...my little black dress became my undoing

The other day I was walking back from the store when I passed a woman in a white dress. The woman had platinum blonde hair, tons of make-up on and the dress had a zipper in the front that went all the way down. 'Wow!' I thought, 'that dress is kind of slutty. Or really slutty. Why would any self-respecting woman wear...' And then I remembered and my thoughts turned to 'oh... riiiiight...'

For those who don't know, I have a little black dress. It's a great dress! Not too short, not too long, nothing too fancy – the perfect dress to wear to parties. Only problem? It has a zipper in the front... that goes all the way down. It's not a decorative zipper either. That's how I get it on and off: I put it on as I would a jacket and zip it up. That's part of the reason I actually bought the dress: it was so easy to put on and take off. No worries about deodorant stains, no messing up my hair, I could slip into it in two seconds. It was great! And it looked cute and comfy so I made up my mind in no time. But I forgot one glaring flaw the dress had: it had a ZIPPER in the FRONT.

For a little while I was pretty happy with my dress. I didn't have many chances to wear it but when I did I felt great. Until I decided to go clubbing in it. You know what's a really bad idea? Wearing a dress with a zipper in the front around drunk people. Drunk people who tend to get mischievous and just want to see the world burn. I learned that the hard way.

This happened a while ago, when I was still living in Nagoya. A bunch of us decided to go to our favourite club one night and I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to wear my zipper-dress. After all, what could go wrong! I faintly remember getting ready with my friends and Mary saying something along the lines of: 'You know I'm gonna try to unzip that dress, right?' And I remember laughing at that. Because really! I'm used to my friends jokingly threatening me like that. There was no way she was seriously considering that.

To be honest, I don't think she was completely serious when she said it. But it's easy to forget yourself when you're in a nightclub, the music pumping, people dancing and the beat coursing through your body. It's like being transported into another world. Whenever I'm clubbing I lose sense of what's real – I'm in my own little dance bubble and nothing else exists. Granted, the music has to be good for that to happen and I have to be with the right people. That night everything was in its place. I was with my friends, the music was awesome (I couldn't for the life of me tell you what songs they were playing but I remember really getting into it) and I was just feeling it.

And then I felt someone grab the zipper in front of my dress and pull it down. I'm pretty sure I let out a loud yelp but thankfully nobody could hear it over the blaring music. I didn't have time to give Mary my best death glare because I was too busy trying to pull the zipper back up. I'm sure she was laughing... Thankfully she hadn't managed to pull the zipper all the way down – just until my belly-button – so it wasn't that difficult to get it up. And since we'd been dancing in a circle with the other girls I'm pretty sure that the club wasn't aware of me involuntarily flashing them. I got the zipper back up in no time but that wasn't the end of it. Before I could react Mary had grabbed the hem of my dress and yanked it up, exposing way too much of my thigh to the gazes of any and all onlookers. Exasperated, I bent down to cover myself which is when Mary went to the zipper again. I stumbled back like a cat with a bag over its head – confused, shocked and hilariously helpless – as I was trying my best to avoid losing my dress completely.

Mary was having the time of her life laughing at me and she wasn't the only one. I'm pretty sure the other girls had a good laugh too. I can't remember the exact conversation we had when we were going back home but I'm pretty sure it went something like:

'I can't believe you did that!'

'Come on, you were asking for it!'

'No, I wasn't!'

'You're wearing a dress with a zipper in front!'

'...'

Well, I guess this is the part where I could've gone all feminist on her ass and raged about choice and the right to wear what I want without having to fear sexual harassment but... I was wearing a zipper-dress... I mean, I know I was not asking for someone to unzip me but... There's a time and a place for certain kind of clothing and if you, for example, wear a giant kick me sign around tipsy people, you can't really be mad when someone actually kicks you. Can you? I can already hear dozens of feminists going 'Yes, you can!'. But I choose not to be mad. I made my choice and had to deal with the consequences. Moral of the story: don't wear a zipper-dress in a nightclub. Actually, don't wear a zipper-dress anywhere. Don't even own a zipper-dress. It only brings trouble!

So, did I get rid of my zipper-dress after that incident? Nope, far from it. I've worn it plenty of times since. Why, when I know it tempts people to do crazy things? Hey, I payed good money for that dress and by god, I'm gonna wear it! Also, I still think it's kind of cute... and really comfy... And what are the odds of any of my friends pulling a stunt like that again?

