I met Nozomi two months ago in a Tokyo bookstore. She was pretty and, when she made eye contact with me for a moment, I thought I saw her smile.
“OK,” I said to myself, “I’ll try and talk to her.” I waited for a few minutes to steel my nerve, rehearsing in my mind the Japanese that I would use.
There were no other people in the aisle, which was ideal. I have tried approaching women before in public places – coffee shops, grocery stores, etc. - and when there are other people nearby, I feel as if I’m committing some unspeakable crime. I feel like a deformed, sinister hobgoblin, trying to lure innocent victims back to my subterranean lair.
Nozomi and I were facing in opposite directions, so, in order to speak to her, I had to do a 180 degree turn and spend some time pretending to browse through the books that she was looking at (Japanese books about flower arrangement). After a few minutes of taking random items off the shelves and inspecting their covers, I turned to her and said “HELLO.” In my nervousness, the word came out much louder than it should have, and I sounded like an autistic boy trying to practice the social graces and getting it all wrong. A person in the next aisle dropped something and mumbled.
There was some initial awkwardness, but we talked about Canada, books, and type-2 diabetes (she’s a doctor). When I found out about her job, I cobbled together a very primitive joke by pointing at my belly and saying a medical phrase that I’d picked up from my Japanese text: “I think I’m pregnant.” She didn’t exactly laugh, but she definitely didn't frown, and, in the end, she agreed to give me her email address.
Things might have turned out very differently if I’d used the other Japanese medical phrase I’d picked up from that phrasebook: “I haven’t had my period for weeks.”
***
Since then, Nozomi and I have been going on regular dates. There are no serious problems so far, but there have been obstacles. When she’s talking about her job, I sometimes have no idea about how to respond.
Once we were strolling down the avenue, hand in hand, enjoying a couple of green tea ice creams, and she whispered this sweet nothing in my ear: “Have you ever heard of acute myocardial infarction?”
“I think I’ve heard of it,” I said, licking my cone.
Or, another time, she got a call from the hospital when we were at the aquarium.
When the call was finished, I said, “What was
that all about?”
“Oh, a nurse just wanted to know about how much insulin to give a patient.”
“And what did you recommend?”
“Five units.”
“Neat.”
If you can think of
any way to extend this kind of conversation beyond the word “neat,” I’m all ears.
Sometimes, when I think of the many differences between Nozomi’s job and my own, I feel like a little nothing of a man. This feeling is most intense when she gets a call from the hospital, because it reminds me that there is never an urgent need for my expertise. I can’t imagine getting a late-night call from someone saying, "You’ve got to get over here - there’s a group of middle-aged businessmen who need to practice phrases for beginning and ending a meeting! And whatever you do, don't forget to bring your Clifford hand puppet!” It wouldn’t happen.
So, when Nozomi is telling me about her work week, I’m admiring her, but I’m also saying to myself, "I wish I were more involved in the goings-on of the world. I wish I were more
necessary.” I know these feelings are probably petty and evidence of despicable male insecurity, but I can’t help it. Take any random day of the week, and try to decide for yourself whose contributions to society are more important:
Monday: Nozomi shows great respect for human life. I rearrange the letters on the Japanese teacher’s classroom door from “Happy Halloween” to “Oh Hell.”
Thursday: Nozomi eases a patient’s suffering by simply listening to him. I spend a large part of the afternoon simply galloping around the lobby in a horse mask. Children boot me in the ass and use the Japanese for “giddy-up.”
Saturday: Nozomi gives her patient information about his complicated illness in a way that he can understand. I draw faces and cryptic clues on every piece of fruit I can find in the office fridge. I eat some of the fruit.
I don’t think any of this will be a problem though, because I believe I can hide the details of my job for a very long time – maybe forever. I suppose it could spell trouble if we marry and have a baby and there’s a bring-your-child-to-work day. But by then it will probably be too late!