YEAH, IT DID

There are many times in the last two years when I thought that I would be confronted. In my mind, the scene would have been on a bus or a train. I would have been standing and someone would have offered to give me a seat. Instead, the day I had laughingly looked forward to, though somewhat dreaded,was a day that became yesterday.

I had already had a pretty rough morning, learning that my blood test results revealed that my cholesterol levels, after a year of testing, were the highest to date. I was so frustrated because I thought there was a light shining on me. I had changed my diet, increased my exercise, trained for and ran a 5k, participated in pilates and yoga classes six days a week. I prayed over my sickness, had a chat with God and was confident that I was healed. And then the doctor called and I wanted to cry. So I did…in the back of a taxi.

No, the tears were not flowing and I was not sobbing, but my eyes were filled and I was trying to find the why behind all this. After briefly researching causes for high cholesterol, I found that I met none of the criteria:

• Am I a man? No.
• Am I in the “older person” category? No, I just turned 30.
• Am I of Asian, specifically Indian descent? No, I am a white girl from the eastern U.S.
• Do I have diabetes? No.
• Am I obese? No, I weigh less than 60 kgs.
• Am I lazy? No.
• Do I smoke? No.
• Am I on medications that may cause this? No, not that I can find.
• Do I have liver or kidney disease? No, not that I am aware.
• Family history? Shaky. Mom has high cholesterol due to the diabetes that I do not have and my dad is a big question mark. He had high blood pressure but my mom doesn’t know anything about his cholesterol levels.
• Red meat? I love it but I couldn’t have eaten so much to suddenly make my cholesterol sky rocket.

Turns out the investigation portion of my day only made me worse. It was like I was searching for answers that I thought the Internet would provide.

Before depression set in, I crashed Paul’s pilot lunch. I knew he would be in town having lunch with one other guy, so I invited myself along, hopped in a cab and joined them for what I was hoping was some excitement and something else on which to focus, at least for a little while.

I did get this thing out of my mind once I had continued on with my day, going to the store, having a rest and a read about Psalms 23 and then having a coffee while reviewing a business contract. I went to the RDA for a couple meetings and, before I knew it, my mind was altered and I was focusing on things that really mattered – like raising a million dollars for the charity and setting new goals at our annual fundraiser (P.S., if you have money to donate, no matter the amount, find information on rdasingapore.org).

So, there I was, at the RDA, in the conference room attempting to make the contract changes that were discussed in the prior meeting. And it happened.

A local woman I know very well started to talk to me about something and then her gaze, her mind, her body and the conversation shifted. She took in a deep breath of excitement, threw out her arms and place her hands, rounded, on my belly. The words, “Are you pregnant?!” came out of her mouth. Somewhat terrified but mostly laughing, I gently moved her hands and said, “OMG no.” Then she said it. “Oh, so you just gained weight.” “Uh, coffee belly,” I said, pointing to my empty Starbucks travel mug sitting on the table next to us.

I love this woman so I could not be angry with her, even if I tried. I laughed through the whole situation while still not believing that she actually said what she said. I was wearing a new cotton dress that I bought in Chinatown. The dress is one that hugged at the breast line and then just dropped like a sheet. Other than the fabric around my shoulders and chest line, there was no shape to the dress, which is why I like it. The fabric is light, the dress is flowy and I don’t have to worry about which curves to accentuate – the dress simply doesn’t show any. Have I gained weight since December? Over Christmas, yes, but not now. Now I am back to normal. Every time I walk into my doctor’s office she says, “Oh, you look great. You lost weight.” And she means it. So this moment kind of threw me.

While I was definitely waiting for the day when someone would mistake my belly for a pregnant belly, I did not think that day would come this week. But it did, and it made me laugh. 

THE BIG PAUSE

Have you ever thought about what you would do if you could do it all over again? What about right now? If you could pause your life and completely change directions, what would you do?

I am sure we have all been there at one point or another. For an expat wife, it takes three to six months for the ideas to start formulating.

“I would like to open a specialty retail boutique.”

“I am going to get my master’s degree.”

