Shit Talker

I have tried somewhat successfully in this blog to not talk shit about other people in a really obvious way, recognizing that the internet is not a private space. And truthfully, your friend Mama Snee can be a bit of a shit-talker. So prepare yourselves, because I am about to talk some shit.

First day of Anatomy: Bad.
To begin the class, we had to go around the room and say a few things about ourselves. So I pipe up and say that my background is in psychosocial rehab and that I’m looking for a way to have a therapeutic relationship with clients without being in the “intense” mental health world. Yes, I said “intense.” In hindsight, I guess I felt a need to set myself apart from everybody and say “I have a degree and I am a very professional person,” because I still have some internal, nagging bullshit going on about being legit.

Another woman simply said, “I have a three year old, and I need to find a way to spend more time with him. I’m hoping that massage will let me do that.” Which was, of course exactly what I meant to say. Duh. Was I worried that citing that as my reason would somehow be wrong because it is a more passive reason? Especially when finding time for Birdy is the damn truth. Gah. I am an idiot.

And guess who is in my class? My two least favorite people from the Acupressure class. After the first-half lecture, we split into small groups, and, of course, Girls 1 and 2 were in my small group.

They are both quite young. One is into the Xmen and the other is a giant who looks like she lives in a falling-down apartment building with her boyfriend who likes Nascar and “Faces of Death” movies. Both are obnoxious, and it’s becoming clear that they have the hots for each other in a lesbicurious kind of way.

So, while the other small groups are actually learning, I am trying to lead us through the exercises on our worksheet while Girl 1 and Girl 2 make jokes about the size of the dick on the muscle chart guy, and wondering aloud which animal in the animal kingdom has the biggest penis. While the other small groups are having interesting side conversations with the instructor, I’m listening to Girl 1 tell me that she’s sure to remember the transverse and frontal plane divisions because people have been cut in half on those lines in this horror movie or that horror movie.

Girl 2 says that the skeletal chart looks like a chemistry equation, and informs us all that she took Advanced Chemistry, which has nothing to do with anything we’re talking about, nor does it relate to the skeletal chart. Both Girl 1 and Girl 2 giggle and exchange glances when the teacher says the word “acid.” Our entire hour-long group study is peppered with poorly-crafted sexual banter, pedestrian verbal sparring and obnoxious cries for attention, (including references to being aroused by one of the diagram drawings in the textbook, and really, have you seen those things? I mean REALLY). Here we have Mama Snee desperately trying to keep her head down and not respond. Because what would I have said? I would have said, “I also took Advanced Chemistry, Bitch—WHAT!?” and thrown my arms up, all gangsta style. And if you know what Mama Snee really looks like, you know I could never pull it off. And Girl 2 could totally kick my ass, which she shared already, when she told us how she was in ROTC and what a tough, tough bitch she is.

I felt I was dying a slow death in there, and when we were dismissed, I answered the study-group-can-we-have-your-phone-number question with “no thanks.” Fuck it if I’m rude. I need to nip this in the bud. I can feel some “same seats” stuff starting to happen in this class, and I’m having none of it.

All the while those glowing, fit, good-smelling students are milling around in the student lounge outside our classroom door. Why am I in class with these dunces? Why am I not sharing an apple with those people and talking about our great drawstring yoga pants?

On a positive note:
I left my lunch in the fridge at school and still managed to avoid the Wendy’s drive-thru near my office as well as the one near Birdy’s daycare. I opted instead for the apple I’ve had in the breakroom for several days. And arrived home ravenous at 4:30. So, you know, yay me.