Cannonball Zest

I just got back from Romania; jet lag sucks. Waking up at 2 am, then 4 am, then 6 am. Stringing together a bunch of restless naps in the attempt to make my body refresh. The upside of not sleeping is that it forces you to get up and do something, which this morning translated into eating 3 atomic fireballs (my taste buds are planning a revolt), reading 2 chapters in my book (Lone Survivor—a Navy SEAl account that every patriot, American, and/or God-fearing literate creature should be forced to read), and lacing up my Nike’s for a little morning cardio (I think I plodded out an impressive 1.5 miles). I’ve been trying valiantly to squeeze in as much causal exercise/outdoor enjoyment as I can before the long hours of butt-sitting and page-turning consume me.

My weight-bearing/muscle toning portion of today’s regiment was far from overlooked as my mom and I hoisted a couch, desk, and bed into the bed of our truck to haul out to the Blue Zone. I really hope any innocent spectators got a good chuckle out of our ridiculous spectacle–I would have been laughing myself if I weren’t concerned about my arms falling off or my knees buckling under the weight of it all. The gene pool did not favorably select me for natural arm strength; on a good day I can do 4 boy push-ups and half of a pull-up. Today, as I hoisted the millstone-esque furniture pieces around, I knew was not one of those good days.

I can’t believe I’m moving in. Changing cities. Shoving all of my old belongings into some new square footage. Getting roommates I met online. Taking an extended vacation from red wine and meat (welcome to the SDA life, right?). Switching my suit from swim to businessy (not a word…noted). There are a trillion little pebbles of change rolling down the hill straight at me—the full effect of the landslide takes form this Thursday. Am I excited? Absolutely. Am I terrified? You betcha. Maybe my old, ambiguous friend Adrenaline is to blame, but I can’t decide which way my teeter is tottering more. I’ve resigned to telling myself that both emotions are expected and appropriate, and am taking as many mental chill pills as I can per day. The best way I’ve been able to translate my feelings towards the dusk of summer/dawn of med school is like getting into a pool. I’ve been warming myself in the sun all summer. It’s been balmy and perfect, and my pale skin is a shade less pale than it started (#whitegirlproblems). But, it’s getting hot and I’m starting to sweat just a bit. I know the pool water is cold, and rousting myself from my cozy lounging grounds is sure to be a mild nuisance. But, once I scuffle over to the water’s edge and throw my body in, I’ll be glad I’m swimming. Anybody can sit on the shore with an umbrella drink and the latest Cosmo; cannonballing into the deep-end unearths a special zest. A zest called “this Thursday.” A zest that threads together into a starchy white coat. A zest that makes me think I might be just a little more excited than nervous. The pavement’s getting hot; I’m ready for the water.