Textbook...

I’m at Intelligentsia the day after I get back from Seattle with tea and my journal, squeezing in some writing before heading out to see Giselle. I love that the school/clinic is so close to Intelligentsia. As I’m staring off into space in between constructing sentences, watching people file in and out of the shop a girl one table over from me catches my eye. She’s reading a giant textbook. I don’t know her. I’ve never seen her. I have no idea what material her textbook is covering but something feels oddly familiar about it. It isn’t the kind of familiar where I’m suddenly thinking “Oh, I’ve seen that or done that!” It’s more like a peek into some future endeavor. A very slight, gentle push into an idea I didn’t know existed until now.
School has never been a strong point for me. Shortly after my freshman year of high school I was counting down the days until graduation. Even college seemed unappealing until mom brought up the subject of hair and suddenly I felt I had a purpose. I was excited about the idea of studying something I could actually do and use…anywhere in the country.
Fast forward nearly eleven years and here I am in Chicago with a wonderful job, in an industry I still love, but with a nagging feeling of “what’s next?” Moving to Chicago ignited something that has either developed or remained dormant until the move, the stress of assisting at work and residing in a frigid climate. Dermatitis is still threatening to eat away at the fingers of my left hand on most days. While I’ve done an ok job with just “dealing” with it, I’m still in pain most of the time. I feel my days are numbered with hair now and I’ve never been clear on what the next step is. Nothing has kept my interest for long when I think about alternative routes so I always return to hair and push the rest away.
“How’s work?” Giselle asks once we’re in the tiny room.
“The same.” I nod. “I mean, everything is good still, I just want to feel calmer.”
She nods, silently taking my pulse. “You have the pulse of an athlete.” she smiles and I beam.
Minutes later I’m on the table, needles in and the door closing is the last thing I hear before I close my eyes.
I’m half asleep, vaguely aware of some dream I’m having, my fingers opening and closing a little when the door gently opens again and Giselle appears.
“How you feeling?” she asks.
“Good.” I slur and grin.
“Good.”
She begins to take the needles out, stopping for a moment to look at me.
“Are you happy at work?” she asks.
I nod. “Mostly.”
“OK.” she continues with her needle removal then stops again. “Because you know, you can change careers at any time.”
It is then that the image of the girl at Intelligentsia with her giant textbook spread out in front of her flashes across my mind and suddenly, everything is clear as day. I’m going to be an acupuncturist when I grown up.