“I want to open a coffee shop / specialty bakery.”

“I want to go to culinary school.”

“I want to be a writer.”

“I’m going to open my own company.”

“I want to open a cupcake store.”

“I’m going to be a pilates instructor.”

“I might become a yoga instructor.”

“I want to be an American.” (That one was Nicola’s, of course.)

Megan, Nic and I have all been through what feels like a hundred different ideas for what we could do with our lives, either on a temporary basis or potentially long term. Megan articulated this today, stating that her husband must hate her for all of the things she says she is going to do. “I have a thousand ideas,” she said. “I get it,” I agreed because I, too, have stated to many people just what I think I should do….and three weeks later have yet another idea.

I was thinking about how crazy we sounded but then I stopped and thought about how nice it was for us to have this time in our lives when we are not following a designated track. We for so long have been on a one-track life whereby we are born, grow up, go to school, graduate, go to more school, graduate and maybe go to more school, eventually get a job in the field of our study and set off on a career that will enable us to grow and lead and mentor others to be just like us. Then, somewhere around the age of 28, we were married and had husbands who got jobs in a far away land called Really Far Away and someone hit the Big Pause button.

Suddenly, life as it was (family nearby, friends established, careers on the right escalation path, knowledge of where to buy things and cars to transport the things we buy), and then it wasn’t anymore. Our homes were packed, our things were donated, sold and stored, and we boarded planes to a place where we knew not a soul. We had a chance to start fresh and, after some time, found ourselves pondering, “Do I want to be the person that I was three months ago, or do I want to be someone different?”

I can’t tell you how many times I tell people that I wish I knew in my early years of high school which really cool jobs would be available. Until Bones I did not know that I could be an anthropologist who solves murders by looking at human bones. When I was 15 I did not know about the person who tests consumer products or the one who tests ice cream flavors. Did I know that Penn State offered an ice cream making degree? No! What about the lady on Person of Interest who made a butt load of money solving problems for people? Sure she ended up needing a former butt-kicking government agent to protect her from the people who wanted to kill her but it seemed like a good job up until then.

“I told Troy I wanted to go to culinary school to learn about gluten-free alternatives,” said Megan, who manages celiac disease with a gluten-free diet. “Just because I have been teaching for seven years doesn’t mean I have to teach for the rest of my life.” And she is absolutely correct.

We expat wives who gave up our careers, postponed our desire for children and moved to an exotic island in the Far East suddenly do not have anything stopping us. We are not working (for the most part), we have no kids (though Megan and Nicola have pets), we have no immediate need to jump back on the predestined path. We have the whole world (or, at least Asia) and only our minds to explore.

So we compare our ideas, encourage each other to take chances, listen to each other complain when taking a chance leads to obtaining a master’s degree and then being paid really well to pack boxes and inventory cupboards and continue to think about what it actually is that we want to do when we grow up, now that we have the opportunity to review our life experiences to date and seriously evaluate the rest of our lives.

LOVE HIM ‘TIL IT HURTS

The hermit has found a new hobby. No, he did not get rid of his old hobby of applying for random jobs online whether or not he qualifies – that one is still fully in tact. He has also not given up his hobby of surfing the interweb until he learns everything and can surf no further. This, my friends, is an exaggeration. If I send him a link to something, he yells, “SEEN IT!” If I start to talk about an article I just read on Business Insider he says, “Yeah, I know,” before I finish my breath. Duncan, thanks for sending Paul airplane info but, yeah, he’s seen all that, too. We can’t win. If we want to converse with Paul, apparently he needs to enlighten us, not the other way around. 

Today, Paul shuffled out of his office and into the living room where I was working. His walk was casual, feet dragging. He was wearing the same shorts and T-shirt that represent his “everyday wear” wardrobe – and by that I mean he will wear things three or four days in a row because, “I don’t do anything so they don’t get dirty.”

He had a bummed look on his face, mouth turned down just slightly. He threw up his arms and advised, “I have reached the end of the Internet,” and he sat down on the couch next to me.

