "You have no idea?"

While I in no way, and I mean it, resent cops (in fact I love them, in the same way I love doctors - they are both keepers of the peace, whether working on the body or on the streets) this method of questioning always makes me feel a little less loving. He knew how fast I was going. There's no way he didn't, because I'm pretty sure he had a radar gun in there. So his asking me, it was just a game.

Because I was going 55 mph in a 35 mph (whatever you want to say to that, please remember the factors involved) I have a court date in January, where I'm thinking they'll announce a rather large fine and maybe tell me my license is suspended for a month. Don't worry, I'll fill you in.

I got home and only allowed myself to wallow for a short time before picking myself up and driving over to the newspaper office where I'm now freelancing (thus, certainly not doing nothing with my time lately, and while I'm figuring out my life, churning out a lot of clips I can use to prove to the people who keep sending me rejection letters that, hey, I do get published from time to time - LOOK). I was assigned a story on a new county program and set up an interview with the woman in charge. We met at one of my new favorite coffee places downtown and after a very interesting interview, proceeded to have a very interesting conversation about life in general, particularly (since the thrust of the new program is educating the public about their civil rights) how we, as individuals, can do the best good in our individual lives. Making the right decisions. Treating people with respect.

She and I shared a pot of Earl Grey tea and I left feeling much better.

When I got home I sent J a text message, asking if he'd like to meet for a drink after work. I knew that once he got home, and we were thinking about what to make for dinner, and taking care of the dogs, and doing the dishes, my desire to tell him all about my day would slip away, that I'd get distracted, and I wanted to fill him in on everything that had happened.

An hour later I picked him up and we headed out to a spot we like a lot, and over a beer (for him) and a glass of wine (for me) I told him all about what I'd done that day - how I'd been annoyed, but able to put life in perspective, how I'd had fun with my old friend, met someone new, how I'd been pulled over (and really, what can you say about that?) and he told me what he'd been up to.

On our way out, I saw the girl who'd been working for the paper I'm working for now. We'd gotten to know each other in meetings and, after I got back from Maine, and she left for a new job, she gave me her boss's card, saying he'd probably welcome any freelance work. And he did. It was great to see her so we talked for a while.

When I get the time to take it all in, while having a drink with my husband for instance, I realize that my decision to spend the summer hanging out with friends and not exercising that much, and consequentially, hurting myself somehow, led to this, to days like yesterday, a very good and, at times, not as good day, but a full and productive day. It's something I think about when I ride my little stationary bike at the Y, a boring endeavor at best, but it gives me time to think, a few moments of peace, before I go back to the locker room to retrieve my things and get on with my day, and, inevitably, run into all the naked women, maybe just after their water aerobics class, getting ready for their days, too.

On surveys, guilt and making the world a better place

The fact that I had carefully laid out a plan for myself Monday - work out, get some coffee and do a little writing, then do a few errands such as buying some appropriate clothes for an office environment - didn't really save me from the fate I eventually succumbed to, a.k.a. I went shopping, and not just for the necessities mentioned above, but for, like, some new makeup and these really cute black heels that were on sale at Nordstrom, and before you go saying I shouldn't have even gone into Nordstrom, not having a real job and all, let me just mention that upon arriving I realized that it was the MID YEAR SALE at Nordstrom, and I know you guys will understand and forgive me. Normally, when I have things I need to shop for (and not too much to spend) the task becomes tiresome, boring. I might need brown boots, for instance, or a black cardigan (and watch it, people, probably men, who I'm sure are muttering things like, "you don't ever NEED brown boots," believe me, sometimes you do) and because I feel I need the item, and am not simply looking around at all the fashionable, wonderful things I don't need, not at all, shopping becomes a chore. It doesn't happen often, but it happens from time to time.

This, luckily, was not one of those times. This was one of those other times, when, in addition to efficiently finding the things you need, at a reasonable price, you also find other things you need at a reasonable price, and - the best part of all - you discover it is Clinique Bonus time, and if you spend enough money at the Clinique counter, they'll give you an adorable little travel bag full of makeup samples. Will you use them? Who knows. But you will certainly go home and lay take them out and love them dearly and try them on and celebrate the joy and esctasy that is free makeup, especially free Clinique makeup, which is especially nice.

