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People love to give you advice when it comes to dating. Here are some classic advice lines from my dating-discussion-posse:  “He might grow on you, you never know,” and “There’s no such thing as a manicorn, no guy is perfect!” and my personal favorite, “Don’t be all negative, give him a real chance and try, for the love of God, to be excited.”

Truth is, they’re right. I am kind of a commitment-phobe. So when I started dating a new guy last December, I brushed aside some eyebrow-raising things (such as the fact that he brought his laundry home for his mom to wash over Christmas) and decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. In the end, I realized I should have trusted my gut. Chances, schmances.

Let’s just say it didn’t work out. The details of why don’t matter. But I want to share how things went down because in the process of trying to be nice, I kind of felt like I got slapped in the face. And while it did make me a little angry, it also cracked me up. Seriously. This guy was clever, a little stalkery and a whole lot of drama for just 5 dates.  

So here’s how I ended it in Jan 2010:

“I hope you’ve had a nice week. I haven’t gotten a response to either my email or call, which is pretty telling. I get it – you’re upset with me. I’m not sure I really understand why, but I guess what matters is my expectations for what dating is and yours seem to be different, unfortunately. Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you again for all the times you took me out. I did have a nice time getting you to know you.”

To this he responded:

“Hey, I texted you back. And I thought you said not to worry about the e-mail. Anyway, I am not mad at you. To be completely honest, I’ve started seeing someone else and I want to see how it goes. Of course, we can be friends. Hope you have a good holiday weekend.”

No, this is not the slap in the face. I was fine with his reply, although it was a little jerky in its tone and made me hesitate to see him again even as a friend.

But was that the end? Hell, no!

I got text messages from him every third day for the next three months repeatedly asking me to hang out “as friends.” Then, out of nowhere, he writes to me this past weekend:

“I hope you’re excited about Obamacare. I haven’t seen you in three months and you seem to keep waffling about meeting, which is pretty telling. I get it —  you’re upset with me. I’m not sure I really understand why,  but I guess what matters is my expectations for what friendship is and yours seem to be different, unfortunately. Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you again for reconnecting with me. I did have a nice time getting you to know you.”

Ooooh snaaap! I couldn’t believe that he actually used my own email against me. Bastard! Yes, he seriously did this. Who does this?! This guy, that’s who.

I should have let it go…I know I should have. But I couldn’t. My reply:

“Hey, I texted you back! And I thought we said something about meeting in April. Anyway, I am not mad at you. To be completely honest, I’ve started making some new friends and I want to see how it goes. Of course, we can be acquaintances. Hope you have a good Easter Holiday.”

I see your hand and raise you one  bitch-slap. Hell, yes.

The email looked like spam. It was from a sender I didn’t recognize, and had a bunch of numbers in the subject line.

“The attorney at __ Hospital would like to speak with you regarding the above patient case.”

That’s all the email said. But it was enough to make me feel like I had been punched in the stomach. Which patient could they be talking about? How bad was it? What did I do?

The life of a medical resident is hard. There are the long hours, a poor diet, afflicted relationships, and of course constant sleep deprivation. When you sign up for it, you know more or less that this is what is involved. But no one tells you about the worst part – that you will be plagued with a constant, gnawing sense of self-doubt and concern that you will do something, or not do something you should have, that will be the cause of someone’s life ending.

In pediatrics, we don’t lose that many patients. In my hospital it was maybe 5 a year. I remember every patient whose life I worked to save and was not able to, and I have played over and over in my mind the sequence of events – the medications, drips, intubations – to see if I could have done something differently.

I remember many times, after a long night of call, when I would not be able to stop thinking about that patient who was really sick and wondering if I did the right things that night. Should I have adjusted the ventilator settings more aggressively? Did I miss any signs of a brewing infection?…I would second guess myself all the way home, and then some. And what was worse were those times when I knew my mind was not fully functioning, when I had become a little dulled – that’s when you really feel unsure of yourself. Fatigue often had me teetering on the edge of indifference. Had it ever made me cross the line?