Normally, at this point, we might enjoy a little bit of touch time, which has previously been explained. I may lean up against him while I do some work on the computer while he flips on the television and continues his surfing along the big green wave we call the TV guide. Today, however, after he conquered the wave and found Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, he became influenced by the episode and touch time took a turn for the worse.

It started with a light-hearted punch to my upper back, similar to what the reflexology ladies will do to one’s legs. Then a few more punches hit my back, moving more quickly than the first, which lingered a little. Then the fist became tighter and my voice started to spew, “Oww!” He laughed. “What do you mean, ‘Oww’?” and he kept punching me, harder.

“I mean OUCH! Your knuckles in that space next to my shoulder blade…..yeah, THAT one…it hurts me.” He stopped. Then he decided to smack me in the face a bunch of times before finding his favorite position – a flat hand against my forehead. He laughed again at the sounds he was making as his palm made contact with my skull. “I like that sound,” he said as he continued. I tried to fight him off. This is not even close to the 100^th time he has tried to kill me. “You like the sound of beating your wife while watching SVU?” “Hahahah. Yes.”

While attempting to hit my face, he knocked me in the left eye with the pocket of palm underneath the thumb. “O.K. we’re done! Play time is over when someone gets hurt!”

He stopped for a while. After a couple hours, he tried again and, again, he hit me in the left eye. “O.K. Quit it!”

“You’ve got two! What’s the problem? You have a built-in backup!” And then he laughed while exclaiming, “You’re so fun to play with.”

Yeah, I am. Just wait until tomorrow.

HOPING WE DON’T

Well we didn’t sleep through dinner Saturday, but we probably should have. 

We had been home less than 24 hours when I got a text from my friend, Megan: “Welcome home!!! When can we play?? Nic and Duncan suggested dinner this weekend…” Awesome. While I was incredibly excited to think of spending an evening with my friends, I was also still trying to process being back in Asia, fighting a 13-hour time and 65-degree weather difference. Of course we had no plans, but were we even going to be awake at 7 p.m. on Saturday?

I walked back to Paul’s office and asked, “Knowing that you hate people and going outside, do you think we will have a better chance at being awake for dinner with Nic and Duncan and Megan and Troy Friday or Saturday?” “No….Saturday, I guess. Wait.” “Too late!” I called back. “Saturday it is!”

Even on Saturday, I was still trying to figure out if I would have the energy to make it through dinner. I knew Paul wouldn’t, mostly because he kept telling me. I had a feeling I should have left him at home when he stated he was really hoping we didn’t end up going out, but I failed to listen to my gut. So we went. I at least made an effort to be amiable. Paul, however, raised his game to a whole new level as we sat down to dinner.

I blame myself, really. I was the one who said, “I am not going without you,” before we left the house.

It had been four weeks since I had seen my friends. When we got to the restaurant, Paul and I were both exhausted and neither of us had an appetite but we made our way to a tiny, hidden building boasting of family-style dishes with Middle Eastern flair. Nic was especially excited about the Haloumi a.k.a. squeaky cheese and, I must say, It. Was. Fantastic. I have never had grilled cheese – literally cheese that is grilled in a pan with oil – but I could not get enough.

We had a spread complete with babaganoush, hummus and beetroot tzatziki with flatbread before the main courses of shish taouk (seven-spice chicken), lamb and green chili calamari joined the party. The conversation flowed throughout the evening around five of the six people at the table; Paul was in a bubble by himself. The food made its way around the table but it never stopped at Paul’s place. He just sat, angled back with his chair far from the table, drinking water and wishing he was in bed. Duncan thought it was hilarious. “I just had to look over at Paul throughout the evening and I started laughing to myself.”

I probably felt half as badly as Paul did – Nic made a point to tell me later just how tired I looked that evening – so I did feel badly for making him come with me. While at dinner, I was the apologetic wife. “I’m sorry. He’s really tired. Neither one of us have much of an appetite. I didn’t even eat a whole portion.”

We respectfully bowed out a bit early and took a taxi home. I was glad to leave when we did because I heard the party moved to a bar and went on for three more hours. We definitely could not have handled all that!

