Nosebleeds and the Soul-Crushing Shoes

As a kid there was a period when I would get nosebleeds about every other day. It was kind of cool in the sense that I got out of class all the time, but bad because I was, you know, bleeding. I might have spent more time in the nurse’s office than learning my ABC’s. Maybe that’s why I’m so bad at alphabetizing things…

But in my most outstanding nosebleed story, I do not do the bleeding.

The day was bad from the start. I was in kindergarten, sporting a recent bowl-ish haircut that made me look like a boy. My mom had also forced me into a pair of hideous brown loafers, which she insisted were “VERY stylish!” and told me “How GOOD you look today!” The haircut was bad, but since I couldn’t see my own face, I could deal. The shoes, though, killed me. Stiff, uncomfortable, big, and fugly, I went to school and refused to talk with anyone. I sat alone, wallowing in misery and scared that the other kids would poke fun. My only hope was recess: to run and climb on the huge wooden playground, and ride the tire swing until I puked! But before I had even begun to play, recess was ruined. I was running, only to find myself face-down in the pebbles on the ground. My shoes! Still on my feet, but shoelace-less! What? These things were like big, stupid boats on my feet, hindering any attempt I made to move. My spirit was crushed. I sat in the highest tower for the rest of recess.

At long last, it was time to go home. I was elated, PLUS my mom had come with my baby sister to walk me home! We were walking up a gravel path, when I said I would carry my sister for a while, just for fun. I seized her under her arms and lugged – but I hadn’t banked on her enormous amount of baby fat. Refusing to admit that she was too much for me to handle, I tottered a few steps, and then felt those dumb shoes trip over each other. I lost balance, and dropped my sister face down in the gravel with a plop. I wanted to snigger, “Gosh, you’re HUGE!” Then she picked up her face from the ground. It was contorted with pain and streaming with tears, with blood shooting spectacularly from her nose. She started to wail. My mom tried in vain to stem the flow with a pack of tissues, all the while yelling at me and thanking the crossing guard for offering more tissues. My little snigger evaporated in an instance.

Stupid shoes.

Nosebleeds: They Can Be Surprisingly Convenient

It was happening again. I could feel the first warning signs: the cool trickling sensation, the light metallic taste in my mouth which I knew would grow stronger, and the fact that my friend was pointing at my nose and backing away from me. Within seconds, my nosebleed began in full flow, with blood gushing down my nostrils and me trying futilely to block it with my hands. I tipped my head back, pinched my nostrils, and raised my hand to get the attention of my gym teacher.

“Not again!”, he said exasperatedly, “All right, leave your stuff here, someone will grab it for you, and go to the nurses office.”
I complied with the first order he gave me, but I never went to the nurses office. I had a strange dislike of the nurses office, and avoided it at all costs. Each time I had a nosebleed, I would sneak into the nearest bathroom and stay there until the bleeding had subsided. This particular incident occurred years ago, back when I was in second grade. However, this aversion to the nurse's office followed me even until last year, where I regurgitated (to put it lightly) everything out of my stomach during my third period English class. I would’ve preferred to just stick it out in the bathroom, but I was foiled by my English teacher, who told me the nurse's office was expecting me, so I had no choice but to go.

Nosebleeds plagued me throughout my second year of elementary school, and no one seemed to be able to find a reason for them. My mom attributed it to frequent dryness, and my sister…..well, she like to tell everyone in the vicinity that extensive picking in the nose area had caused the nosebleeds. Personally, however, I really didn’t know why they happened, just that they happened during convenient times. For instance, my second grade PE classes used to be split between a big gym and a smaller gym, and we were in the big gym about once every two weeks. The big gym PE classes were taught by a different teacher, a rather intimidating man, or so I thought at the time. I hated PE classes in the big gym for some reason, and every time we had class there, a blood vessel or something would break in my nose, and bam. Just like that, a nosebleed would start, and rescue me from thirty five minutes of physical education in the big gym.

Stupid Things:.......

