Tired of consumer devices, I decided to tackle a field that is different and impactful. Healthcare, obviously. After all, the wish that anyone should make when given by a genie is for good health.

Isn’t there anything more simple and succinct?

But as I embarked on the journey, like anyone in the health industry, I believe that I have every condition that exists. Am I pregnant? Are my achey knees suggesting early arthritis? Should I really eat that last glazed donut? Is this a heart attack? Or is it because I am allergic to something I ate 10 hours ago?

In my projects, I talk to patients. Or really people with [insert condition], because as the health community wants to emphasize: they are not defined by the condition; they are people. So I see their homes, their family, the choices they make, the everyday lives, their dialog, their devices. I aim to understand them. I think deeply about their emotions, fears, and motivations. I think about what keeps them up at night and what brings them joy.

It’s empathy. And in doing so, I find myself evaluating my fingers for tingles and my everyday headaches for symptoms. I feel the people that I speak with…so deep in my bones and in my blood. Are they now part of me too?

The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing
may not ever quite work for me.

It’s the idea of “keeping things only if they bring you joy”.

I hold onto the past dearly in fear that I may forget it. That I may offend people if I let go. That the things may become useful in the future (and it has). But am I letting things hold me in prison?

The other day, I started to empty things from my closet. Yet, as I look at my shoes, a fear was daunting me. I love my chocolate flats, but despite having them fixed three times, they are now incredibly scuffed and worn. The shoemaker told me that it’s not worth fixing them. The same with my suede boots. And my sneakers, they started bursting within a year of wearing them. I could really go without all the others, but then I wouldn’t have any shoes and with that, I know how long it takes to buy them. I can’t go barefeet. And would I be compelled to shop knowing that I only want things that bring me joy? Wouldn’t it paralyze me when I shop to always be thinking if I’ll waste my money if it will be tossed away moments later?

I already have trouble buying shoes and still am dissatisfied with what I have.

If I was to have only things that bring me joy, then I wouldn’t have anything that improves my health or beauty. I would toss those things away, because they only remind me that I am beholden to what society thinks of me. I truly do not care to feel beautiful, because beauty rarely inspires me. Or even healthy, because the only thing I desire is to have energy and strength. So then what is joy if the immediate decisions affect long-term detrimental failure?

That puzzles me.

How would a person with a chronic disease tidy their life if they tossed away all their medications and needles that they would need in order to live a normal, healthy life?

I look at the people who surround me and tell myself, this is normal.

If I don’t have what they have, I think that I am abnormal and naturally want what they have. That it’s normal to be married. That it’s normal to have children. That it’s normal to own a house and a car and a well-decorated house. That it’s normal to eat organic, local foods. That it’s normal to spend more than $50 to eat a meal and drink wine. That’s normal.

But then what happens if you are against the grain? How do you fight it if you make choices that are so vastly different? What if you already choose not to drink and you just never drink? Do you remind people that you don’t drink so that you don’t get weird looks of “are you pregnant”? Do you use your full words and not match the language around you?

What if you choose to be unmarried and childless? That it’s not that you don’t believe in marriage or parenthood, it’s that you don’t believe it for yourself.

But I know that I look out at the people who surround me and I think: that’s normal. I want to be normal.

All so that they will love and accept me.

I ignore it, already warm in my bed. Any text message that arrives at this time can be answered tomorrow. Or if it’s not accessible on my computer, it’s not important right now, because I don’t want to reach for my phone right now.

But then, the doorbell rings. It is only a few things. “Where are my pants?” I say aloud to my computer.

It is silent, because I am alone in my room. My blankets are strewn all over the place and for a moment, I want to stay covered underneath my down comforter, the only thing that was allowed to stay.

It is an obligation and I find shorts. I think that I am wearing them backwards and I quickly find my flip flops underneath my junk. I open my door and turn on the lights. The stairway is filled suddenly, hopefully to let the person outside know that I am coming. I am coming, I would say, but I know the person won’t hear it.

I get to the bottom of the staircase and fling up open the door.

Outside the gate, my roommate stands, “Sorry.”

“No problem,” I say as I put one foot onto the welcome mat opening the gate. “No problem, I was here anyway. I am sorry that I ignored your text message.”

“I didn’t move here so that I can be warm,” I say about living in San Francisco. “I want it to be in the 60s all the time.”