Since then, we have settled back in the almost-normal Singaporean world. We are awake during the day, sometimes all day. We are sleeping at night, though rarely all night. We have even gone out of the house on a fairly regular basis. Monday, when Paul stepped out of the apartment to go to the airport, he was immediately greeted by a super-excited, “Heeeeey!” from our groundskeeper who just happened to be sweeping outside our door. “Haven’t seen you long time!” I cracked up inside as the door closed behind Paul because this guy always comments on how he never sees Paul, since it is his life’s mission to stay inside as many days as possible. So far the record stands at six days without leaving the house…hermit.

WHAT HAPPENS

Well, we made it. We departed Washington, D.C.’s Dulles airport after 10 a.m. Monday and landed in Singapore 24 hours later. Though slightly disappointed that we did not have a chance to spend another day in Dubai, this time together, we were thrilled to get home, shower and pass out in our own bed.

When I walked through the doorway, I immediately turned on the aircon machines in every room, said hello to the lizard on my balcony and ate one of the flame-broiled cheeseburgers Paul bought us at the airport. We emptied our suitcases and showered, then Paul went to bed around 11; I followed just before midnight. And then, the battle began.

Paul made it until about 6:30 a.m., while I remained in bed for another two hours, begging for more sleep. Mid-morning we left the house in search of food since there was none in the house; we purchased enough to last us a few lazy days, and then we came back and made some sandwiches. By 2 p.m., I decided it was time to go back to bed, apparently for the rest of my life.

Since my three-week trip consisted of me waking up, getting dressed, leaving the house, seeing people, driving back home, getting dressed, going to bed and doing it all over again day after day, every day, not to mention visiting three states in three weeks (I am so done with airplanes right now!), my body has now gone into, “What? We don’t have to go anywhere? Bahaha. Payback.” mode. 

On Day One, I went to bed at 2 p.m. and got up 12 hours later. I didn’t sleep the whole time, but I did enjoy the feeling of just lying in bed. There were times when, though I seriously considered moving, I honestly did not have the energy to move my limbs.

Day Two began early so I was phased with a new predicament: what should I eat for the infamous fourth meal? I skipped dinner but breakfast was still roughly six hours away. Sandwich? Cereal? Where is a Taco Bell when I need one? Just kidding. The sandwich won and, for the record, there were Nacho Cheese Doritos between my turkey and my lettuce.

Breakfast came later, some granola cereal and a small pear. I am pretty sure I spent the entire day on the couch, where Paul found me, sleeping, by 6 p.m. At 7:15, he dragged me by my limbs off the couch and cheered me into the bedroom.

Today we made it to 3 a.m. so it appears as if I am gaining an hour; Paul estimates one day for each hour difference. Great, only 10 more to go! Breakfast was served by 4:30, the kitchen was cleaned by 5:30 and Paul was back in bed by 6 but I was feeling good. I made plans to meet a friend for lunch so I had my first Singaporean cup of coffee to ensure I would be awake. By 1:30 I was uncontrollably yawning at the table. Sorry, Chesca. I believe that coffee and the coke and tea I had at lunch helped propel me into the evening. It is now nearly 11:30 p.m. and I am still going, but I am definitely fading. I sincerely hope I pass out tonight and only awake once the big hand has passed the six. If only.

Nic came over this evening while Paul was napping (we are obviously on different schedules) and we were finally able to softly yell, “Hiiiiiii! I missed you!” in each other’s faces as we attempted to not wake Paul. We caught up on our trips home and made short-term plans that involve some (in my opinion) seriously-unfashionable pants that we may be purchasing in Chinatown tomorrow and a late triple date tomorrow night. Here’s hoping we don’t sleep through dinner.

BECOMING AMERICAN AGAIN

Coming home for the holidays, I had my expectations. I expected to be a little jet lagged (there is a 13-hour time difference that is killer on the body). I expected to be excited to see people once I was actually here (because I was not really excited while I was still in Singapore). I expected to spend a lot of time relaxing or sleeping  (I did not get as much down time as I anticipated). What I wondered was, “Will I feel different this time?” Will there be some unseen crevasse between me and my friends or family members? Have I changed at a rate that would somehow distance me from others? Have my world views changed so much that I cannot bear to communicate with those I left behind?