The thing was, that after having amassed several bags full of things I maybe didn't need, per se, but that I had really, really enjoyed purchasing, I started to feel guilty. I don't think anyone should ever feel guilty for shopping from time to time. There isn't much better therapy than just going out and doing some nice things for yourself and not feeling bad about it. You're worth it, you know? But I started feeling guilty anyway, because despite the fact that I had, indeed, gotten some work done earlier in the day, I mean, it was Monday. And not even Monday night, but Monday, early afternoon, when most people were getting into their workweek and making a living and such, and it is at these times that I start thinking about how I left my job to go on vacation (I'm not romanticizing it anymore: I left my job to go on vacation) and that I should be home, and if not working, at least doing something sort of unpleasant, like creating Excel spreadsheets documenting our future financial plans.

Since I was already at the mall and not exactly ready to go home, I did what I could, and sauntered down near the Macy's, and tried my best to look available. See, there are these market research people who stand down at that end of the mall with clipboards and try and talk people into doing surveys. I'm sure people who live down here and go to the mall have seen them from time to time, maybe even taken them up on their seemingly-shady offers. I always do. First, they ask if you have a few moments to be part of a survey, get some initial information, and then take you around the corner to this office with little cubicles and various products, mostly food. Once there, you realize the alleged "few moments" is a total crock and this is going to take a while because they are going to ask you about 12 million questions about granola bars. Or fried onions. Or cookies (but honestly, who doesn't want to be asked 12 million questions about cookies? Cookies deserve that attention.)

If you're curious why I always participate, why, on a totally free day dedicated to shopping I'd willingly spend half an hour in a kind of dirty little office rating salty snacks on a scale of 1-10, well, there are a couple reasons. Basically, I'm a sucker for surveys. Anyone can come up to me, at any time, whether I'm in a hurry or not, and I'll participate. Part of it is that I like to help out. No, really. I do. Whether it's women's health or juice boxes, I like being part of the grand movement. I like knowing I've made a contribution that could change something - great or small.

Secondly, and more selfishly, these surveys usually result in some sort of humorous, or at least interesting, interaction with my fellow human beings. And that's one of my favorite things. I like to spend my time talking to strangers and asking them a lot of questions about what they're up to. Sure, you might find this strange, but if someone said I could have a job participating in a lot of surveys and then writing about the experience, I'd probably say, "Alright, I'm in."

But the big pull with these mall surveys is that they pay you. I've been paid as little as $5 and as much as $17. Cash. Sometimes you get to take food samples home with you, too. So needless to say when I was feeling bad about having spent all that money on myself, I went down there looking like I had all the time in the world, glancing from store to store as if to say, "Gee, so much stuff. I don't know where to start! I wish some kind soul would ask me to come sit in their office for a while and talk about where I normally do most of my shopping and my household income." My natural inclination towards looking like this - friendly, open, innocent - is why, I think, I got invited to join a well-known Boston-based cult in college. I said no, thanks, after talking to this really nice woman for, like, 20 minutes and then suddenly realizing, with a gasp, that this was exactly what our resident advisors had warned us about.

The more aggressive survey-takers try for everybody, but from time to time you see one of them standing around, looking coy and innocent, and you just know they're not really working for their commission. Those are the ones you have to cater to. This interaction - between the interviewer and interviewee - is one I've carefully studied in my work as a reporter as well, to the point where I can scan a room and figure out, in mere seconds, who I'm going to go up and talk to. You don't want to waste your time on people who don't want to talk, especially if their name is going to be in print, or who, on the other hand, are going to waste a good deal of your precious time going off about the current political administration and then say they don't want you to quote them, because they don't trust the media.

J, apparently, is pretty good about looking like he's got the time and won't say no as well. I know, because one night he came home with an ultra shiny fingernail, and explained to me that the people at the "All Things Natural" nail care booth in the mall had accosted him and he'd allowed them to buff his his index finger, massage his cuticle with vanilla-scented lotion.

There were a a bunch of people from the market research group out recruiting Monday and getting in for an interview was a cinch. I made a little money, which was good, and helped get rid of the guilty feeling. Was it more than I spent? Definitely not. But it was a good reward for the hard work I'd done. Really hard work. In fact, after answering like, the 50th question ("How would you rate the nut clusters among other nut products? Extremely different, very different, somewhat different, not very different or not different at all?") I started thinking about how I'd like to get a manicure, and got distracted. It was difficult to concentrate, but I did, for the good of my shopping habit and for the good of humanity.