When I wake up in the morning, I love the chilled air that seems to nip at my face, causing me to wrap myself tightly into my down blanket. It’s not that I am hiding. It’s the delicious feeling of receding sleep and the cool air brushing across my cheeks. Then I wake up. Yes, there may be a bit of goosebumps. But that’s why I have a New Zealand wool rug in my room to spare my feet with the unpleasant feeling cold hardwood floors. Then I step into slippers and slide into the bathroom. The window in the bathroom must always stay open because the room lacks a fan to air out the humidity of a shower. So the cooler air hits me and I huddle as I pee, brush my teeth, and wash my face.

I stare at myself in the mirror and feel my body warming up.

It’s warming up outside. Here is where I may depart for a job for some early morning meeting or I may slunk back to my desk, lifting open my laptop and drift my fingers over my keyboard. I resist checking Facebook and instead gaze over my email. But perhaps it’s too late, social media has taken over. I am in a flow now, browsing mindlessly and clicking 10 things you didn’t know about your life. And yes, my window is drafty. One of the two windows—the other being the bathroom window—in the apartment that is single pane because it doesn’t face the back or the front. It’s the side windows and the landlord doesn’t care how it looks and the cool air comes in anyway.

But I don’t care. My fingers are happy in the temperature. They do remember the day when the temperature had fallen to the 40s and how it froze there, unable to move, and they begged to be in a cafe. But I hesitated, loving the coolness too much and the comfort of my chair and my room.

Without a nod or examination, I plunked myself behind the last person in line. An Asian no less. Then I prepared myself for the long wait. I don’t look up anymore to watch the personalities in line.

A boy follows behind me and knowledgably goes outside the escalator.

It has always been uncomfortable surrounded by the city’s freebie go-getters and legitimate movie critics. I hear aimless conversations from someone who has never been here before. “Wow, thanks for inviting me!” he exclaims.

“Yeah, I always get here two hours early,” a voice echoes experience.

We are prepared for the long haul.

30 minutes pass. 60 minutes.

A lanky man walks around the line. “Miss, please move forward,” he says to me. “We need to get to keep the pathways clear.”

I nod and scoot forward with my laptop in my lap. The lanky man stares at the people and announces, “In five to ten minutes, I will start numbering.”

The line nods, understanding and he leaves. A box of pizza arrives. Another girl arrives and squeezes herself into the group in front of me.

Children drag chairs across the worn carpet to their spot in line, hitting Chris’ shin. He stares at them as he yelps in pain. The children don’t notice and neither does their mother. The moment passes and he rubs his shin.

Then the people in the line stand. I sense the shifting and close my laptop, thrusting it quickly into my bag. I check my phone and set it to vibrate. I pat my pockets and check my bag. Then I stand and follow the snaking line, slowly as one by one we get access into the movie theater.

Growing up, the house was always cold. Or at least I would like to think that my parents, being Asian and all, would never use a money-wasting thing as the heater.

But I think that I am wrong. My parents didn’t want to see my sister and I suffer. So they used the heater and the AC. But I never recalled those things ever long for very long. They were on in order to get the home to a certain comfort level and then it was off.

In doing so, I learned the value of the comfort. Every time I hear the rush of air—the air that would make my room comfortable, I was already trained to feel the cents, bills disappearing into the abyss. Comfort equaled money. Money equaled privilege.

So being conditioned, I prefer cold temperatures. And hated absolutely hated summers. There was little that I could do during the summers except whine and complain and hope that the AC could help. So that led directly to my love of San Francisco weather. I love the 50s and 60s temperature here in the city. The brisk wind that touched my face and hands. It is wakeful.

And I chose an apartment that is naturally like a freezer due its lack of great insulation. Even with large tall ceilings, rarely does the apartment ever heat up with the sun. Instead, it stays cool. Just the way I like it. But the bad thing about it is even with central heating, the apartment takes forever to heat up. Or even when it does, the tall rooms heat slower than the small rooms. And so here I am in a small room thinking, thermostat, you have done your work already and I don’t need you. But my roommates always do.

What I always find ironic is that the roommates, especially the roommates who grew up in snowy areas like Wisconsin and New York, they want the temperature to be at a nice 70°F. I like mine at 60°F. The brisk chill reminding me that I am still alive. In San Francisco.

The end of the dinner was approaching. I felt it. In anxiety, I checked my phone, pulling down the notifications to look at unread emails. I stiffened, hoping that there were no emails from my team about the big client presentation. I didn’t want to deal with anything more until the morning. I told myself that I had to remove the work email from my phone for my sanity.