...there was too much beer

You know what I really love about Japan? Their all-you-can-eat/all-you-can-drink restaurants/bars. A lot of places have these offers: you pay a set price and for a certain amount of time there's no limit to how much food/drink you can consume. It's basically like a buffet with a set price. But also with drinks. It works in Japan because people don't drink as much as Europeans. Let's face it, most European countries are known for consuming a copious amount of some kind of alcohol. Germans and others of the sort have beer, France, Spain, Italy and so on have wine, Northern Europe has hard liquor and Eastern countries have vodka and anything else that helps them forget their misery. UK has it all and more, Iceland probably has some horrible death-juice made of lava and dragon-sweat (I have not seen or heard about it but I'm sure they have something like that) and the Dutch have weed so they don't need to drink. But I'm getting sidetracked here. The point is: all-you-can-drink wouldn't work in Europe because people would drink the place out of business in no time.

Anyway, the reason I started talking about it is that Japan also loves its beer gardens. Most of them are only open in Summer – they're outdoors so the weather has to be good for the whole thing to work. The last time I was in Japan I didn't go to a beer garden. I'm not that fond of beer and they're pretty expensive. This time, however, we (meaning me and two of my friends) decided to go because... Well, because why not. We were on vacation, only there for a little over a week and it was something that was only available then and there. The beer garden we chose was on the rooftop of one of the highrise buildings in the city center. It seemed expensive at first but considering we had unlimited food and drinks from the time it opened (about 16.30) until closing time (22.00), 4000 yen (or about... eh, let's say 30-something euros) was a bargain. The only brand of beer they served was Kirin (original, lager and dark) but that worked out great for me because I happen to love Kirin. Sure, for 500 yen extra I could've had a selection of foreign beers but I can get Belgian and German beer in Estonia too so there really was no point.

That being said, I'm not much of a beer lover. In fact, the only time I drink beer is when I'm either in Japan or Hawaii. For some reason I tend to avoid it in Estonia. Not that I hate Estonian beer – I just prefer to drink wine here. But in Japan wine is either watered down or tastes like moldy grapes and in Hawaii it's just too damn hot for wine. Beer is so much more refreshing. So yeah, I'm not that into beer... Still, I wanted to experience a Japanese beer garden and I don't regret doing so. The food was great! Oh yeah, and so was the beer. So, when we first came in they handed each of us a mug and showed us to our table. We were in the open air, close to the edge of the roof and it was really the perfect spot. It was quiet enough and we had a good view. The edges of the roof were lined with decorative plants and there was even a tiny shrine in the corner. Because why not. Our mugs would be ours to keep for the rest of the night: if we wanted anything to drink, we just had to take them to the bar where a server would fill it with our drink of choice. We could also get cocktails and other drinks but I decided not to mix – that never ends up well.

Remember how I said I wasn't a beer lover? Well, I realized why that is. After downing my third mug I already felt like a balloon, ready to burst. I'd forgotten how full beer makes you. I can drink a bottle of wine no problem but beer... that's tricky, especially when I'm also eating something. Sure, I could have stopped eating and left more room for beer... Oh, who am I kidding! I could never stop eating (it's becoming a real problem, tbh)! So after my third mug I started to slow down, hoping that if I give my body time to adjust (and digest) I can fit some more beer in there. Didn't really work – I was getting more and more full with every sip and at some point I had the sneaking suspicion that another sip would literally make me explode into horrible bloody chunks.

Thank god for Mary, who decided to give me a helping hand by finishing my beer... and getting me (and herself) another... and another one after that... I'm pretty sure she consumed almost a keg's worth of beer that night... and she was still going strong when they called last order. I was getting a bit worried... but then again, it was only beer. You can't get that drunk from beer, right? Sure, she seemed a bit jolly but not wasted. Tipsy, not drunk. In the meantime we managed to make friends with a group of three elderly Japanese men in the next table. And by 'we' I mean Tytti because she is the only one of us completely fluent in Japanese and managed to have a long conversation with them. Apparently they were childhood friends who met up every once in a while like this and had been doing it for decades, even though they had moved far away from each other, had families and separate lives... That was the sweetest story I'd heard in a while and we decided to keep that as a friendship goal.

