Enter Label: A noticeable departure from Chimps
and the heavy handed start of the de-urbanization of a city girl
Dear Companions,
I had made a promise to L that once my health was suitable, or the recovery appreciable, I would join him out east, in Montauk. Montauk—the Monaco of America, the fancy boondocks, the money boonies. I'm still workin' on a nickname. Regardless, it's a place where fishermen and classic Porsche Carreras mix in the parking lots. Whether I felt ready to leave the City didn’t matter much. One seems required to do things earlier than ready, or is comfortable, in the Healingvrse. That’s a part of the experience, if one intends to move forward. So here I am, back at the scene of the crime, a year since the date of my re-infection and the start of these here Away Messages.
This isn’t a sitcom though. It’s not like I arrive in a beach town paradise and suddenly become revived with a hundred percent health and satisfaction. In the first 72 hours back, I discovered a tiny tick burrowing into the flesh next to my belly button. The irony of this happening while I was watching My Octopus’s documentarian James Reed’s Chimp Empire (a strong recommend!) was not lost on me. It certainly impressed upon me the film's message: these are our relatives. Just like the chimps who obsessively groom each other, for political and wellness reasons, L came to my rescue with tweezers, delicately removing the bug from my body. What happened next, was a noticeable departure from chimp behavior. I transferred my quantum assailant into a ziplock bag to send it to a testing lab.
At the USPS, I felt embarrassed. There I stood with a giant ziplock bag and my minuscule tick, to be shipped Priority Mail to Pennsylvania. My Chimp DNA twinged! While I felt fairly certain that I removed it in time, I was still anxious to hear the results of the postmortem tests on the tick. I have since learned it was a nymph Lone Star tick, increasingly more prevalent in the North East due to climate change. With this bug, the main thing to worry about is Alpha Gal Syndrome, (also called alpha-gal allergy, red meat allergy, or tick bite meat allergy), which if I were to be inflicted with that, I would swear off all earthly possessions and enroll in a monastery.
But I'm being honest, that was not the best summation of my awkward presence in the countryside. There was this moment with a rabbit where I felt exactly like the Leafers in the episode of Family Guy. I spotted the little creature during my daily walk to the bay. Like any city dweller, I whipped out my phone to record her, zooming in as I inched closer. At first, the rabbit just munched on the grass, but as I approached, she fixed her gaze on me and assumed a still position. Even though I moved closer and closer, she didn’t flinch a muscle.
Just then a small gust of wind blew past us, shifting the dynamic. Unnerved, I thought, "Why is this rabbit not moving at all?" My cheeks flushed. My heartbeat quickened. An irrational fear appeared in my dumb urban brain. I somehow managed to get scared of the rabbit. What if she pounced? And worse yet, what if she bit? Her eyes took on a demonic quality. Was I seeing reddened sclera? A dash of fear turned into full-on fear, and I started to back away.
Of course, at the same time, I understood that neither this rabbit, nor any rabbit, ever, could harm me. As a descendant of chimps, I have not lost all of my instincts. Still, I tiptoed backward, cautiously moving around and away from her. Only once I had completely cleared her entirely, did my heartbeat resume its normal rhythm. She simply resumed eating the grass.
This memory—that of a misplaced urbanite trying to photograph a bunny and becoming scared—will mark the start of my ruralification. It must be true that I can only improve from here. Operation Chimp begins. The other day I learned how to grow tomatoes and zucchini. I discovered that pouring old coffee grounds on them can enhance their taste. I learned that wrapping them in wet newspaper also helps them to ripen.
Perhaps one day, I will be able to write as eloquently about my experiences as Travel and Leisure contributor Maria Shollenbarger writes about Stylt, a tiny island in Germany that houses one of the most advanced wellness resorts in the world.
My gut and I arrived at Sylt after years of hearing acquaintances rhapsodize about the clinics in Lans and Tegernsee, and the salutary effects of all that Alpine air and scenery. But this island retreat was different: there were wide North Sea vistas, sandy beaches backed by low dunes, and the occasional marshland dotted with fluffy sheep. During my stay, I learned about the negatively charged ions that radiate off this spit of land (which is less than half the size of Nantucket) as well as anti-inflammatory ‘aerosols,’ the micro-drops of seawater inhaled on bike rides and beach walks.
When I ho hum about being out here, L reminds me that I'm still pretty close to the City. I can establish a flow of travel, like the Silk Road, a fortitudinous path connecting two ports in the Healingvrse. But as my body is not yet able to travel with ease, everything still seems much farther.
I must use my time wisely to expedite my recovery. There are many things to do: intentionally dislodge the concrete brick of thoughts in my mind, release the intensity with which my eyes scan the world, introduce a certain celibacy to the fornication of ideas in a mind stimulated by lights, sounds, and people, harness the anti-inflammatory aerosols that whip off the ocean to soothe my nervous system, and so on. Isn't that what all the hundreds of doctors ordered? Just. Have. To. Lean in. To the rabbits.
My wizard of an acupuncturist, who deserves a separate post to himself and has also set up shop in both the City and the Hamptons, expressed it so clearly to me last week. Checking in on my motionless pincushion body, he said, "Rebecca, you are like a Ferrari that performs well in gears one and four but needs to find gears two and three. Think on that." As I felt the spirit of the needles in my skin, another fact drifted into my mind—one about marathoners.
In an analysis of 10M marathon finishes, it was revealed that finishes spiked right before typical goal thresholds like the 3- and 4-hour marks.
That said, while finishing times like 2:59 and 3:59 are fairly common, it is relatively rare for runners to cross the finish line right after hourly marks — e.g., at 3:01, 4:01, etc.
In fact, a finishing time of 3:59 is 1.4 times as likely as one of 4:01.
How well does this fear of round numbers speak to a visceral truth and absurdity of life? It's a lesson in behavioral economics at its finest. So many aspects of life are motivated in fear of round numbers. It certainly applies to my upcoming birthday, which shall remain nameless for now. I had also hoped to fully recover within a year of re-infection, reaching complete wellness but instead I celebrate the milestone with partial achievement. It seems as though my recovery journey is going to drag on further than what a perfect resolution for the storybooks would look like, and that’s innately bothersome. But should it be?
How much of life is spent chasing arbitrary milestones, like those endless city errands in an effort to become two-percent better-looking? Or two-percent more fit? Or two-percent more in-the-know. Or perhaps these small differences are significant, like the two-percent difference in DNA that sets us apart from chimps? Or those two missing gears in the intricate machinery of our nervous system? I suppose the key lies in learning when the two point difference actually matters.
In the meantime, I am going to celebrate this Memorial Day by working on softening my eyes, taking a drive in gear two while two listening to Tina Turner, and beholding with affection, rather than trepidation, the stillness of a rabbit. Happy holiday friends!
With much love from the Healingvrse,
Rebecca
OMG you are a fantastic ✍️ writer! Keep it up! Cheers from Dixieland