Reluctantly, I called the attorney. The case is about a baby who suffered from complications during his delivery. The mother is suing all the doctors involved in that process, including the pediatricians who were called down to resuscitate the baby.

As the attorney told me the synopsis of the case, stumbling over the medical terms in the lawsuit claims, I knew I would never remember the patient. I had probably run down to resuscitate newborn babies in delivery rooms well over 50 times in my years of residency, not to mention that it has been almost three years since I finished residency altogether.  But, while I knew that it was not uncommon for doctors to be sued in cases of brain-damaged babies (Does your child have cerebral palsy? Could your doctor have caused it? Call us now to file your lawsuit!), I couldn’t help but feel guilty. Was I responsible?

In the end, it turns out that I wasn’t actually involved in this particular case. The event had taken place a month after I had finished my residency. The email was sent to me in error…

I have no doubt that sometime again in my career I will be involved in a lawsuit. And I hope I will be able to say I did all that was proper and necessary to care for my patients. But I also know that tonight at work, I’ll listen extra long to all my patient’s heartbeats and double-check every dose of medication I prescribe.

And leave nothing, I hope, open to self-doubt.

I actually almost laughed out loud when my poor date told me about his interests. It was our second date, and I had picked Cafe Leon not just for its oh so perfect French snootiness, but also for its proximity to the L train. My date was a Brooklyner, you see. So there we were, sipping our glasses of Pinot Noir and feeling very sophisticated, when we started talking about cities. Somehow, as it almost always seems to, we began to compare San Francisco and New York.

Let’s take a step back here. San Francisco, to me, is a really interesting and beautiful city. Culturally it’s not New York, but I have to admit that over the years I have come to appreciate it for what it has to offer. There really is no comparison – they are two entirely different types of environments. And, I’ve decided of late, you can like them both. As long as, ultimately, you choose to live here in New York. Just kidding. Sort of. Okay, not really.

Going back to the date. It turns out that my date had lived in San Fran for a few years. And even though he claims that he feels at home here in New York, he also stated that he learned a lot of new things in San Francisco. For example, what liberalism is exactly. And what the organic food movement is all about. And, much more important in his life, barefoot boogie dancing.

Yes, this is the point where I almost literally laughed out loud. But I quickly ascertained that he was not kidding and covered it up with a cough.

It seems that my date actually did find the act of gathering a random group of people (approximately 40-50), playing “world” music (can you hear the sitar and mandolin?), and letting the spirit move you as it will, to be an enjoyable activity. To him, it was part of finding a sense of belonging. All the while he was talking about it, I kept picturing this tall, lanky, rather nerdy looking guy dancing barefoot with his pleated Dockers rolled up above his ankles, his blue button down shirt untucked haphazardly, and a bright green bandana tied awkwardly around his head. For some reason, I also pictured him chanting something incomprehensible and being in a trance of some sort. I tried to snap out of it and focus on what he was saying, and asked appropriate questions to seem polite.

First, let me say that this was definitively the point at which I decided there would be no third date.

But at the same time, I couldn’t help but envy that he had found his niche, his “community” as he kept referring to it. I had to applaud that, since I don’t have that feeling of belonging at work, with a particular social circle, or even really in my family. For my date, there is a solid group of people in his life that do these same things – eat organic food, dance barefoot, live in Brooklyn – and he is at home with them. And I think that’s great. It’s not for me, but still cool. For him.

I am down with the live in Brooklyn and eat organic thing. But barefoot boogie dancing – really? That crosses some kind of line…not a conga line, but something equally absurd.

Am I right, people?

In a recent conversation with a friend who is house hunting, she told me she had to rule out any home that involved a lot of stairs in case her mother was going to live with her someday. And this is not just a possibility, but almost a certainty, that one day, her mother will need to move in with her. I admired her for her foresight, but felt a little sad that she had to have it.

It made me think, are we already here? Is this what it means to be an adult? When did that happen?