Though I have different experiences that have made me see America in a new light, I do not feel any different than those around me. I enjoy telling others about my life in Singapore and the other places I have had the opportunity to visit. I love talking about the differing cultures and the Asian way of life. What was surprising, however, was how my views of where home is diverted.

What about my feelings toward actually being in America? Before I left Singapore, I would have been absolutely content not ever stepping foot on U.S. soil again. Ever. I had the expat bug and I only wanted to think about the next country in which I would be living. Last year there was a point in our trip when my whole body switched off; I just wanted to get back to Singapore as quickly as possible. Never did I imagine that being home this time would make me want to spend more time here.

With three months left on Paul’s contract and no concrete post-contract offers, we are beginning to seriously discuss our alternatives. Paul will be negotiating a new contract with his boss when we return to Singapore but, as with any negotiations, there are risks and we are not yet certain if we will be staying.

Being home, astonishingly, has made both of us realize how much we have to miss. We have aging grandmothers, as many do. My godfather is fighting cancer and, though he is looking better than I ever could have imagined, I am reminded of how much I want this guy in my life. I missed the birth of three babies and other little ones are quickly growing. My mom will likely be having one or two surgeries in the coming year, my best friend is going through fertility treatments, we have three graduations and a family wedding and, cherry, Taylor Swift is touring, but only in America. There are a lot of reasons to be a little closer to home.

But does that mean we have to be American? No! We can be Canadian or Mexican, though I don’t think either of us wants to be in Mexico. We could be French or British, Swiss or Australian, just as long as someone in any of those countries gives us jobs.

What am I going to do about it? I am going to take on Paul’s hobby. I am going to start applying for jobs in any random country and we’ll just see what happens. 

WHAT I DON’T REMEMBER

I was so unbelievably excited to land in D.C., knowing that two of my best friends in the world were waiting to greet me. Well, at least one best friend was waiting; her husband decided to remain in bed and sleep through my arrival. Thanks, Van. When I got off the plane, I walked down the jetway and made my way to immigration.

I followed the sign for U.S. citizens and green card holders, walked through the maze of black and blue retractable belt barriers and waited near the end of a long line. Only four immigration agents were working at 8 a.m. on a Friday, so I continued to patiently wait my turn. Once through immigration, I found my bag and then stood in the longest possible line leading to the one and only on-duty customs agent. Welcome to America.

By the time I made it passed the customs guy, I was practically running through the winding hallways. I was not expecting to see Katie inside waiting for me but the second I saw her, I raced over, rolling my suitcase behind me and darting through anyone in my way. We hugged like friends who haven’t seen each other in a year, eyes watering and feet jumping with excitement.

The first thing I wanted to do was take a hot shower; the second was to eat the massive, amazing, all-American breakfast I was promised. Before we made it home, however, I was faced with my first fail: getting into the car. In Singapore, drivers drive British style – they sit on the right side of the car and they drive on the left side of the road. Since Katie was driving, I needed to get into the passenger side, but, instead, I tried to take over the driver’s side since my brain was still in Singapore.

When I got to Katie’s, I was ready to tackle my first objective: hot shower. I happily achieved this objective without issue. When I finished, however, I faced a serious problem. I was in the bathroom. I finished my shower, covered myself in my oversized towel and then, it happened. I hit the rocker light switch, a long, flat, slightly angled teeter-totter with two side-by-side controls. The left switch had the bottom portion pushed in; the right switch was pushed in at the top.

Since I am familiar with the teeter-totter switches that fill my Singaporean apartment, I thought I had this task in the bag: turn off the light. I turned on the fan. Startled because the fan was loud and Van was still sleeping in the next room, I just started fiddling with the switches, beating them against the wall over and over until I achieved my desired result – fan off, light off.