Stupid things. Everyone does them once in a while. Some people just happen to do them more than others... One stupid moment I'm not particularly proud to recall happened during finals week of my freshman year of high school. I had been anxious and worried all throughout the previous week because of my impending biology final, and the doom that I thought came with it. The night before finals, I attempted to cram my brain with any last information it might hold, checked and rechecked the schedule for exams, and went to bed feeling like I had prepared myself as well as I could. The next morning I got up too early, most likely because I was nervous and couldn't sleep well. I moped around my house, tried to kill some time before my finals, and then finally, when it was fifteen minutes to nine thirty, I grabbed my backpack and set out for school. I was still a few minutes early, so I wasn't surprised that not many people were in the school, but something felt wrong about the eerie quietness in the halls. A chilly wind blew in through the school doors, and a lone sheet of notebook paper fluttered up from the ground. A girl rushed past me from the outside, and almost collided with another teacher that had just entered the hallway.
"You'd better get a pass from the office, missy! You're twenty minutes late!", reprimanded the teacher. Still confused, I thought to myself, "Pshh, what IS this guy talking about?? It's still ten minutes to nine thirty!" And then.........a silent scream erupted inside of me, and a sense of panic welled up so rapidly it threatened to burst out. I was an IDIOT. I had thought I had prepared everything. I had studied as much as I could, but I had gotten the most important thing wrong- I had memorized the wrong time for exams!!! An internal battle raged inside me; should I proceed to my first final straight away, and tell my teacher that I was there all along, and how could he not have seen me?? Or, should I go get a pass from the office and hope that my teacher would think I had some sort of excuse for being late? I made my decision, and marched to the main office.
"Excuse me, I....kind of mixed up the testing times, so I need a pass to my first final," I stuttered.
I watched as the office secretaries shook their heads and clucked with disapproval, most likely thinking, "This has to be a freshman...". After I received the pass, I slinked out of the office with a feeling of utter stupidity, and raced to my first exam. Once there, I handed my teacher the pass, and hinted that the extremely heavy layer of snow on the ground had prevented me from getting here on time; I had tried my hardest to be punctual for this ever important examination, but had failed, and was extremely sorry.

Stupid Moments: Oh Man.

The second after my sister suggested this topic, I knew I was in over my head. For the past 13 hours, I’ve been thinking of nothing but the times when I’ve done incredibly dumb things: swallowing a penny, sticking a double-serated steak knife into my mouth, falling face first into a watt of mud while biking no-handed and performing the YMCA, snowboarding down a mountain through a forest having never snowboarded before in my life, sticking fire into a tub of water bubbling with hydrogen gas, licking a water filter, and streaking someone’s yellow house with red paint…just to name a few. The sad thing is, in the matter of minutes it took me to rattle off about eleven stupid things that I’d done, my sister managed one and a half; her second one didn’t even qualify as being wholly stupid.

Sigh.

But rather than retell every story and watch my self-esteem crumble into dust, I’ve chosen two. One is from when I was little, and therefore have some excuse for. The other is from the very recent past. Let’s say, two weeks ago?

Story 1:
There I was, about to attempt what had never been attempted before. What lay before me was a daunting task, but I was not afraid. I would tell no one; this mission was mine, the burdens for me alone to bear. I was about to push through the boundaries of humanity.

I dove. Immediately, darkness fell, and I was enveloped by a strange, amorphous substance. I thrashed wildly, fighting to breathe. What was this? I could not gain a stable foothold. I tried to muscle my way out, but to no avail. Yet, just as I was on the brink of suffocation, I saw a tiny ray of light in the distance. It was my only hope, I thought, as I dragged my body feebly toward it. Cool, sweet air filled my lungs. I gulped; nothing had ever tasted to good. But my mission was only half over -- this was only the first layer! Squaring myself, I reached out and grabbed, feeling my hand close around my target. But it was soft, much softer than I had expected. No! I could not afford to be taken by surprise. I needed this thing. It would cover me, shield me, from whatever enemy forces were out there. My protective shell. By this time I had stared to sweat, yet I pushed on. A little sweat never killed anyone. But what if it did? What if my sweat were laced with poison, somehow infused by the Enemy? I shoved the thought out of my mind. My protective shell had begun to slip slowly from my grip. Desperately, I lunged. With one final heave, I knew I had done it. Safe at last. I lay there, panting, realizing for the first time how hot and exhausted I felt. I broke into a grin. YES! Under two blankets at the saaaame time. I was so proud I could poo.