The more I thought about it, the more I started to believe that the day you start to worry about your parents really is the day you step over into official adulthood. It may not be a defining moment per se. For me, it’s been a gradual realization that decisions I make about my own life – career, finances, etc. – actually affect more than myself. And the tide changes from you causing them concern and grief to the other way around. I worry about my parents. About their happiness, their health, if they are eating well. And while I don’t think they expect or maybe even need anything from me at this time, I still feel guilty for not doing more…or doing something. Although I don’t know quite what.

Earlier today my mom called to tell me that she and my father have booked tickets for a trip to India. My initial reaction, internally, was not good. In fact, I hate the idea that they are going to risk their lives on a plane (I know, statistics blah blah), then spend six weeks in a country where if they get sick or hurt I can’t be there to help. And who doesn’t get sick in India?

You see, other than the one, rather huge trip in their early thirties when they immigrated from India to America, my parents have rarely travelled. We never went on vacations when I was younger. There just wasn’t enough money for that. Occasionally we’d pack up the old station wagon with seven or eight people and visit family in Pennsylvania, but we wound not often stray beyond that. In fact, the highlight of the trip would be if we stopped at a service station along the way where we could chat with the locals or get some McDonald’s fries – you know, real American road trip goodness.

I always think that I could literally pick out any place on earth and successfully plan a trip there on my own. But my parents – how will they know how to get around? I mean, sure, they speak the language and have a ton of family in India, but still. What if they get lost? Who is going to stop my dad from drinking the bacteria and virus filled water? Or remind them to take their malaria medicine? See, there is a lot to think about.

Anyway, I blame their lack of travel experience as the source of my concern, but it’s more than that. I just worry. I want to beg them not to go, but I know that would be so hypocritical. After all, imagine what I must have put them through when I travelled to Thailand and Peru – alone nonetheless. But then again, I’m invincible. After all, what could possibly happen to a young girl alone in Bangkok?

It’s such an uncomfortable feeling, being scared about something happening to your parents. It’s unsettling in a vague, hard-to-define way. You get to a point of life where you no longer depend on them, but can’t comprehend not having them around. And you start to factor in all the things that they will soon need to depend on you for, like avoiding houses with stairs.

So to my friend from the aforementioned conversation – yes, it seems we have arrived. Cheers to adulthood.

My upstairs neighbors, I’ve decided, must be newlyweds. Or have a cleaning-sex fetish thing going on. The couple moved into the 400 square foot studio right above mine a few months ago, and since then I hear them often walking around in what must be nothing short of lead-soled boats. But in addition to the constant thud-thud-thud of their footsteps, there is on almost a daily basis the noise of a vacuum cleaner generally followed by the squeek-squeek-squeek of box springs getting a workout…

Yeah, it’s time to move.

I’ve been at my apartment for almost six years now. A small, quaint little studio in the heart of Murray Hill. And while I have appreciated it for its layout and great sunlight, I have to admit I’m tiring of the little things that make it, well, a shit-hole. Like the kitchen faucet, that no matter how often it’s been “repaired” seems to always spray as much water horizontally as it does vertically. Or the crumbling paint. There’s the old school water heater that, when it comes on at 6 am in the winter, sounds like someone is taking a wrench with all his might to it. I think the heater has to work extra hard because over the years, the contractors have plugged up all the heating vents with globs of paint. But don’t worry they left globs of paint spattered over most of the floors as well, adding to the charm of the place.

And then there are the chipped, what probably used to be beautiful wooden floors. In 1907. (When they said pre-war, I didn’t realize that meant pre-WWI). I remember one night when I spent an hour watching a 2-inch Chinese water bug come in and out from a crevice in one of the cracked planks near the kitchen, paralyzing me with fear and disgust. Then, after mustering up some courage, I cried like a little girl while spraying the poor bug to death with Raid, all the while thinking of Gregor (from the Metamorphosis) being pelted with apples by his family.

Yeah, it’s time to move.

