The Real Me.

Today’s post will depict me in the most beautiful of ways.  It will describe exactly why Indian men stare at me and why my future husband (if he exists) will fall in love with me.  Furthermore, I should warn you: the things I am going to write may compel you to also have a romanticized view of me.  Okay, there!  I have warned you that your view of me may be changed in the most wonderful of ways.

Not.

No, actually this is a realistic post that I’m sure will make you chuckle, as well as cringe; may make you nod in understanding/agreement if you’ve ever been overseas non-resort-style; and will definitely make my mother say her famous line that she used when we were little, “Aunt Judy would never say that!”  (Aunt Judy, whether she knows it or not, is my mom’s definition of someone with ladylike, well-mannered, and gracious behaviors.)

So, should I post this? Maybe not.  But it is honesty in its purest form, and I want to be truthful with whoever reads this blog.  Here goes: 

I am disgusting.

I have fully accepted life in rural-ish India, and therefore, India has made me disgusting.  And, now, purely for your enjoyment  (and also so you know what life is really like for this Missouri girl working at an orphanage in rural-ish south India) my list of disgusting-ness:

1.)  Lice.  Not only do I have lice, but I’m at the point (as are most volunteers here) where I don’t even care.  I lice comb maybe once a week, and just don’t worry about the things that are [probably] crawling around in my hair, likely laying little white eggs.  Oh the joys.  See, I told you, you now have a romanticized version of my brownish curly locks.  Hah.  But don’t worry—if you live/visit India and I come to see you, I will ensure they are gone so that I don’t pass along my nastiness to you.

2.)  I’ve gone Indian.  What? You ask. I’ve gone Indian.  In the most “personal” way, shall we say? That’s right, folks: no TP.  Actually, I am a cheapo (which also meets a different definition of the term “gone Indian”), so I brought the two rolls I had in my apartment in Springfield, simply because I had already paid for them, so why not bring them?  It’s not that I can’t purchase it here in Ongole, it’s just that if 1.2 billion people and counting can use water in a bucket, so can I. 

3.)  Laundry.  So, I’m not exactly sure how clean my handwashed clothes are.  Somehow, when my energy is high when I first start my “load” (o.k. pile might be a more accurate word, as I can only fill my 2 gallon bucket with a few shirts at a time), those clothes get scrubbed a LOT more than those that get halfheartedly dipped in at the very end.  Then, thanks to the wind, at least a few items fall on the dusty rooftop when they’re out on the line to dry.  But that dust mostly wipes off, so it still counts as clean, right? 

4.)  I am “in touch” with my inner self.  So, when in Rome, one eats pasta and pizza and takes selfies at the Colosseum.  When in India, one suddenly gains a new perception and lightning-fast recognition of bodily functions.  At the first sign of whatever sensation, your instincts will tell you exactly what is going to happen:  is this spider bite really going to be bad, or is it just another spider bite?  Will you need to be near a restroom for the next few hours, or can you risk taking a bumpy auto ride to the office? Does this skin thing/abscess/whatever need a second opinion, or do you trust your gut and the search results on WebMD?

5.)  Other forms of hygiene.  Right now, I’m not really being an OT—I’m more of a “whatever-is-needed-because-we-are-super-short-staffed.”  So, I’m a nurse, a secretary, and an (sort of) ayah.  I wake up in the morning, brush my teeth with the Indian non-purified water, and go straight downstairs to do some G-tube feedings, of which some form of pureed vegetables/rice usually gets on my clothes. I then administer medications for kids in three apartments.  Some kiddos particularly adore watching me use my fingers, palm, wrist, and occasionally elbow to wipe up the 10 milliliters of pink seizure-preventing syrups and saliva that run out of both sides of their mouths while I try to catch it with the medicine cup.  And when I say they adore it, I mean it.  They giggle, and sometimes laugh hysterically, as though it’s a great joke.  I usually end up finding on my forearm some dried remnants that somehow didn’t get washed off a couple hours later.  Then, I walk through the dusty roads in my flip flops, probably stepping on 3 or 5 dirt-and-grass-covered water buffalo patties. . . .  which is better than when I walk home in those same flip flops at night—in pitch black darkness—when I step on 3 or 5 freshly wet water buffalo patties. 

6.)  To top it all off, yesterday I hit a new high of disgustingness hygiene-wise: as I was helping be an ayah, one of our new kiddos, Caroline, had an upset stomach.  She came from the government orphanage to SCH only two weeks ago, and is still the how-fast-can-I-shovel-this-food-in-my-mouth stage. Hence, the belly ache.  She had a wee bit of vomiting, which managed to land on me all three times.  Rather than doing the normal thing and changing clothes, I wiped/washed as much of it off my shirt as I could, and proceeded to hold her all night long, comforting her every 15 minutes or so when she’d wake up and cry again.  Judge me all you want, but it was that or possibly having to add an extra shirt or five to my handwashing laundry pile!

7.)  Nutrition—or lack of.  So, I’ve always been a breakfast eater. And I love North Indian breakfast.  Mmmm, aloo or spinach parathas with raita!  And I love some south Indian breakfasts—dosa, bonda, occasionally idli, etc.  But ootma covered in sugar and other such breakfasts make me want to gag, even when I’m “starving” after doing all the meds and such.  So, I often skip breakfast.  Or, I go to the closest neighborhood shop and buy some biscuits.  You are most likely asking, “Biscuits for breakfast? How is that bad?”  Well, friends, in British English-speaking India, biscuits=cookies, not Grand’s fluffy buttermilk biscuits.  So, yes, I had Oreos for breakfast the other day.  I mean, it’s not my fault I live on the edge of town away from the fruit stands and that the bakeries don’t open til 10! (Okay, it is my fault for never thinking of going to the fruit stands the day before and for not wanting to get dressed in non-medicine-covered, but knee-covering clothing to go to the fruit stands, when I could instead do some computer work on my cot in my T-shirt and shorts.  Try not to judge me, lol.) Also, working 12 hour days usually requires some form of caffeine or naps.  Most of the time, caffeine/sugar rules, and so a Coke or Maaza is added to my oh-so-nutritional diet. Needless to say, I should probably get out my running shoes and start using them again. 

8.)  My new perspective on ants.  Ants aren’t really that bad.  As long as they’re not in your sealed plastic bags of food, and as long as they are not the angry little biting ants that feel like fire, so what if they cohabitate with you? Yeah, they may occasionally eat through some of your clothing—but not if you provide an alternative food source (i.e. trash bag with crumbs inside).  Plus, they will carry away every single spider or enormous grasshopper you kill.  It’s like a personal cleaning service. (Side note, I am not the only volunteer here who uses said cleaning service).

Haha, so, that’s a quick summary of everything my mother would probably rather me not post.  I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope you can continue to view me in a semi-normal light. Or don’t—whatever. 

Next time, I promise I’ll do my best to write something that is actually meaningful; but tonight, I’m running on about two hours sleep from last night with Caroline, and so have left you with this little highly spiritual post. Good night from India, folks!