After a quick meal I returned to the site where my blankets still lay in a heap. Fueled by one successful attempt, I was ready to do it all again. But I stopped short: the blankets were already on top of another. I crawled beneath them. Yes, I was under two blankets. But was this the same as when I crawled beneath one, and then painstakingly dragged the other over myself? No, it couldn’t be the same. I refused to acknowledge that I had wasted my efforts. This was the Enemy’s doing…

Story 2
I’ve never liked biking. When I was younger it was alright; we went on family bike rides and most of the time it was fun. Plus, the pink bike with streamers made everything better. It even had a matching pink basket attached to the handlebars, so I could bring my toy pony with me. Now, my bike is just a form of transportation. It’s not pink, so I feel no joy when I get on, and since when did biking become so much work? There are hills and inclines EVERYWHERE.

One day, while biking to work and mumbling angrily about what a hassle this stupid bike was, I noticed the grass growing along the sidewalk cracks. When I was little, I used to play a game with myself: ride along the cracks. I decided to restart this game. Soon, I was on my merry way, navigating along the various cracks in the sidewalk. Feeling a bit tired, I switched to a lower gear. But something was wrong. A grinding noise? Grinding noises don’t mesh with sidewalk cracks, they don’t go together, bad! I looked down frantically, hoping with all my might that the chain was still on my bike. It was. Relieved, I pulled my head up to resume sidewalk crack riding. Too late did I realize I was fast approaching an electric pole the size of large tree trunk. Abort! Abort! I sideswiped the pole with my handlebar, veered dangerously off the sidewalk and felt my bike begin to tip over. In a last ditch attempt, I tried jumping off my bike and pulling a ninja move to save myself. It would’ve worked, if not for the backpack. Oh, the backpack -- having served my faithfully through all these years, it decided to betray me in my time of need. Throwing me completely off balance, it sent me tumbling, half sliding, half rolling, onto the ground. I scrambled up as fast as possible, thinking not about any injuries I might have sustained, but about the possibility of someone having seen me. My worst fears were realized when I heard a voice call out, “ARE YOU OK?!” A little old lady had apparently decided that the morning was a good time to work on her garden. The morning, really?! I gave an unintelligible reply, indicating I was fine, and then pedaled the hell outta there. Ouch. My pride. And this time, there was no pony.

Sigh.

Airplanes: The Ever Joyous Experience.

Riding on an airplane usually allows the mind to picture a feeling of luxury, of class, or cruising in the sky, blending in with the downy fluffs of clouds. However, simply put, riding on an airplane tends to suck. Your flying experience all depends on one simple thing: the people you’re sitting by on the flight. Of course, if you’re one of those lucky people who managed to be part of a group that perfectly fills up one row of seats, then you’re whole flight may be pleasurable and complaint free. On the other hand, if you’re stuck next to an unfamiliar stranger for 13 hours, and that stranger just happens to have extremely bad body odor, well, I’d say you’re in for a preeetty bad flight. On my flight back from China this summer to the Chicago O‘hare airport, I had the joy of sitting in front of a man that seemed slightly airsick, and most likely had been traveling for a very long time and not washed. Everytime this man stood up, everyone within two seats of him was treated to the extremely odious whiff of his scent. Luckily, as he was sick, him standing up didn’t happen very often. Actually, I even distinctly remember a lady next to me actually telling him that he would “feel better” after getting some hamburgers into his system.

Another not so luxurious experience I have the pleasure of recalling took place on yet another international flight. My family was seated in the middle aisle on a Boeing 747, and my sister, being the always thoughtful soul that she was, decided that there was no WAY that she could act like an older sister and let me sit between her and my mom. Instead, she fell upon her usual torturous ways, and forced me not very gently into sitting on the edge of the seats taken by our family, next to a man who, without making much of an effort, took up his seat and half of my own. Throughout the whole flight, I struggled to keep myself in a tightly rolled ball as to avoid kicking or pushing him with my feet. It was hard. I finally fell asleep with my hands tightly clasped together around my knees, and was rudely awoken after only thirty minutes of peace and tranquility by none other than my sister, who then proceeded to reprimand me in loud and extremely irritating tones for taking up too much space on my chair and kicking the man next to me. As IF I had a choice.

Airplanes: the Ups, the Downs, and the In Betweens

There’s nothing quite like the feeling of anticipation of stepping into an airport, knowing that I’m about to embark on a journey that will take me to a far-away land, where I will be able to forget everything about my current life and throw caution to the winds, shout from mountain tops, drink till dawn, and lose myself completely in a whirlwind of excitement…

But, alas, if only the voyage was half as magnificent as the destination.