Now I’m looking for a more growns up apartment. One with an actual, separate bedroom. And maybe a kitchen with a dishwasher and nice countertops. A place where faucets actually work the way they are supposed to, and where I don’t have to be an unwilling eavesdropper into the scandalous lives of my neighbors.

I will miss this place in some ways, though. Afterall, it was my first real home. And there were some redeeming qualities. Like the fact that if I accidentally locked myself out, I could easily pick the lock with handful of Chinese food menus from the lobby. (For some reason, the sushi menus – not good enough.) And of course, I saved a lot of money since the apartment was rent stabilized. And heck, the bathroom ceiling only collapsed into a pile of brown water, plaster and piping twice in those six years – that’s probably not bad for a building this old!

Yeah, it’s time to move…

In medical school, I was part of a threesome consisting of another girl and a guy. No, no…not like that. We were study buddies. Actually, we had fun and often spent as much time sharing laughs as exchanging bad mnemonics to help us remember esoteric facts such as the bones of the wrist. For those four years, the three of us were inseparable; I really thought these two friends would always be a part of my life.

But then the inevitable happened. The guy found another girl. Fell in love, it seems. He then proceeded to get married, which basically meant – as many single women who have close, platonic guy friends can attest to – our friendship was effectively over.

Naturally friendships change as we get older and life gets more complicated. But I can’t help but be a little sad every time one of my guy friends gets hitched. Not because I’m jealous, but rather because it is a loss to me. My life is different from that point on as well, and I am forced to accept it and grieve it to some degree.

For example, say I came home from work and just felt like grabbing a drink and called my guy friend.

Pre-marriage response: “Sure, meet you in 20 minutes.” And, in 20 minutes we would meet.

Post-marriage response: “Sure, let’s meet for a drink! Let me check with (insert name of wife).”  Then, 20 minutes later, “So we can definitely come out, just have to quickly return something at Crate and Barrel then can meet you.” Then, an hour after that, when I’m sitting alone in the bar waiting for the couple and nursing my second beer (less pathetic than nursing a pink cocktail), the inevitable text message comes: “So sorry!! We forgot we also had to drop by (wife’s) sister’s apartment and there is all this traffic. We were thinking – can you meet us up here instead? In like 30 minutes?”

I have noticed this post-marriage pattern in my relationships with my male friends. Female friends don’t tend to disappear after marriage. That usually happens after they have babies. (Again, totally understandable. It still kind of sucks, though.)

Anyway, my two study buddies recently saw each other at a wedding. As it turns out, the guy actually lives in Manhattan and the fact that, despite our proximity, he and I had not seen each other in years came up…apparently, he thinks it’s my fear of babies that keeps me away from him.

While that is kind of true, he’s never actually called me to come over or grab dinner. But then again, neither have I, really. So after some consideration, I decided to reach out again. I left him a message to say hello, wish him a belated happy birthday, see how he is doing.

Three days and counting. No reply.

Maybe I should have used facebook…

Some children have, for poorly understood reasons, an illness that consists of recurrent episodes of vomiting. I was seeing a patient like this a few weeks back, a little six year old girl with curly hair, big brown doe eyes, and freckles who suffers from a week or two of nausea and vomiting every few months. Most of these patients tend to outgrow it, fortunately, and lead normal healthy lives.

Unless, of course, they turn into single, thirty-something women.

This week I’ll be ending another one of my “cycles” – it seems that every 18 months I have a mini panic attack about meeting a guy. Though luckily I don’t puke my brains out, I do get a flood of “Holy shit I’m going to die alone” thoughts that sometimes send my head spinning. These are typically accompanied by nausea and a strong urge for a make-over or a (generally regretful) new hairstyle.

I realized recently that when I go through one of my cycles, I also tend to sign-up for internet dating. So far, I’ve been through three rounds. In the beginning it’s exciting. All of a sudden guys are emailing you, dates get set up. You feel like you can say to yourself, “See, I’m trying. If I do still end up dying alone at least it won’t be from lack of effort.”

After a few dates, though, I remember – internet dating sucks!

