The Insanity Defense

I haven't told anyone I know, except my husband and children, that I am thinking seriously about becoming an EMT. Anyone else I know will think I am insane. That's not the only reason I haven't mentioned it to anyone else--I'm not that fazed by being thought insane. What I don't want is for people to know about it and then for me not to follow through.

That's what happened when I started library school. I told everyone who would listen, and I was excited about it, and then let it drop. Now when people see me, they ask if I've graduated yet. It's icky. I dropped it because I realized I didn't feel particularly enthusiastic about the job options that would be available to me once I got my degree, but also because I was not at all enthusiastic about the people I was working with, both students and professors (and administrators, for that matter).

When I enrolled in library school, I was at a place in my life where I felt like I needed to be away from people, where I could be more autonomous, where I could choose, to some extent, my levels of interactions with others, both coworkers and customers. What I didn't recognize until later was just how influenced I was by the situation I was in at the time. I loved my job and my students, and I loved the time in the classroom. What I couldn't stomach was when I had to be with my colleagues.

So I was looking for ways to get out, and library school seemed like a very safe alternative. Books, information, working with people (maybe even kids), educating. It felt comfortable because it was a life I understood. I spend hours in libraries, I'd be lost without them. They are havens, sanctuaries. They are safe. And safe is comfortable. Safe is also necessary when parts of your life don't feel safe, and at the time, my work life didn't feel safe to me at all.

But I am safe now. I no longer second-guess every word out of my mouth, I no longer feel bad about what I know and don't know, and about who my children are and who my husband is. So that's baggage that doesn't have to factor in to what I think about doing with the rest of my life.

And that means maybe I no longer have to "play it safe" when it comes to changing careers. I don't have to be in a school for the rest of my life. I don't have to work solely with children. My next job doesn't have to be almost entirely cerebral. It could have some visceral thrown in there, too.

Which leads me to my follow-up on my last post in which I described being convinced that all other people interested in being an EMT would essentially be Baywatch babes. I am thrilled to announce I was wrong. So wrong.

Not that it was a room full of misfits. (As opposed to classes in library school, at least the library school I was attending--I have been trained not to be judgmental and even my mind was boggled by how many social misfits could all be in one graduate program at once.) There seemed to be just the requisite number of misfits--no more, no less.

And no one, I am happy to say, looked like they would be handed a modeling contract any time in the next week or two. (Except for maybe the instructor's colleague, who bore a disturbing resemblance to Brad Pitt...)

So it was a room full of average people. Yay. I love average. It is completely underrated.

And it was a fascinating hour, it really was. I loved it. I loved the confidence with which the instructor talked about our finding employment as soon as we completed our certification. I loved his straightforwardness and his total lack of badass attitude. He wasn't there to try to weed us out, he was there to encourage us and give us valuable information at the same time. At one point he even said, "This is a job that requires you to be a people person. If you are not a people person"--shouldn't this be the place where he says, "Then this is not the job for you"? But instead he continued, "Then you will need to work on that."

That very evening, back at home, when I was trying to slice some bread for dinner, I cut my finger. Deeply. It bled and bled and bled. It was still bleeding more than an hour later. So we went to an urgent care center, where I got my first stitch. Then yesterday, when I had to have some blood work done in order to be a volunteer in the hospital parenting program, I watched the nurse stick the needle into my arm. I have never watched it before.

Not only that, but it turns out that the nurse, Linda, used to be an ER tech, so I learned all about what she did, what she does now (having had serious back issues and then a massive heart attack, even though she's not yet 55), and what she plans to do in her future (occupational health is not for her--she misses the rush of the ER). So Linda and I gabbed for a good 20 minutes, at which point she encouraged me to let her know if she could help me in any way with my new career path, and she gave me her contact information. The best time I've ever had having blood drawn...

So am I insane? Sure, maybe. And maybe rushing to the site of gunfire or a car crash isn't for me--I don't know yet. But I think doors are opening, possibilities are appearing, and that has to be good.

Contemplating my future at Starbucks

I’m at Starbucks, trying desperately to get comfortable. Not working.

How can any one place do this much business in less than an hour? What did we do before we had Starbucks? Where did we congregate? What kind of coffee did we drink? Starbucks has been every bit as influential as McDonald’s, if you ask me. What a perfect storm—yuppies, more disposable income, networking, technology, global trade. Just incredible. And terrifying. So why are there still so many people who are willing to drink piss-coffee when they’re not at Starbucks? Why is all other coffee watered-down and nasty? It’s just not that hard to make decent coffee.

Soon I’ll be leaving to try to find my way to the local community college EMS training orientation. I have no idea what to expect. Here’s what I think will happen: I will be much older and fatter than everyone else there. They will be hip and cool and model-gorgeous like they just walked off a TV set, and I will look ridiculous. That’s what I think.

Ooh, an ambulance has just pulled into a parking space just outside of Starbucks here. Let’s see what they look like. Good to know that there is time to get a cup of coffee when out on a run. Okay, I like the rain jacket the EMS guy is wearing. He does look my age or a bit older, but also in much better shape—he’s pretty tall and looks like he could pull someone out of a car if he needed to.

That’s why I’m dressed for the Y—after I leave this orientation session that will be filled with 20-somethings who look like they’re just training for a gig on "One Tree Hill," I will go and work out.

Uh oh, the EMS guy left without getting coffee. I bet he just needed to use the bathroom. Oh, maybe not—the ambulance is leaving with its lights on and siren going.

So what am I doing? I’m not so great with blood, I don’t have the calmest reactions in an emergency. I like to scream as much as the next person. I’m not a badass. I am good at driving fast and aggressively as well as defensively—maybe I could be just an ambulance driver? I don’t like the thought of seeing dead people, or people as they die. Tendons and muscles out in plain view, guts and innards not really a strong point for me.

I guess we’ll see what happens.