That was the text message of congratulations I received from a dear friend in Montana this afternoon. It made me smile. Today was half tears of joy and half nausea after passing my entrance exams for culinary school. I finally did it, for real, for true, and for myself.
Standing in the changing room in front of the mirror, I got to put on my black striped chef pants and white tunic for the first time. I had to collect myself so I did not start bawling embarrassing happy tears all over the nice, clean top. Mascara stains on a borrowed piece of clothing is so uncool. I got a look at my future self- the new identity I will begin to carve out for myself. Its such a change from medicine and I am greatly relieved of the burden of its discipline.
Granted, I will be out of view of the public, not dissimilar to my last life, but I will no longer be contained by protocols of Old School Medicine, boundaries of imagined magnificence in a doctor, or by my favorite constraint- professional language. Yes, yes, I know- watching my mouth is always a good thing, but if you’ve ever stepped into a bustling kitchen full of hot, sweaty people, you can guarantee that not everyone is acting like a lady. If I wanted to really cuss a blue streak, I could become a truck driver, sailor or fishmonger’s wife , but the kitchen seems comfortable for me, thanks. Just ask my mom- she always seemed to know where all the foul-mouthed people worked, and told me to aspire for better… in her own special way.