We stayed until closing time and headed to the subway to get back to our hotel. The subway ride was uneventful if you ignore the fact that the car smelled like booze. All the salarymen who had been partying with their bosses were heading home as well. We got to our stop with ease and headed out of the station when Mary (pretty sure it was her idea) decided that she wanted a pizzaman (pictured on the right) – basically a pizza bun filled with cheese, tomato sauce, meat and god-knows-what. It seemed like a pretty good idea so we headed to the nearest convenience store... which didn't have them. Okay, on to the next one then.... and the next one... and the next one... As we were walking along I started to notice that Mary was... a bit more jovial than she usually was. I was beginning to feel that she had truly gotten drunk off of beer. My suspicions were confirmed when we stepped out of another convenience store and she went: 'Where are we?' even though we had not strayed far from the main road. Huh... apparently beer can get you drunk. Who would've thought.

Did we find our pizzamans? Nope, not at all. They had been replaced with donuts, which is terribly disappointing. But I did manage to snap some cool pictures of Nagoya at night... and we made it back to our hotel in one piece. How bad was the next morning? For me, not that bad. I was still full and felt all bloated and disgusting but other than that I was fine. Mary... did not fare so well... but she was a trooper and after a few painkillers and some fresh air she was... not good but surviving. Did I mention it was the day she was supposed to leave Japan? Oh yeah, she had to endure an hour long train ride and then suffer on the plane. I'm still amazed that she managed to survive that. I hate flying on the best of days, but with a massive headache... Kudos to her. What I learned from this whole ordeal is that beer gardens are amazing (even though they're a bit pricy) and I can't get drunk from beer because there's just not enough room in my stomach. And that there is such a thing as 'too much beer'. The more you know...

...everything looked the same but felt different

Some time ago I went to Japan. And then I went there again. And again... This little story is about the last time I went there but before I get to that, let's go back in time a bit. In September 2013 I moved to Japan to study abroad for a year. It was one of the best (if not the best) years of my life and if I could do it again I would. In a heartbeat. But what's gone is gone and the best I can do now is visit my old friends whenever I'm back in Japan. Which is exactly what I did. 

It was in mid-May that I packed my bags and headed to Nagoya. A few of my friends from my study abroad year were back in Japan and it was the perfect time to reunite with them. I had just finished my internship and had two weeks off before I had to submit my thesis. Mary (my Hawaiian friend, for those who don't know) had also booked tickets (and a hotel for us) so everything was set: we were going to have a big reunion. People back home kept asking me what I was going to do in Japan, what were my plans. Plans? To hang out with my best friends of course! Nothing else. I wasn't going sightseeing - I'd already seen everything worth seeing in Nagoya. I was just revisiting my past, nothing more, nothing less. 

Stepping off the plane was... weird... It didn't feel like I'd entered a foreign country. Sure, everyone around me was Asian, everybody was staring and all the signs were in Japanese but... It felt like I was going home... If home is where the heart is, I guess I left a part of mine in Nagoya. I knew I was a foreigner, I knew I was thousands of miles away from my real home but... I didn't feel out of place. I felt like I'd just taken a long bus ride to my former hometown. 

Another strange thing I noticed soon enough was that not much had changed. It had been two years and I'm sure there had been changes but... my old school was still in the same place, all the old shops I used to go to were still there and the same people were still working there. It was like Nagoya had gotten stuck in time. Had I traveled back in time when I was on that plane? All the old hangout spots looked the same and now and again I felt like I was back in the year 2014, going to school there, living in a small apartment in the same building with all the other exchange students. I didn't know how to feel about it. On one hand it was amazing how much at home I felt but on the other hand... I kept getting stuck in the past and waking up in the present only to realize that most of my friends were gone and I was a different person now.
The things that hadn't changed were numerous and the things that had changed were a few... but they were much more noticeable and much more important. It was a bittersweet feeling walking past all the places I used to visit and love. Going back to the school I almost thought all of my friends would be sitting in the international center, just hanging out like we used to do. But the people sitting around the large white tables were strangers to me and I couldn't even recognize most of the people working there. I couldn't get into my old apartment building because you need a key to get into the lobby and even if I could, I wouldn't have been able to enter my apartment. Because it wasn't mine anymore. It was someone else's home now.

