she thinks she's the passionate one

I think it is fair to say my vertigo has finally and thoroughly ended.  Although I credit my physiotherapist with helping me by providing desensitization exercises, the fact of the matter is that the main reason it has gotten better is the simple passage of time.  And this is aggravating because it tells me that should this condition ever recur, it cannot be cured.  Like many problems in life, it needs to be outlasted.

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Yesterday two women at my work had a fight via email, but for some reason felt the need to "Reply All", keeping the entire 100+ members of staff caught in the drama.  This is the kind of thing that makes me hate unions, because they give people confidence to openly act like asses, knowing that there won't be any consequence.  Sometimes a union is a wonderful thing, and sometimes it simply protects and preserves idiocy.  I wonder if the administrators look at each other and whisper about how much they wish they could fire certain people.  Actually I don't wonder.  I'm certain they do this.  I would.

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My sister-in-law convinced her doctor to take two new patients, me and J.  I have grown fed up with my doctor on a number of counts over a number of years, but my primary problem is that he is far too interested in talking to me about my sex life.  His curiosity is not rooted in medical concern as far as I can tell.  And I do not say this because I think I am particularly interesting, rather that he is particularly curious.  There have been a number of times in my life that I have ignored gut-feelings like this, and regretted it.  This time I have decided to act on that feeling and move on.  We met the new doctor yesterday, who was not nearly as smiley as he is, not nearly as warm and chatty.  She was serious and deliberate and professional.  I'm good with that.

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Now I am reading Caroline Adderson again.  Isn't it strange how some writers can alienate their readers so delicately, making them long to get closer?  And others just throw a warm arm around the readers and pull them in so comfortably that they can feel like they have always inhabited this world?   (Adderson is the latter.  Murakami is the former.)  Both styles intrigue me; I want to imitate them, each one in different situations and for different reasons.  I do not think I accomplish either one successfully.  Rather I invite my reader to watch me tread water and wonder how long I can go, forever on the cusp of swallowing water, and dare them to flag down a lifeguard.  Because I can swim; I just don't like water.

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