Which brings me back to my first time flying alone. Having lived in Iowa for a year, I flew back to New York in reunite with my elementary school best friend (and to attend music camp, no less) the summer after 7th grade. For a portion of the flight, I sat next to an Asian family. The grandma sat next to me, whilst a harried-looking mother had collapsed into the seat across the aisle, clutching a plump and restless baby. Halfway into the flight, the baby became too much for its mother, and was handed off quite hurriedly into the waiting arms of Grandma. I remember thinking about all those stories I’d heard about puking babies on airplanes, rendering their vomit-covered victims quite helpless due to a lack of showers and a change of clothes. Bwah haha, those poor blokes. My mind strayed briefly to the possibility of getting spewed upon, but the thought was quickly dismissed, since it was quite certain that such a thing would never happen to me. Then out of the corner of my eye, Grandma shifted her body with lightning speed. Seconds later, chunky, yellow baby spit splattered all over her crisp, pink, suit jacket. I cringed. But due to Grandma’s Matrix-esque reactions, I was narrowly spared the fate of those whom I had so arrogantly scorned. Go Grandma go Grandma, GO.

On the other hand, not all airplane misfortunes end up badly. During one of my first trips back to China, the plane broke down and all passengers were forced to stay overnight in a hotel until the situation could be resolved. (Never fly Air China, by the way. Delays and breakdowns are inevitable.) My sister was still a baby incapable of speech and any other useful contributions besides being excess weight to be hauled around by my mother, not unlike the present. My mother, both exhausted and annoyed, spent the majority of the night chatting with the other mothers. This left a group of kids, including me, free to romp around the hotel doing anything we fancied and probably annoying the crap out of anyone we ran into. Since apparently my mom believed in traveling in style, she had me dressed in a one-piece dress with a red, off shoulder top, and a black skirt decorated with enormous, multi-color polka dots and puffed out with a ridiculous amount of tulle. Whether it was this dress, or whether it was me and my cute, curly bangs, I do not know -- but there was one boy who seemed particularly taken to me. The next day when we finally boarded our flight, the same group of kids ran free as soon as the “fasten your seatbelt” sign blinked off. Unfortunately, I got slightly airsick, and decided to take refuge in a luxurious row of empty seats. The other kids kept on playing, but were brought back to my seat periodically by the Boy, who seemed to be ringleader. The first time the group visited, I had not yet fallen asleep. I vaguely heard the Boy saying, “I have to go see my girlfriend.” Now more alert, I wondered who he could have been talking about. The second time around, I was wide awake, but with my eyes determinedly shut. “Shh!” I heard. And this time, to my very much surprise, I felt a kiss land on my forehead. I shut my eyes tighter. Whether this event lead to a love of boys, or wariness of boys, it is hard to tell.

Teeth: The Ruddy Things

Teeth are funny.

When I was little, two of my baby teeth were fused together as one. During teeth-losing time, this/these tooth/teeth was/were quite reluctant to leave my mouth, which resulted in my having a loose tooth/teeth for a couple months. This made eating really difficult, not to mention extremely annoying. One day, I finally got fed up with it and handed my Grandma a piece of floss, telling her to just get rid of it, please. She tied the floss securely as I braced myself for whatever pain was going to come. On three, my Grandma yanked upward with such force that she actually toppled over backwards with intermittent cries of, “Ay ya, ay ya!” No more tooth/teeth!

Tanya was blessed with a mouth full of horrible chompers. The orthodontist said that if she didn’t get braces, eventually her teeth would end up jutting out of her mouth and her lips wouldn’t be able to touch anymore. One day when I was throwing around a softball with her in our apartment parking lot, I was making fun of her for throwing like a girl and shying away from the ball every time it came at her. Then I guess I got a bit carried away, because the ball cracked her in the face and caused her mouth to bleed. Woops. That’ll knock some of your teeth back into place for you, though.

Another time, Tanya and I were shopping with my aunt. Encouraged to practice her people skills, Tanya was in charge of putting the things on the counter to be paid for. Tremulously, she did so. The cashier smiled warmly at this little girl, barely taller than the counter itself. Tanya, relieved that she had done well, beamed back. Then the cashier openly asked her when was she getting braces? My sister, looking a little hurt and rather indignant, shut her mouth and answered next year, when all my baby teeth are gone, all the while keeping her lips carefully over her teeth. With extreme difficulty, I waited until we walked out of the store before I exploded with laughter. It was even more hilarious the second time, when I loudly retold the story to my parents.