How To Not Let Twitter Take Over Your Life

This is going to be a short post, because I stayed late to finish all of my work tasks from the day, and all I want at this moment is to eat a bowl of peanut butter chocolate ice cream and read "Health at Every Size".

(Ironic combination?  Maybe, maybe not.)

I joined Twitter less than a month ago, and at the time I was completely oblivious to its addictive potential.  I assumed it was going to be roughly equivalent to Facebook in terms of being a time sink, but hahahahahahaha.

(That is the sound of the laughter of any regular Twitter user.)

Twitter is literally an infinite time sink.  Unlike with Facebook, where you're somewhat limited by your number of friends and how often they post, there is no end to the rabbit hole of Twitter.  Finished reading all of the tweets from the people you follow?  Click on their lists of followers and find more people to follow!  And then their lists!  And their lists!  I actually forgot to go to work on Monday because I was so caught up in reading just one more thing...

I.  Forgot.  To.  Go.  To.  Work.

(Thankfully I came out of my haze only about 15 minutes after I was supposed to have left, but OMG.)

As I am typing this, I can see a (1) displayed next to the word Twitter on my Firefox tab, and my hands are itching with the desire (neeeeed) to see who has tweeted.

(Didn't resist.  It was Canadian musician Veda Hille posting a picture of a dinner party.  Sure am glad I didn't miss that.)

So, want to know how I don't let Twitter take over my life?

I have no idea.

Help.

How to Get an Introvert to Dance

Dancing and I have never been friends.  In junior high, the smell of teenage boys who hadn't yet discovered deodorant scared me away from the too-tightly-packed gymnasium, so I avoided dancing and its associated social awkwardness altogether by hanging out at the student council canteen.  (I was treasurer.)  By high school, almost everyone had become too cool to go to the school dance, so I would just hang out with my fellow student council members and band geeks (I was both) in the nearly empty gym, awkwardly gyrating without any worry that my lack of dance skills was going to make me less popular than I already was.

It wasn't until I entered university and lived with a roommate who wanted to go out dancing all the time that I started dancing in public.  My city's few queer bars were much more welcoming and pleasant than the straight bars, so despite the fact that I was out to only a select few people at the time, I spent many Saturday nights of undergraduate dancing amongst my kind with my roommate*.

It never really went well.  I was not born with an inner rhythm, and my social anxiety prevented me from ever really relaxing, no matter how many horrible $1 shooters I downed.  While I tried earnestly to not look horribly uncool on the dance floor, it was beyond my reach.  And the worst part?  People told me that I didn't look cool.  My roommate, my friends, friends of my roommate.  It was as if people were trying to do a public service by drawing attention to just how inept I was at dancing.

So I stopped.  Until this past weekend, I hadn't set foot in a queer bar in 17 years.  But one of my good friends has been badgering me for 4 years to go to the bar with her, and for some reason I decided that last weekend was the weekend to do it.  There were conditions, of course.  Under no circumstances could she make fun of me or my dancing.  I was allowed to spend as much time on my phone as I wanted/needed to without being criticized for not being fun.  And she had to periodically come over and talk to me at the table.

I had anticipated sitting at the table babysitting the jackets all night, but the group I was with kept encouraging me to come out and give dancing a try.  Not in a critical or demanding way, but in a "We love you no matter how bad you look on the dance floor" kind of way.  And at one point, a friend came and sat next to me and said "Come out and just stand next to me.  You don't even need to dance."

And she was so supportive, that I did.  And I even moved my arms and legs a bit in a way that kind of approximated dancing.  And it wasn't horrible, and I didn't die.

So that is how you get an introvert to dance.

I may do it again in another decade or so.

*As I was typing this, I started thinking about my high school math teacher, whom everyone had suspected of being gay.  I ran into her at the lesbian bar one night and afterwards proceeded to tell everyone I knew about it.  I initially chuckled at the memory, until I realized OMG I OUTED MY TEACHER.  I feel retroactively terrible, 20 years later.

Don't ever out someone.

Should We Call Out Other Bloggers?

Many months ago, a personal finance blogger wrote a post that included a caricature of a woman that I found to be sexist, racist, classist, and ableist*.  Being a good Canadian, I usually have nothing but sweet and polite things to say on people's blogs; however, I was so offended by the post that I couldn't not say something about it.  So as politely and constructively as possible, I expressed my thoughts on the post.

It didn't go well.  I got the distinct impression that the blogger took zero time to reflect on what I said before attacking me and calling me a racist, because I had assumed the racial background of the person based on the caricature.  This was followed immediately by many other people commenting on how I was too "politically correct" and should just "shut my pie hole".  It was actually a really upsetting experience for me, because I really like when people like me, and I hadn't intended my comment to be an attack.  And it also seemed to have accomplished nothing.

And yet, I would do it again.  Because I think we as bloggers have a responsibility to not post sexist/racist/classist/ableist/misogynistic/xenophobic/homophobic/transphobic shit on our blogs.  This particular blogger has a big audience and therefore the ability to influence the thoughts and beliefs of a lot of people, and I think that influence shouldn't be used to reinforce outdated and damaging stereotypes.

I was reminded of this event today, when I came across a statement that I found offensive while reading an otherwise really good blog post.  The post was talking about someone who was saving money by getting her boyfriend to do repairs around the house, and the writer stated:  "I’m guessing she is paying for it in some way..."

Maybe I'm overreacting?  But I kind of hate the implication that a woman trades her sexuality for home repairs.

