Understandably, Susan wasn't utterly enraptured with my casual mention, in a previous essay, of my passing crush on one of my ambulance colleagues . Also, there was the fact that I posted the entry without mentioning it to her, and then forgot to bring it up for a few more days, kind of hoping it would never come up. It just didn't seem particularly important or pertinent at the time. To me, a crush is a temporary and embarrassing common condition: an inflammation, like a rash. Virtually everyone whom I now count as a friend has unknowingly passed through the Crush Phase, a shady two-week period in which I silently nurse outrageous feelings of affection for my new pal. Somewhere in my proto-adulthood I recognized that this was just a natural part of my affiliation process, something to be endured quietly and without great excitement.

Think of a new friend as a pair of underwear. No, a t-shirt. When you get a new T-shirt, you might stand there for a second and stretch the neck a little, so it fits better. Then you put it on. The Crush Phase is just the stretching of the neck. You pull it a little so it will spring back to where you really want it to be.

Finally I am feeling at some ease with my ambulance crew, and it was inevitable that I should tough my way through the crush phase with some of them. Last night on duty I had no runs and a great time. The Object of My Onetime Affections was there, as well as The One I Thought Was Kinda Fakey But Turned Out To Be Nice, and The One Who's a Mixed Bag But Terribly Funny When in the Mood, and One of The Nicest People I Know. And there were new faces, like A Really New Guy Whose Cocky Style Irritated Me More Than It Should Have, and The One I Talked To Extensively On My First Shift But Who Now Doesn't Really Remember Me. I won't bother using names because, as you may realize, these are not jut people, but archetypes.

There are few pleasures that equal just sitting around with people you're just beginning to know, and saying things that make the whole group laugh. It's like for the first three to five months in any new group of people, I am hopelessly unfunny. I spend most of my time feeling acutely aware of the position and placement of my hands. They just don't seem to go anywhere comfortably: pockets, folded on my chest, pockets again. It's like my hands are humming faintly, and I'm sure that other people will notice and begin edging away. But last night they stayed silent, and I forgot about them for long periods of time.

If all stays on schedule, in another six months or so I will actually be myself around these people. It sucks that it takes so long, but I know my operating parameters by now, and a year is the optimum acclimation period. This bit of self-knowledge, gleaned from hard experience, prepared me to stick this out for the required time.

Dateline Devastationville

Headline in today's Washington Post: Chickens 'Scream' as Floyd Floods Md. Poultry Farm. In such moments I feel tremendous relief at being a vegetarian.

My rule is, if I'd kill it myself, I'm entitled to eat it. It's a kind of existential dietary ethical standard.For the most part, it has meant a meatless life since I was 15. When I lived in Senegal, I revised my standards somewhat, after heat, sickness, and poor nutrition stripped my 5'10' frame down to 110 pounds. It was me or a goat, and I picked me.