Still, me and my friends decided to sneak into our old apartment building and hang out on the roof like we used to. Just for old time's sake. It was one of our greatest hangout spots for when we wanted to talk, snack and have a few drinks without paying a crazy expensive seating charge or having to put up with a bunch of drunk salary-men in the next table. The first time we made it up there thanks to a random exchange student with great timing. She didn't question our intentions, didn't even ask for our names, just let us in and wished us a good time. We got up there, talked about the past and relived a few of our best memories there. Even though it got a bit chilly and windy in the end, we didn't mind. It was great being up there again. Like being home.
Going to the roof was so natural for us that we did it several times, not caring that we were breaking into a private building that we had no right to be at. One time we managed to get into the lobby thanks to someone leaving the building at the same time. The door to the stairwell was still closed though so one of us had to climb through a window and open the door from the inside. Sounds extreme but... well, it pretty much was. But we really wanted to get up there. To be honest, the time I spent on that roof was the time I felt most at ease. Even though it wasn't my home anymore, it sure felt like it and for a few moments I could pretend...
I'm probably making it sound like I consider Japan my home, even more so than Estonia, but that's not really the case. I wasn't really missing Japan - I was missing the people, the atmosphere, that one moment in time: that was my home and that's why it was so good to get back to the apartment. Because that's where most of my best memories were made. I think we broke in at least three times but hey, we didn't actually break anything or mess things up so it was all harmless fun. And it was exactly what I needed from this vacation: just to take a little glimpse into the past. So if anyone wants to know what I saw in Japan I can tell them I saw the past and the present, overlapping in a bittersweet way. Aaaaaand that will probably land me on their list of 'pretentious people who should be avoided'. 

...I found my 'rake'

You know, sometimes I feel like I have some rare sort of speech disorder where people understand everything that's coming out of my mind but they don't understand what I'm saying. Like the idea of what I'm saying just refuses to enter their minds. Is it me? Is there something about the way I put sentences together that just... makes their brains reject the main point of what I'm saying? Or do they just not care? I'm starting to think it's the latter. Just a fair warning: this isn't so much a memory I'm relating as it is an angry rant based on several memories. So if you hate people whining about pointless stuff... you're most likely a regular sane person. Also, this post might not be for you. 

I studied psychology for three years. Got my BA (because in Estonia psychology is an art) and got accepted into the Master's program. I quit soon after but that's a whole different story. The one thing I learned from psychology is that people keep making the same mistakes over and over again and there's nothing you can do to stop them. It's like they love stepping on the same damn rake even though they know it'll hit them in the face. Reminds me of that one Simpsons' episode where Sideshow Bob finds himself in a field of rakes and keeps stepping on them one after the other, trying to get out. Why doesn't he go the other way? Good question! Why don't you people ever go the other way?!

