“You’re a pretty girl. Are you married?”
“No.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
This was an actual conversation between a patient and myself at 1 o’clock in the morning. I laughed it off and came back with a self-depreciating “Let’s not open that can of worms.” He was 80 years old and chuckled and fell asleep soon after. And I was left to ponder my eternal singleton while charting for the rest of my nocturnal shift.
“I’ve been seeing this guy for a little while now and we talk about work and I realized how I was feeling.”
I sat across the booth eating my eggs and Tabasco sauce feeling perplexed and a little bit awed. This was the same co-worker who just resigned because she was unhappy in the career she had chosen. The same one our other staff members spoke of in shock and disbelief. I defended her, knowing that feeling all too well yet not possessing the courage to act upon it. It had only been a few days but she already looked better, her eyes free from that painful haze that gave her away. And through her unhappiness, she had still managed to meet someone and see him “for a little while now.” I hugged her extra tight as we said goodbye; it wasn’t the first time I was glad she had been on my unit for however short an amount of time.
“See, you do look at guys. It’s guess it’s not really your fault.”
It’s not really my fault that every man I have looked at or expressed interest in the last few months has a girlfriend or wife? I wish I saw it that way, instead of my apparent curse of being perpetually doomed to rejection. And yes I do look at guys on the street, you know, as opposed to tall lamp posts or shiny cars. I can’t help it if they don’t look back. And the ones who do look have the personalities of lamp posts and cars, so maybe I should rethink my methods. Sometimes (usually on bleak, gray days) I wonder how badly I screwed up in my past life to deserve this stagnant reality I’m currently stuck in. Whatever it was, I hope I had a good time.
“I’m a gonna die soon and you still no have a baby!”
Ah, the joys of having foreign grandparents…
“I have a buddy with a son your age. I’m gonna help you out, okay, because you need it.”
My father is never one to mince words. Or feelings for that matter. According to statistics, millennials are the first modern generation to be less successful than their parents before them. Debit, depression, entitlement, and narcissism will all play a part in the millennial’s downfall. The Boomers and Gen X pay no mind that we are a generation that considers the global picture, or practices being civic-minded, or appreciates the influence of art in all its forms. We have faults, many of them in fact, and most of us will probably end up being our own worst enemies. But for the love of God, don’t write us off before we’ve even started. Give us a chance to discover, to dance, to dream.
“It’s kind of annoying because I really didn’t want a boyfriend right now.”
You poor unfortunate soul. Also, don’t talk to me anymore.
“My daughter took a job in Australia despite my better judgement, but she loves it and that’s where she met her husband.”
Perhaps that is the ultimate teenage girl fantasy: meet and fall in love with someone from a different land. Personally an English-speaking country would be preferable, but it’s not a requirement. My mother passed her love of travel onto my brothers and me. And though I am more of a go-with-flow type of traveler while she grows more picky with age, it is something I am glad we share. And on the longest nights, I remember that brief conversation with that kind elderly man in that tiny ornament shop years ago in the middle of the mall. And I smile just like I did then and carry on.
“Are you here all night?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, you must not be marred.”
No Phyllis, I am not but you know… maybe one day. Now please, go the fuck to sleep.
The Big Three 