I went into my room to change and had to seriously think about my processes before again attempting the light switch. In Singapore, down is on and up is off, meaning that in order to turn on a light, I need to push the bottom of the switch. Conversely, in order to turn off a light, I push the top of the switch into the wall. My brain processed “turn on the light” like this: “O.K., down is on and up is off, but I’m in America so it’s backwards. If down is on at home, then up is on here. O.K. Push the top of the switch.” Success. Three weeks into the trip, I am still having some issues but I am getting better.

Issue number three arose when I had to drive a car for the first time. The best part of having to drive for the first time in a year is knowing that Paul’s mom bought my former car from us when we left the country, so I did not have to learn how to operate a new vehicle. I had my car for six years before passing it along so I was quite comfortable driving my own car. My problem was instinctively knowing on which side of the road I was supposed to be.

In Singapore, left-hand turns are made close against the curb, while right turns require drivers to move forward into the intersection, avoid cross-traffic and then make a wide right turn into the far lane. Even though I have not ever driven in Singapore, my brain has been trained to operate as if I have.

Now that I had a chance to drive, I knew I had to focus. I was fine, for the most part, though slightly nervous simply because I had not been behind a steering wheel in a year. I had the speed worked out, used my turn signals, got used to the break pressure – all was good in happy driver land. That is, until I had to make a left turn.

My hometown is on the small side, so there was not a lot of traffic. I was on the edge of town and wanted to turn left onto a side street where car sightings are rare. I made my way into the intersection, waited for a clearing and then proceeded to turn. The second I started to turn, my brain looked at the vacant street and wondered, “Which side am I supposed to be on? Left? Right?” I honestly did not know.

To make matters worse, I noticed a truck pulling out of a parking lot situated to the left of the road. The truck pulled out to cross in front of me and then made a right-hand turn to face me. I started to move into the right lane, but when the truck turned, he turned wide and came into my right lane. My brain freaked out. If the truck was moving into the right lane, I need to move into the left lane. So I started to move into the left lane but something in my brain thought that was wrong, so I just stopped in the middle of the street. I waited for the truck to pick a lane. When he finally decided to come at me from my left, I took my foot off the brake and gracefully glided to the right. Man that was rough!

Remember to drive was a challenge but I seemed to struggle more with finding my way around. I came to this town in 1995 after my parents’ divorce. My mom temporarily moved my brother and me into my grandmother’s house, where we all continued to live – mother, grandmother and children – until two years ago. My brother and I moved out after high school but my mom and my grandmother remained in the same house where my mom grew up in the 1950s. I tell you this to put into perspective that I should know my way around this small town. Christmas Eve, however, I learned that I, in fact, only have a general recollection.

I took my grandmother and her lifelong friend to breakfast. I like hanging out with the grandmas – they’re fun. And grandmother #2, also named Helen, has been taking care of my Helen since my Helen’s sister died a few months ago. Helen #2 comes to our house and takes my Helen to the grocery store, the drug store, the bank…wherever she needs to go. My Helen is 88 and stopped driving a few years ago. Until the fall, her sister was the chauffer and companion.

After breakfast, the grandmothers parted and I took mine to run a couple errands on the way home. First we needed to stop at the post office so that my grandmother could mail some letters. I left the restaurant, drove down a road paralleling the main road through town and tried to picture where I needed to be.

“The post office is near Timberlanes and Timberlanes is near Pershing, so I need to get to Pershing. Pershing Street will be on my left, so I need to watch out for Pershing.” I was halfway down the road when I realized I was already on Pershing. When I approached Timberlanes, an old restaurant and hotel formerly owned by Paul’s grandfather, I again put on my thinking cap. “The post office is just a couple blocks away on the left.” I looked left.

I could see the post office in the distance and calculated the steps I needed to take in order to get there. I turned left at a stop sign and realized that the alley way I thought I could take was one way the opposite way, so I had to take a few left turns in order to get around the post office and over to the boxes. “You should have gone the other way,” said my grandmother, indicating a smarter way that the locals would have used. “Well,” I advised. “I don’t live here anymore, so you just have to go the way my brain remembers.”

It’s been a fun few weeks. If all of these experiences are considered part of repatriation, I am now well on my way to becoming American again…just in time for the trip back to Singapore.