I'm not talking about all of you but I'm sure there are plenty of people reading this that have stepped on the same rake countless of times, even though there's a way around it - even if you don't want to admit it. Hell, sometimes I feel like there are some people who purposely look for a rake to step on, even when there are none in the immediate vicinity. Every time they step on a rake and get hit in the face they realize what has happened... and then go on and step on another rake just for good measure. Because maybe, one day they will step on a rake and not get hit in the face by the shaft. Hey, here's an idea: stop stepping on rakes! That's a great way not to get hurt! I can't tell you how many times I've warned someone about a rake being right in front of them and still see them stepping on it without a care in the world. It's frustrating to say the least. And I admit that I've done the same in the past but at least I know that it's happening and I'm trying to avoid it.
I guess one of the reasons I didn't pursue a Master's in psychology was the fact that I got so frustrated with people making the same mistakes over and over again. I saw my friends and family do it and I couldn't imagine seeing it every day at work as well. Would've been too much. So I decided a change was in order and decided to go for physiotherapy. Because people listen to physiotherapists, right?
I guess I've found my 'rake'. I keep thinking that if I know what I'm talking about people will take my advice into account. Nope. They don't. They just do not care. And yet they keep asking me.
'Hey, Grete, should I go running tonight?'
'Ummm... considering you got stabbed an hour ago and you've lost a lot of blood I'm going to say that it's a horrible idea. Probably the worst you've ever had.'
'Yeah, but what if I drink a lot of water? And I've just eaten. And I'll take some snacks with me.'
'Still doesn't change the fact that you just got stabbed.'
'Oh, come on! What's the worst that could happen?'
'You'll die?'
'But what if I take it real slow and stop as soon as I feel bad?'
'You're still gonna die! Your guts are hanging out of the gaping would in your belly!'
'But what if-'
'You WILL DIE! This is a horrible idea and it WILL KILL YOU!'
'Oh, okay then.'
'...........you're still going to go running, am I right?'
'I just think you're being overly dramatic. I'll be fine, you'll see.'
And then they die!
Okay, I know I'm being waaaaaay too dramatic here but this is what it feels like. I tell someone that they are about to do something horrible. I explain why it's such a horrible idea. I present them with facts. I encourage them to abandon their idea. And I can see them hearing my words but not truly understanding them. Why is that? It was the same when I was studying psychology and people came to me with relationship problems or emotional issues. I tried not to give advice (because that's not what you should do) but to make them see the patterns in their behavior and maybe try to change them. Never worked. Even if they saw the patterns they refused to change anything. They made the same choices, the same mistakes that they'd made so many times before and things didn't work out... because they never had before. You know what the definition of insanity is? A deranged state of mind usually occurring as a specific disorder (as schizophrenia); such unsoundness of mind or lack of understanding as prevents one from having the mental capacity required by law to enter into a particular relationship, status or transaction or as to remove one from criminal or social responsibility. Honestly, if I hear that dumbass quote about 'doing the same thing and expecting blahblahblah' I will punch someone in the face! That is NOT the definition of insanity! Get a dictionary!
My point being: it seems that no matter what I tell people, they will always do whatever they think is right and get hurt in the process. Is it me? Am I just that non-authoritative that people just assume I have no idea what I'm talking about? I do, I swear! I've studied this! I know what I'm talking about! But hey, you read this tiny paragraph in some sketchy magazine so I guess you know best.
So why am I even talking about this now? I don't know, I guess I just needed to vent. Needed to get this off my chest before I explode. I chose physiotherapy thinking I wouldn't have to deal with people stepping on rakes and I got a job dealing with people who have stepped on rakes both literally and metaphorically. But I guess that's what you get when you work with people in general. Everybody thinks they know best and they don't want to hear anybody telling them they're wrong. Or that they can't do something they really want to. Or that they have to do something they don't want to. I guess I'll just keep stepping on my very own rake and try to make them see that I actually know what I'm on about. But at least I have a good excuse for doing so: it's my job and I'm actually trying to help. That'll let me sleep at night. 

...I almost died kayaking

'Let's go kayaking!' they said. 'It'll be fun!' they said.

Oh yes. Fun. Because nothing says 'fun' like almost getting crushed by a kayak while you're trying to land in the storm of the century. Ok, I'm being dramatic here but it was pretty damn bad.

So this happened... uh... a while ago. The year was 2015, the place: Polihale, Kauai. I was visiting one of my best friends in the whole wide world. And by visiting I mean I was crashing at her place like the useless mooch I am. Anyhoo, Mary (my dear, patient Hawaiian friend) wanted me to have to complete Hawaii experience and I thought I might as well go along with it. Those who really know me know that I'm a lazy person who doesn't really get out of her comfort zone too often so having a friend who gives me a little push from time to time is a good thing. That being said, I was a bit nervous when the idea of kayaking was first put forth.

Me and the ocean... we don't really get along. I'm Estonian for crying out loud! I hadn't even seen the ocean until... uh... I don't even know. Until I was 22 maybe? The Baltic Sea is basically a big lake and the Mediterranean Sea is just that: a sea. The first time I truly saw the ocean was in Japan and that didn't happen until I was 22. Sure, I'd seen the Atlantic when I was visiting Gibraltar but... that hardly counts. My point is: the ocean scares me. It is big and strange and I don't know what to expect from it. Swimming in the ocean is pretty cool, to be honest – just floating on the waves without a care in the world... But kayaking means getting far from the shore, being on a tiny piece of floating plastic in the mercy of the waves... and I'm not a strong swimmer. Still, when would I have another chance to go kayaking on the ocean? When in Rome and all that...