So I called the blogger out on it.  The blogger accepted my comment, but hasn't responded, so I'm interested to see how this plays out.  Hopefully the blogger will know that my comment was only meant to provoke some self reflection, not to diminish or attack what was otherwise a really good post.

How about you?  How do you respond when you read something you find offensive on a blog?

*I'm not going to link to any particular bloggers in this post, because this isn't about publicly criticizing/shaming any particular person, but rather reflecting on what our role is as readers and bloggers.  Also, I don't need any pissed off bloggers labeling me a "Nasty woman" and trolling my blog.

I Just Need to Write Something, Right?

You know when you have an entire day to do something, like write a blog post, so you dither around doing other stuff, like checking Twitter every 7 minutes to see if someone has posted a cute animal/baby photo?  And then suddenly it's 6 PM and you need to cook something, because the broccoli you bought last week really should have been used yesterday, and it has to be quick, because you need to be at your friend's house by 8?

Yup...That's my current state of inspiration.

As for why I need to be at my friend's house by 8...apparently I agreed to go dancing tonight.  Which is so completely unlike me that I must be mistaken.  I know that I am an awkward dancer and that I hate crowds and that my kittens expect me to spend Saturday nights with them on the couch, so it must not actually have been me who agreed to this.

Apparently when you're single and you have already dated all four women from the online dating site, you are willing to do things waaay outside your comfort zone.  Like dancing.  And talking to strangers.

Wish me luck.

Living Inside My Student Loan

My student loan payment and my rent payment are automatically withdrawn from my bank account exactly one day apart:  loan on the last day of the month, rent on the first.  I was just looking at the two charges, one on top of the other in my bank statement, and I noticed that with the recent increase in the prime rate, my loan payment is now only $8.61 less than my rent.

For my loan payment and the cost of two Starbucks grande frappucinos (java chip, please), I could pay my rent every month.  For ten bloody years.

If I could go back to pre-medical school me, the one who was about to abandon her natural frugality and embark on an eight-year-long spending spree, I would tell myself to smarten up.  You aren't a doctor yet.  Loans are hard to pay back.  Pack a lunch.

I feel the urge to say the same things every time I overhear medical students talking about buying a new car or going on an expensive vacation or paying for two first-class seats on a plane to bring home the wedding dress they bought in another city*.   

Smarten up.  Loans are hard to pay back.

*True story.  One seat for the bride, the other for the dress.

NaBloPoMo Minus One?

I realized that it was NaBloPoMo* yesterday when I saw a post from Creampuff Revolution (yay!).  And then I forgot about it until today when I saw another post from OMDG.  And I thought "I should do that!"

Except I had missed a day.

And I hadn't planned anything for the month.

But why not?  (Aside from reasons listed above.)  I'm going to give this a try, starting today given that I lack the ability to go back in time and post yesterday.  No promises that I will come up with anything particularly insightful, but at the very least there will be something.  Daily.  Cause that's how this works.

(I clearly need to go to bed.  See you all tomorrow!)

*I hate this name. 

Feeding my Wanderlust

A few months ago, I was faced with the decision between going to a scientific conference in Boston this Fall or one in Paris in the Spring.  I have been to Boston before, and I didn't really love it, so I was slightly underwhelmed by the thought of going back.  And then there's the fact that the US is currently being led by a misogynistic, racist, xenophobic, fascist twat, which really makes me want to avoid the country altogether. 

Mais Paris?  Les boulangeries et les cafés et les beaux musées?  Bien sur!

So I booked three weeks off in the Spring, bought myself a travel guide to France, and committed myself to becoming fluent-ish in French before I go.  That's why I am here in Quebec City, speaking French poorly and savouring every last minute before le taxi whisks me away to the airport and back to my real life.

Going home feels really hard.  This morning I wandered along la rue Cartier, which is only minutes from my Airbnb, and I saw so many places I had wanted to visit but couldn't because of lack of time.  So many pain au chocolats that I didn't get to eat.  As I sat in a café drinking the best coffee I've ever had in my life, I wanted desperately to be able to stay.

As much as I love my home city and all of the people there, I am realizing that I really want to live elsewhere.  Not only for a week, but for long enough to really know a place.  To try every restaurant and wander every street and speak the language so much that I start to think in it.  I want to immerse myself in newness and difference long enough for it to become familiar.

Unfortunately, I haven't exactly chosen a career that makes this possible.  I am very subspecialized, making my job market very small.  There is no mid-sized town in France that is looking for one of me, and even Paris would be a hard place to find a job.  Not to mention the fact that communication is a rather essential part of being a physician, and I know almost no medical terms in French.  And I can't understand 90% of what people say to me in French.

Yet.

More than that is the fact that I am not a brave person.  While some people have the personality that allows them to quit their job and move to a different country with only a backpack of stuff, I am not one of those people.  I crave savings and an emergency fund* and insurance of every kind**.  As much as I long for difference, I am also most comfortable with the familiar.  The reality for me is that I will likely keep working at the same job until I have enough money saved up to retire early, because I can't imagine leaving the security and the great pay any earlier.

So I guess I have to go home.  But I am going to remember this trip and how being surrounded by the sound of people speaking another language feeds some part of my soul that is hungry.  I'm going to keep taking French lessons, and I'm going to read every single page of my travel guide as I plan my next adventure.  And I'm going to dream of the day when I reach my FIRE number and can choose to never return from my vacation.

*I don't actually have an emergency fund, but I do have money set aside for a down payment on a home that I may never buy.  This could be its own post.

**Sort of.  I would never insure an electronic gadget or a trip, because I hate throwing money away.  This could also be its own post.