But then I saw it. Starting slightly after 8 pm, an email went out with an innocent question:

I’m not sure who to email about this. Typically the direct deposits I get match the amount listed under “earned” in my earnings reports exactly, but this month it did not. Under earned it said $4,055.68 but my direct deposit was for $3,905.68. Any idea why the difference? I have a feeling it has to do with Target reimbursement but wasn’t sure.

I didn’t know who this person was. And wondered if it was yet another annoying email sent to the wrong person, like people with my first name and last name. And the to field read publishers@federatedpublishers.com What’s interesting is that nearly everyone replied had some unique signature, advertising blogs. Primarily food blogs. I realized that in my attempt to spread my blog a few years ago, I must have subscribed my email to the grand lists.

Subsequently, other emails followed. Some were about not knowing the answer to the question, that they didn’t know why they got the email. Then someone concluded that the the OP must have emailed a mass email d-list, that hey everybody calm down and stop replying to the email. But the emails continued to pour in until even the famous Guy Kawaski chimed in and lectured everyone about how they’re making it worse. Then it became a bit of self-promotion and gratitude for finding each other (so very much like a blogging community). Then came more angry “UNSUBSCRIBE” and “STOP REPLYING”.

And the email that some people followed so unwittingly:

“By all means, everyone keep replying.”

Then suddenly about 90 minutes later, emails stopped.

A blogger documented the drama that ensued through social media. The way that suddenly all these self-aware tech-centric people bonded as if we had been stuck on a subway car for some time. Thank you for existing, I would say. But in a few days, I’ll be on my merry way.

The night was young. It was barely 7 PM. But my ears were burning. My throat felt coated and I coughed.

But you see, I was in a new city. And my fingers were dancing over my keyboard bringing up the best and the greatest restaurants on Yelp. I gazed over the top-rated restaurants in Hot and New, my mind calculating my limits on my daily expense account and estimating the distance from the hotel.

Could I? Would I? Will it even be worth it?

I rubbed my stomach. Unfettered, untouched. I wasn’t hungry, but it had been more than 12 hours since I ate something substantial. Since the morning, I had only drank water and hot tea. I wanted to take a hot shower and crawl into my uncomfortable hotel bed.

But I couldn’t. So I compromised with myself. Within a five minute walk, I found a healthy restaurant and ordered a hot drink of turmeric and lemon. My head burned for the next 48 hours, but I pushed myself. Through the 6 hour flight. Through the appearance at my parents’ community event. And meetings. And email. And life. Because life doesn’t stop for anything although I wish sometimes that it would. Even when I am not sick.

The man arrives at the gate. Coffee in hand. A small shoulder bag over his shoulder carrying important documents and an iPad. He doesn’t travel with a computer anymore. He finds it easier to read documents from his clients quickly on the tablet. His iPhone lies in his sports jacket pocket. He walks briskly past all the college students and tired families to Priority Boarding. Group 1.

Then suddenly, the loudspeaker booms with a female voice. “Attention passengers at gate 86, destination Atlanta at 8:15 AM,” the female voice says. “Our first class cabin is overbooked. We are asking for volunteers to give up their first class seat to take a middle seat in economy.”

The man grimaces and looks down. Then he notices a woman in front of him, squeamish and fidgety. She is talking to a friend who is standing at the front of group 3. “I got first class!” she says. “I am not sure.”

The man doesn’t budge. But he knows what may happen next.

The female voice booms over the crowd of passengers again. “We’ll make an offer for first class passengers willing to take a middle seat in economy.”

An offer, he thinks, spinning the idea in his mind. No, he thinks, he must arrive in Atlanta rested for tomorrow’s client meeting. Nothing is worth it.

Then suddenly, it isn’t. The woman goes to the counter and talks to the flight attendant. She joins her friend in Group 3, grinning. “Look, what I got!” she says and laughs.

Twenty minutes go back and another request is made. Nobody budges. Then in 15 minutes, a female representative goes up to Group 1. Starting at the back. “Can I take a look at your ticket?” she says to a well-dressed woman behind him. She sighs. Then suddenly it’s his turn. He wants to say how many miles he has, how he is a loyal customer. But he looks at the passengers around him, did he belong anyway? When in another life, he wanted to be an artist living with his college girlfriend spending their nights drinking PBR and long discussions of the world and things now he knew.

“Okay,” he says to the representative.