So one fine day me, Mary, her mom and Caitlin got two kayaks and headed to the north shore to do this amazing kayak tour. We were planning to head west, spend a night on a beach that is only accessible by kayak or a crazy long (and dangerous hike) and then head to Polihale, which is on the west side. It was a great plan! We had snacks, drinks, music and all we needed. Everything was set. We got our kayaks into the water... and half an hour later we got them out of the water. The weather was getting a bit sketchy and one of our kayaks was way slower than the other one (paddles vs pedals = pedals always win). So we decided to head back home, get to the west side by car and then head out the next morning to maybe find some dolphins. It worked for me because that meant spending less time on the ocean. I wasn't too crazy about the idea of swimming with dolphins (yes, I know they're basically the angels of the ocean with their cutesy and human-rescuing ways but they're still sea creatures and those always freak me out) but I was willing to give it a try.

The next morning we headed out and after the initial shock of actually being out on the ocean on a tiny boat-like thing, I was actually starting to feel good about it. The water was like glass – completely still and tranquil – and the weather was just perfect. We had music, drinks and we even saw a sea turtle surface right next to our kayaks (and yes, it still freaked me out a bit – I just naturally assume everything in the ocean is out to get me). The cliffs on the west side are just gorgeous and the view was amazing. I don't even know how long we were out there but I was getting really into it. Sure, my legs were beginning to feel a bit tired but everything else was just perfect. After a few hours (?) of touring the coast it was time to head back so we turned our kayaks around and headed toward the beach.

And then everything went to hell. First the wind picked up. Then came the waves. And the dark clouds. And rain. And did I mention the waves? Because they were pretty damn big! And we were on tiny plastic floats miles away from the beach. Okay, I'm being dramatic again but that was what it seemed like. I could see the beach in the distance, yes, but I knew that if the kayak would tip right then and there there was no way I could make my way to the shore. Like I said: I'm not a strong swimmer. And with those waves I knew I wouldn't make it. And the worst part? Waves get bigger the closer they get to the shore so we couldn't even kayak closer to the beach.

What did we do then? Well, we spent a bit of time going in circles, trying to find a good place to land, waiting for a lull or even trying to weather this storm. But as minutes ticked by we were getting more and more restless. The waves were getting bigger and all of us, even the most experienced kayakers, were starting to panic. We got through another big set and then decided to go for it. The waiting was just making things worse and we figured that if even if we did tip, we would at least get closer to the beach – maybe close enough to swim to shore.

So we turned our noses toward the shore and went for it. Paddling and pedalling like crazy. I could feel the muscles in my legs cramping up but I didn't dare to give my legs even a moment of rest. I was pedalling for my life and at the same time I could hear Mary's mom, the most experienced kayaker, in the other kayak going 'Oh shit! Oh shit, Mary! We're not going to make it! Oh shit!'. That had me... slightly worried.

While we were heading toward the shore I realized that two of our most experienced kayakers were in one kayak and me and Caitlin, both rookies at this, were in the other one. I'm sure there was a reason behind this state of affairs but in hindsight it just seems... strange? Mary and her mom were in front of us and we saw them land. They tipped, sure enough, but managed to jump out of the kayak just a split second before and they were already on the beach so everything was okay. Me and Caitlin were up next.

We had discarded the pedals and were paddling toward the shore. We were so close. I started to believe that we just might make it without tipping. The beach was just a few meters away and we were moving so fast! And then... It might be my imagination but I swear I saw the look of horror on the faces of everyone standing on the beach... and I knew something was off.

And then the world tipped and I was underwater. I felt the waves pushing me down until I could feel sand under my back... and then I could feel the kayak on top of me, trying to pin me down. For a moment a part of me realized that this could end badly. Kayaks can be pretty heavy and my head was underwater... Did I see my life flash before my eyes? Nope, not at all. I just pushed the kayak away.

I was almost on the shore but the water was still deep enough that I could make my way out from under the kayak and get up. As soon as I poked my head out of the water I could hear people screaming on the shore: 'Get them out of there! Get them out!' The next few moments were a blur. I had no idea what had happened with my paddle – it wasn't in my hands anymore – and the kayak was just abandoned as me and Caitlin ran to the shore, out of the waves. We got onto solid ground and I think some of the people on the shore helped us drag our kayaks out of the waves. The next thing I know we were all hugging each other and laughing and I realized that the others must have been just as scared as I was.

