I should’ve gone to med school. I tell myself this often, sometimes daily. Never mind that I almost failed out of 11th grade Chemistry and that I had to re-take my Biology final (twice); I know I have the inherent skill set to be a doctor, and I wonder exactly how I ended up becoming a flight attendant instead.
Flight Attendant questionnaire: Do you like to fly?
Me: No, not really.
FA questionnaire: How do you deal with turbulence?
Me: Throw up. Or pass out.
FA questionnaire: Are you good at making clear announcements on a loud speaker?
FA questionnaire: Do you enjoy serving people food?
Me: No way!
FA questionnaire: Is your idea of a good time hanging around an airport for five hours when your flight is cancelled and not being paid for it?
Me: Absolutely not!
FA questionnaire: Do you look good in navy blue?
Me: Actually, I do.
Now, since I did clock in ten years as a flight attendant, you must be speculating why I think I am so qualified to have become a doctor instead. Let’s examine the facts. (See? “Examine”—I am already using the lingo!)
I am very good at writing messy. Just ask The Husband when he attempts to decipher my grocery lists (“Oops, I thought it said ‘dog food.’ I know we don’t have a dog. You can’t tell me that says ‘mint ice-cream.’ You’re crazy.”) I would be a natural for writing those crucial illegible prescriptions.
Next, doctors make lots of money, and (coincidentally) I am inherently talented at spending lots of money! This would be an excellent fit for me. Plus, I would adore going to the drive-thru line at the bank to make a small deposit and hearing the teller say to me, “Yes, Dr. MOV, your current balance is $82,366. But that is before this newest deposit of $11,904.”
I love love love when people think I know things and ask my opinion. When customers come in to shop at the high-end kitchen store and ask me a simple question about an espresso machine, I can go on and on for about twenty minutes boring them with every last detail that I have just made up off the top of my head. Then I shove a bunch of pamphlets and brochures at them, and maybe even offer them a free shot of espresso. This is exactly like doctors handing out literature about icky skin diseases (“You and Rosacea”) and then giving you a tiny sample of some sort of cream you will never remember the name of.
I am very fond of impressing random strangers. If I overhear anyone at a party discussing the merits of New Zealand and debating what time of year they should visit and which hotels they should stay at, I am over there like a laser giving unsolicited advice (“I was a flight attendant. I can tell you everything about New Zealand because I flew there several times.”) Likewise, if I was a doctor, I would insert this valuable tidbit every time I needed to make a dinner reservation or buy theater tickets over the phone (“Actually, it is Doctor MOV. That’s okay, you didn’t know; just don’t do it again.”)
However, there is the pesky little job requirement of being able to tolerate blood and gore. That might not be my strongest trait. Yesterday, when The Husband needed assistance after he accidentally got his post-surgery bandage on his shoulder wet while taking a shower (with plastic taped over it), my initial reply might not have been what you would call “helpful” (“Ugh! Get Tall to do it. Your stitches might be oozy, and that would make me feel nauseous,”).
But really, that's what nurses are for, right?
(“Medical Obstacles Vanished”)