I know many people seem to have this work out for them, but I’m willing to bet most of them just settled for close-enough. Anyway, by the end of the second month I’m bored, cancel my subscription, and vow to go out more and meet new people. And I have to admit in the last few years I have managed to meet some great people, some of whom I found to be amazing, smart, attractive and so much fun to be around. Of course, they were all women, but still these new friends only came into the picture during the times I wasn’t sitting in my apartment staring at my computer, but rather out and about being social.

So another 18 month stretch ends, I wonder if like my little patient, I, too, will outgrow these cycles. I think so. At least, I hope I will. For now, I’ve pulled the plug on online dating. Again. And got a haircut.

This one looks pretty good, actually…

The other night I called home and found my mother to be very distracted by some smell being emitted by the stove. “Like burning popcorn, but different somehow,” she said, as she pried open the cover of the stove to get a look inside, making it hard to hear her though all the clanking noises from metal on metal.

After I hung up, I had the same unsettled feeling I often get after a call to my parents. You see, for some reason I think I’m going to have some major connection with them now that I’m an adult. Sharing our lives as if we were friends. As this doesn’t actually happen, generally I feel dissatisfied. But why? After all, what do my parents and I ever really talk about?

Let’s see…Dad generally asks if I need money, and after I decline, we talk about the weather for a minute or two before my mom takes the phone. Mom often just tells me a lot of information about people I don’t know too well. I end up hearing more about some auntie I never met’s gallbladder surgery than I ever want to know. If the conversation doesn’t end with mom suggesting I then call this sickly auntie to wish her a speedy recovery, I consider myself lucky.

The point being, we can “talk” for thirty minutes without actually having a conversation. For some reason, lately that’s been bothering me.

Is it strange that my parents seem to know so little about my day to day? But even if they did know, I can’t imagine them ever relating to it. It reminds of when I was in 6th grade and a boy named Jason asked me out to a movie – my first date! It meant a lot to me, as it would to any budding teenage girl. I was really happy, and so nervous. When I told my mom, her reaction was less, let’s say, enthusiastic than Maggie Seaver, for example, may have contrived. After all, the word “date” was not in my mom’s vocabulary.

I know this is not an uncommon occurrence for immigrant families (Jhumpa Lahiri tells us so) that the experiences of the first-generation children verge so dramatically from those of their parents. It still is sad, though, that I can’t really ever convey to my parents feelings of concern, joy, inspiration, or even heartache in my life and have them truly understand why. And maybe they feel the same way about me.

Truth is, my parents are sweethearts and we all really care about each other and get along well. And when I don’t talk to or see them for a while, I do feel a strong urge to call or visit. Even though we don’t have relatability, we have a lot of affection. But I can’t help but long for that connection which never will be…

Oh, the smell was from ghee my mom used in cooking- it seems some of it had dripped right into the burners of the gas stove. Mystery solved.

Last summer I went out on a few dates with a guy who was pretty great. Smart, handsome, kind. On our second outing, I suggested we go to Shake Shack, one of my favorite date spots and generally thought of as one of the best burgers in the city. So I was really surprised when we were getting ready to go and I noticed he hadn’t finished his burger.  Did he not like it? Who doesn’t love Shake Shack – I mean, it’s so good people are willing to stand in line for well over an hour for it! I was shocked! When I asked my date if he didn’t like the burger, he answered sheepishly that I was so fascinating to talk to that he forgot to eat.

It was one of the best compliments I have ever gotten. So of course, I found some arbitrary reason to stop seeing him.

It’s rather a long story, with another guy complicating the picture, but let’s just say that a choice had to be made and I did what I thought was right. But now when I think about how I arrived at my decision,  I can’t help but laugh (and kinda cringe) at some of the reasons I used as factors against this, well, really good guy. And he was not alone. Here are my wall of shame reasons to stop seeing a guy over my years of dating:

-picking vanilla over chocolate ice cream (So bland, no passion.)

-not using a revolving door in the middle of a heat wave (Who needs an ozone layer anyway?)