I don't know how we managed to get all our stuff out of the waves. What matters is that about five minutes after we had landed the sky cleared and the storm was over. The ocean was nice and calm again as if nothing had happened. God damn you, ocean! You can never trust it, I guess. Well, at least I have a good story to tell about the time I almost died – and a good excuse not to go kayaking the next time someone invites me. Not to say that I will never kayak again. I might. I don't know yet. But I did learn something important that day: the ocean wants you dead. No joke. It is an evil thing that's out to get you and you'd better not mess with it. It wants your blood. But other than that its pretty... 

...my thesis made me doubt my sanity

Many of us have been there: You work on a piece of... writing for many months (sure, the first few – or six – months you spend procrastinating and assuring yourself you'll start working on it... soon). You spend a lot of time and effort looking for reading different papers, collecting enough information, making the thing look presentable and rereading it just in case. You think to yourself: 'Yeah, I'm almost done. This is pretty good.' And then you discover a minor spelling error... and then another one. And wait, this sentence doesn't make any sense. Why does this graph look so funky? It was okay before! Oh shit, you forgot to add page numbers! And these two chapters are not in the right order! And then you start all over.

I can't even begin to explain how many sleepless nights I spent obsessing over this annoying piece of work. Don't get me wrong – I like the topic. It is interesting to me and the more I read about it the more intrigued I became. But after months and months of reading and rereading it, adding information just to erase it later, changing the headings and moving things around, I was ready to quit. And by 'quit' I mean take the midnight train going anywhere and never look back. Honestly, there was one night in particular (on the 1^st of June) that I was ready to call it quits and leave. I didn't know where or for how long but looking at the train station across the street I realized how easy it would be to disappear. I could just step onto a train going to Riga and then take another train heading to... I dunno... Poland? And in a few days I would be on the other end of Europe. Sure, I'd be dead broke, lost and completely helpless but... at least I wouldn't have to deal with school anymore.

Oh yes, I knew it was completely ridiculous. But after finding another typo in a chapter I'd already read at least ten times I was beginning to doubt my ability to correctly spell anything. How the hell do I misspell 'and'?! How in the world did I manage to get through high school? Hell, how did I manage to get into high school? This thesis was making me doubt myself. And the worst part? I really, really liked the topic. And I liked writing it. I had put so much work and effort into it that it had become important to me. It was my baby. And I wanted my baby to be perfect... I would probably be a pretty demanding mother...

After several days of going over my work with the help of my mentor I finally finished it. It was perfect! Or almost perfect. There were a few minor issues but I hoped that nobody would mind them. I took three copies of my thesis to the school, signed some papers and there it was. It was over and done with. It was out of my hands now. I walked home with a load off my chest, feeling like a million bucks. Sure I was a bit worried but that was nothing compared to the immense relief that came with the knowledge that I'd managed to submit my thesis in time and that I'd tried my hardest to make it as flawless as possible.

I went home, sat down and opened the pdf file I'd submitted half an hour ago. Why? I don't even know. I guess I just wanted to make sure I'd submitted the right file. Yup, there it was. All official looking and filled with long fancy words that made me sound smart and... was that another typo?! Oh, for the love of-

...everybody kept asking me the same question

'So, how was your first week?'

Honestly, I don't know. Really! I have no clue at all how to answer it. I just got a new job and just finished the first week - how am I supposed to know if it went well or not? I didn't drop anybody, didn't make anyone cry, didn't cause permanent damage to anyone... So I guess it didn't go too bad? Did I have the time of my life? No, not really. I was working and work isn't supposed to be fun.

Okay, to be honest I do like working as a physio. It can be a lot of fun if you're lucky. You get to play games with patients, have them jump through hoops for you (both literally and metaphorically) and it can be very rewarding when you see your patients improve. When you see a patient, who couldn't even sit up straight at first, take their first steps on their own, it feels like winning a race. But I've just started and as J.W.Goethe once said: 'Aller anfang ist schwer'. He said it about the economy but whatever, still works.

To be completely honest, my first week was exhausting. I had some good days, some bad days but every single day ended with me passing out on my bed, half dead from the day. For someone like me, who despises people and is happiest in an isolated den in the middle of nowhere, working with people all day is like running the marathon every single day. Also, I still feel like I have no idea what I'm doing with these people. Sure, I haven't hurt anyone but... am I actually doing this therapy thing right? How would I know? How does everyone else know? How come it seems so easy and natural when my co-workers do it? 

