Trocars and Aviators

Saturday morning, I pull on my black "I mean business" pants, white satin tank top, and slide my arms through a long lavender sweater. I throw my black "I mean business" bag over my shoulder, and go over a mental check list of hotel key... lip stick... cell phone... "I mean business" attitude. All things seemed to be in order.

I make the trek down the twilight zone-esque hotel hallway, ding my way down the elevator, and the shrill click of my black Paten leather heels deafened my ears while cascading through the open atrium; up the escalator, twice, and finally my destination had been reached.

I walk up to the registration table, swing my bag behind my back, tuck a stray hair that doesn't quite fit into my high ponytail behind my ear, and offer my name.

Badges traced with MD, RN, RD fill the plastic desk, I quickly scan for an "M". The woman sitting behind the desk territorially hesitates a smile and asks, "Are you here, for the Ethicon course?" {Emphasis on Ethicon, as if it is only meant for males dressed in Armani suits who scream business, or brains, without even trying}

I spot my badge, nab it, and respond with a big grin, "Yeah..."

And so it began.

A week from college, but on steroids.

A week from the epitome of business meets pleasure.

A week from an alternate reality where the steaks are always cooked to a perfect pink and the apple martinis never run dry.

Soon my father's name became the hot topic of the day, as the majority of Ethicon personnel knew him quite well. It was a testament to my father's personable nature, hard work ethic, and unforgettable physical stature. I soon had a room full of men dressed in those nice business suits gathered around me, reminiscing about Michael Mangum's earned respect.

The tone had been set for the rest of my remaining days in Dallas.

Classes during the day, delicious dinners at night, 3am bewitching hours, and 7am wake up calls. Five days in a row.

I never knew that with a drink in hand, discussions about gastric band fill algorithms could be so fascinating.

Nor did I think I would have the opportunity to spend the first moments of my 22nd year of life eating chocolate cake and sipping on jager. The thin and wobbly scribble of raspberry sauce wishing me a happy birthday as the clock struck midnight has been permanently soaked into my memory, like a red blouse turning white socks pink in a laundry whirlwind.

Nor did I know that meeting three gentlemen from the United States Military Academy in West Point would be so meaningful. I owe them all that was fantastic about this week. They provided opportunities to rub shoulders with very well respected bariatric surgeons, kept my text message inbox full during yawn inspiring lectures, allowed me to spill my philosophical beans, and pushed my efforts on the treadmill.

They were there for it all. Never left my side, even if physically their presence was needed elsewhere. Or if Dr. Schroder swooped in to stir up some jealousy. My wingmen.

And I have discovered that after I found my way back home, they still continue to inspire me.

Transformers 2 held no interest for me, as I was utterly distracted by the real army, fighting as men and women in our war- flying impressive helicopters, leaving no man behind, and preserving the wounded. For that, I owe them my life.

Lying by the pool under a hot and captivating Salt Lake sun in my orange two piece and bug eye sized sunglasses, all I wanted to do was tear open The Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand. A recommendation I took seriously, just like I said I would.

{But you know, a recommendation for the use of a freakin' magnifying glass to actually read the book would have also been something I took seriously.}

And the last bit of my uber cheesy dedicatory post...

I never knew a week in Dallas for a national medical conference would turn out to be one of the most valuable experiences, of my life.

And here it is Monday, I am finally feeling less like the train wreck that I was upon my Thursday morning arrival back in Utah. My hair back in a messy ponytail and contained by a brown headband, my face free of any sort of makeup speck, my eyes burning from exhaustion, and my shoulders aching as if my black "I mean business" bag had singed it's fiery strap deep into my muscles. Or maybe it was the hard as rock hotel bed. Or the consistent movement of a glass cup in hand traveling north to meet my awaiting lips.

Needless to say, I was kind of a mess.

But it was one mess that I hope to never have to clean up.

(Shoot, I'm deep.)

Must be that HOT new number 22 that can now finally show itself on my Idaho birth certificate!