Memorial Day and the Dalai Lama

A few years ago, after weeks of increasing levels of pain and discomfort, I went to the doctor.  Like most people, or perhaps it is a male thing, I try my best to put off talking with the doctor about my problems.  I take my car on schedule for maintenance work.  I panic if something goes wrong at home.  But, when it comes to my body, well, the problems can wait!

It became difficult to get in and out of my shirts without me carefully and consciously lifting my arm.  A simple everyday act that we take for granted now became an arduous task.  I had no choice but to check in with the MD.

After reviewing the x-ray image, he said it was nothing but Calcific tendinitis.  Pain killers if needed, but physical therapy was the solution.  His nurse recommended a therapist.  She warned me that he talked a lot but that he was very good at his work.

I had never been to a physical therapist.  Middle age was leading me to people that I was not looking forward to meeting.  The cosmos was dragging me out of my comfort zone into terribly uncomfortable settings.

The nurse was not exaggerating even a bit.  All through the hour that I met with the therapist, he talked nonstop educating me about the problem, the anatomy, his assessment, his plan for the treatment, and whatever else.  At the end of it all, he led me to a younger woman who, he said, would work with me in future visits.

More discomfort.  A woman right next to me.  She would from time to time place her hands on my shoulder and arms.  Though I grew up in India where I had to deal with physical and mental proximity of other people all the time, as an introvert I always preferred a little distance from others.  Over the years, my need for space around me has increased.  And now a stranger, a woman, was right in my face!

The only way I could get over the uncomfortable closeness of a stranger was by chatting with her--the silence at that proximity was terrifyingly unsettling ;)  I recall asking her if she had any plans for the Memorial Day cookout.

She was shocked that I said cookout.  And I couldn't understand her reaction.

She explained that out in the west people used the words "grill" and "barbecue" more than "cookout," which is the word that she was used to in the Midwest where she was born and raised.

It didn't surprise me at all that people find my vocabulary and accent rather strange and offbeat.  More than a couple of people have found that I pronounce "about" as if I had spent some time in the Canadian frontiers.  One couple asked me years ago whether my English teachers were from Scotland, or if they had been trained in Scotland, because of what they considered to be traces of Scottish accent.  I was asked about my Scottish accent at a conference here in the US..  A student asked me about my Irish-sounding accent.  Back in graduate school, a fellow Indian student thought I spoke with a Bengali accent.  Bengali?

I have no idea where I picked up the accent that I have and the words that I use.  I have no idea why I asked the therapist about a "cookout" as opposed to a "barbecue."

It is Memorial Day, and many of my fellow Americans will be grilling hot dogs and more at cookouts and barbecues.  I am always reminded of my favorite hot dog joke that I picked up from a philosophy radio program a few years ago. Yes, a joke that involves hot dogs, philosophy, and the Dalai Lama.

The Dalai Lama visits Times Square at New York and is excited being a tourist.  He decides to get himself a New York hotdog, and walks up to a vendor and says "make me one with everything."

(I will pause for your laughter.  What?  You didn't get the joke? tsk, tsk!)

Anyway, after getting the hotdog, the monk asks how much he has to pay.  The vendor says "eight bucks."  The Dalai Lama gives him a twenty and waits for the twelve back.
The vendor does not give him anything.
The Dalai Lama then asks the vendor, "hey, what about the change?"
The hotdog vendor replies, "change comes from within."

(You got this joke at least?)