So in short: I feel dazed and confused and I have a hard time believing I'm actually a professional physiotherapist now. I don't feel like a professional. I feel like I'm stuck in one of those stupid comedies where two (almost) identical people trade places and have to live each other's lives. Did I accidentally trade places with a real physiotherapist without noticing? If so, what do I do now? Should I just roll with it or throw my arms up and go 'Yup, you got me! I might look like a physio but actually I'm... uh... a former psychology student?'. When you put it like that I might as well go with option A). Maybe in time I will actually metamorphose into a physiotherapist like a beautiful, slightly sadistic and freakishly fit butterfly.... 

...they brought me the wrong guy

It's been a while, I know. I started this blog when I was still young and naive and thought I could go to school and have a life. I was such an idiot... Well, now that I'm done with school and have become a valued member of society, I might as well give it another go. 

So, today I started my new job as a physiotherapist. My first real job. The bartending job doesn't really count since it was just a temporary thing. But this... this is what I've studied for for three years. This is what I've wanted since the time I started studying physiotherapy. Okay, maybe it's not my dream job (that would be watching movies, playing video games and spending my days in a drunken stupor, but I doubt anyone's willing to pay me for that) but it is pretty close. 

Was I nervous on my first day? Nope. I was terrified. So terrified that I was numb. The moment I stepped into the building, I realized that I had no idea what I was doing. I was about to be responsible for the well-being of god knows how many people and I had no clue why I was even there. I mean, I knew I was there but I had no idea why I thought it was a good idea to agree to take this job. I was just a dumb student who could barely handle her own life, let alone be responsible for those of others. 

My terror passed as the day progressed. It came back when I had my first patient but I tried to ignore it the best I could. Can't help anyone while you're scared out of your mind. The next 45 minutes were... not as successful as I'd hoped. I felt nervous, rusty and just... unprepared. But the patient was nice, talkative and it wasn't all that bad. I didn't feel a great sense of accomplishment but I didn't feel like a failure either. So then it was time for the next one. 

My next patient was supposed to arrive at 14.30. By 14.38 he'd still not showed his face... In cases like this we're supposed to contact the nurse's station and ask about the whereabouts of the patient. So I did that. I told them the name and they promised to bring him up. Great! Problem solved! Right? 5 minutes later a man walks into the room, accompanied by one of the caretakers. Good, I could finally start. 

I walk up to the man and ask him if he's Mr.A (can't really mention any names here) and he nods. He's Russian and doesn't seem to understand much Estonian and my Russian is nonexistent. 'We'll make it work... somehow...' I think to myself as I try to ask him to walk around, stand with his feet together and so on... About five minutes later another physiotherapist walks in, takes a long look at what I'm doing and goes:

'Hey, that's not your patient, you know.'

Uhhhh... what?

'Yeah, that's Mr.X. He's one of mine.'

'Really? But he nodded when...'

The other PT turns to the patient.

'Are you Mr.A?' He nods. 'No, you are Mr.X, aren't you?' He nods again.

Oh... so it's like that... 

'Trust me, this is my patient. Where's yours?'

Good question! My first day and I'm working with the wrong patient. I didn't think things like that happened in real life. How did this happen? I go make another phonecall to the nurse and tell them my patient is still missing.

'No, he should be there. We just brought him up.'

'Nope, you brought Mr.X up. I needed Mr.A.'

'Wait, who is up there then?'

Ugh, really? It takes a few moments before I manage to make the nurse in charge understand who I'm looking for and who they actually brought up to me. Then I hear her ask a caretaker in the back:

'Hey, who did you bring up to the PT?

'Mr.A. The skinny bald guy from room 2.'

'What? You idiot! Mr.A is the short chubby guy from room 7!'

Oh well... Honest mistake, I guess? Long story short: they brought me the right guy after another five minutes or so and I had a whole 30 minutes to evaluate him and plan my therapy. It wasn't as successful as it could have been. Perhaps it was because I was dazed and confused... or because he didn't speak a word of Estonian and I had the irresistible urge to start speaking Japanese with him. Why? I don't even know. But as messed up as the whole situation was, at least I have a great story to tell. It's not every day they bring me the wrong patient... I hope...