Intro Part III: The Pep Talk

That night I finally mustered up enough courage to call Amit. To my pleasure, he seemed delighted to hear from me, stating that he had been planning to call me as well. Upon hearing my suggestion about the marathon date, he readily agreed, intrigued by the concept.

The rest of the week flew by, as I did my best to multi-task during my floor rotation, managing the team as the floor senior, helping the interns with the flurry of admissions, substituting as the PICU senior when the PICU resident was post-call, and attacking sick children by inserting IVs into their veins which they had (un)intentionally removed while asleep. By the time 10 a.m. arrived that Friday, I breathed a sigh of relief, as I had completed my call for the week with a three-day weekend ahead of me.

The morning of the marathon date, the phone rang.

"Hello?" I said in a throaty voice, still in bed with my eyes shut.

"You have a date today, and you're still asleep?" my mother inquired, clearly annoyed.

"It's 8 in the morning on a Saturday..." I replied, yawning, "and I don't have to meet Amit until 2:30."

"Well, I've been up since 6 a.m.," Mom informed me, seemingly quite proud of herself.

"Doing what? Churning butter?" I asked her, snorting.

Mom ignored my comment. "I think you should get your makeup done at Macy's and get a facial," she stated.

I began to rub my eyes. When Mom uses the word "facial," she actually intends to suggest that I undergo face waxing.

"I don't know," I commented, walking to the mirror in my bedroom and staring at my reflection. "I'm not having a particularly hairy day. Plus, I have to go to the library to look up some articles for morning report on Monday, and then head to the gym."

"You don't need to go to the gym. You need a facial," she notified me matter-of-factly. "And that makeup you wear is all wrong for you. You need to wear different colors."

I sighed. "I'll think about it."

"What are you going to wear?" she asked, continuing her onslaught of humiliation.

"I don't know. I haven't really thought about it," I replied.

"Why don't you wear that brown suit we gave you for Christmas?" my father chimed in, picking up the other extension at home.

"Hi, Dad," I greeted him. "What's up?"

"Well, your mother is obsessed with Nancy Grace and the Anna Nicole Smith death," Dad replied with disdain. "Did you even know who Anna Nicole Smith was before she died?" he asked Mom. "God, I can't stand Nancy Grace."

"You watch CNN all the time," she fired back at him.

"You're comparing CNN with Nancy Grace?" Dad shouted.

I rolled my eyes. "Okay, this is really enlightening conversation," I declared, "but I'm going back to bed."

"Don't forget the facial," Mom instructed me.

"And the suit," Dad added.

After hanging up the phone, I lay my head on my pillow again for exactly fifteen minutes until my cell rang a second time.

"Yes?" I answered, picking up the phone.

"Mom wants you to get your makeup done at Macy's and says that you need to get your face waxed," Tina said on the other line.

I groaned. "But he seems to like me the way I am," I pointed out.

"That's not good enough," she stated dismissively. "You need to -"

"I know, I know...seal the deal."

"Exactly!" she exclaimed. "Come on. He meets all your criteria. He's the one we've been waiting for," she asserted passionately.

We? The one we've been waiting for? Who does she think Amit is exactly? The second coming of Christ?

I became exasperated. "I really don't feel like having this conversation again," I informed her, about to hang up the phone.

"Can you just promise me one thing?"

"What?" I demanded.

"Please don't talk about poop," she pleaded with me.

"Is that what you say to your patients?" I queried with a guffaw. " 'I know you came to see a gastroenterologist, but please don't talk about poop.' "

My sister was not amused, as she became silent.

"Come on! Give me a little credit," I said to her, somewhat offended.

"I mean it," she warned me. "I have no idea why you feel as if you always need to divulge information about your bowel movements, but please don't. No talk about diarrhea, constipation, hematochezia, painful defecation, nothing!"

"Okay," I promised, secretly a bit disappointed. "But I personally don't think it's a big deal to talk about poop."

"Yeah...when you're twelve," she retorted, hanging up the phone.

After our conversation, I once again tried to fall back asleep, but I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. I suddenly sat up in bed, overwhelmed with the task I had been given: the task of sealing the deal.

"This is ridiculous," I told myself aloud. "He likes you. God knows why," I admitted, shrugging my shoulders, "but he likes you."

My mini-coaching session completed, I headed to the bathroom to prepare for the day. Yet again my cell rang.

"Yeah, Mom?" I said, picking up the phone.

"I forgot to tell you," Mom related to me. "Don't talk about poop."

I moaned, wondering if I could trade my family in for the Huxtables.

Coming up next: The Marathon Date!