-choosing to live outside of Manhattan or Brooklyn (Especially if the train goes above ground; you can’t get more outer borough than that.)

-taking me to a comedy club (I don’t even know why, really.)

-taking me to a starbucks (I think this one speaks for itself.)

-not drinking alcohol

-not drinking coffee

-being into salsa dancing

-telling me he doesn’t like to read (note to guys, you should at least pretend on this one, at least for the first couple dates!)

-using cutesy terms of endearment (ie poo-bear, bleh!)

– using “lol” too frequently (disclaimer, I’m allowed to use “omg” as much as I want, though.)

I know, I’m horrible. I also know I’m not alone in my tendency towards quick judgement (right?). I imagine that if I knew what guys were thinking, it would be even worse!

Sometimes it’s hard to tell if these little things we pick out as red flags are really excuses for simply not being attracted the person (maybe none of these guys was the one for me), or if we’re perpetually doomed to find flaws in everyone. Are we just not being open enough, or is it okay to hold out until someone comes along whose flaws are endearing, not annoying?

For what it’s worth, I’ve often been on the receiving end of this as well. Once, a guy dumped me for being a vegetarian. Then a few years later, after I turned into an omnivore, I was dumped for being a meat-eater. Can’t win either way…

Oh well,  at least for a little while longer I can live off the glow that for one guy out there, I was better than Shake Shack. I mean, how many women can say that?

It was a quarter after midnight last night when I boarded the A train at 168th Street and Broadway, after an ER shift. As I looked around the train car, I noted that, like many nights when I leave Washington Heights at this hour, my fellow riders were all men, and all minorities. I had a moment of  irrational fear as I sat down, knowing that while I have to be vigilant the truth was that many of these men were hard-working people, likely coming off their night shifts as well.

There were only about 8 of us in that car; two were homeless men. One of these men was familiar to me; I had seen him around the hospital on and off for the last 18 months and had begun to call him George in my head. Although I’ve given him money from time to time, I have never had the chance to ask him his name. He’s either walking past me, or I’m walking past him, or we’re at different ends of the A train car. George  looks to be in his 50s, tall and thin, with short dreads that eminate only from the sides of his head like tufts. Last night was particularly cold, and George was wearing a sweatshirt, sweatpants, and house slippers. He had no socks, and no coat. He was in a sort of fetal position trying to sleep, with his hood pulled over his head almost covering up his eyes. He had no bags with him. Come to think of it, George never carries anything with him.

At 155th street, another thin, tall, 50-something man, this one in a fancy long navy wool coat, dark jeans, and shiny black dress shoes, boarded the train and sat down not too far from George.  The man had a brown paper bag in his hand through which a dark colored aluminum can stuck out. He was taking sips through a straw. Once the doors closed, he looked around with glazed eyes and said to no one in particular, “It is Thursday night, and we are in the greatest city in the whole world. This is NOT Philly, people. This is New York City!”

After this he serenaded us all the way down to Penn Station with broken songs ranging from the Four Seasons to Alecia Keys. I wondered if George was bothered by the singing.

Just the night before,  I was at the Met to see Carmen. It was the first time I have ever been to the opera, and I couldn’t help but think that I had made it! I was finally living the life I had always dreamed of as a girl. It might be strange, but I had always know I wanted to live in New York City and dreamed of a life filled with gallery openings, amazing restaurants, intelligent company, and of course the Opera. Only in the dream I had a job which required me always to wear suits, not scrubs.

Anyway, at the opera my companion and I were gushing about how much we loved New York and couldn’t imagine a more perfect New York City experience. The shimmering lights of Lincoln Center, the handsome men in tuxedos, the $5 bottle of water we purchased — this was all part of our city. And it was true, I loved every moment of it.

So last night on the train, when the well dressed drunk man tried and failed to hit a high note in a ballad I couldn’t quite make out, and George stirred from his sleep to look over at where the racket was coming from, I couldn’t help but smile when I thought about how incredibly interesting, and how amazingly different, were these last two nights in my city. I had, indeed, made it.