Mackeydoodle, that wicked Canadian, has tagged me. I am not very obedient when it comes to tags. I thought I'd try to appease by at least answering the first question:
What were you doing ten years ago?
Ten years ago, I was working in a hospital. It was my second year of work, but I was still very nervous about my job (heck, I'm still nervous NOW!). It didn't seem quite right that I should be doctoring, because that was supposed to be for wise, confident, knowledgeable people who strode about proclaiming The Diagnosis and ordering The Treatment. I felt like an impostor, fearing discovery at every turn.
Early in the year, I was rotated into a job on the paediatric orthopaedic ward (that's kids bones, for anyone scratching their heads). This job was pretty easy - I just had to check the kids over prior to surgery, hold up various little people limbs during surgery, then make sure the children recovered safely afterwards. I settled into the job with relief. There was nothing too tricky, and the hours were good, too.
Often in the mornings, I would come across a serious, messy-haired man who was the anaesthetic registar (ie training in anaesthetics). I thought he was cute, but reserved - the brooding type. And perhaps because he was just that teensy bit cool towards me - why is this so true of many women?! - I found him terribly intriguing. I figured he probably had a long-term girlfriend anyway. Ah, what a shame, I mused.
Then one day I found myself holding a leg in the air in the operating theatre (yes, all those long years of medical school had taught me special leg-elevating skills), whilst shaggy-hair-man kept the small patient asleep at the head of the table. The two training-to-be orthopaedic surgeons doing the actual operating were going on with their usual macho b***s***. I really found it hard to maintain basic politeness towards these archaic cave-dwelling creatures. It was nothing for them to comment on my appearance, remark that I should be getting married soon, or send me to do any tedious non-medical job that they preferred not to do for themselves.
I was getting tired of keeping quiet and listening to their crap. So this particular day, I started countering everything they were saying. When they started ribbing me about how I'd soon be wanting to find a husband, have babies and stay home, I countered by retorting that I had no intention of marrying unless someone truly spectacular came along. If for some reason I did choose to procreate, I rambled, I expected to continue to work, and my husband could stay home with the kids. They laughed and went on with their blokey hammering and nailing. Turns out they were quite right to laugh, but let's just gloss right over that, please.
Suddenly the messy-haired man spoke. He said he'd been reading in his textbook about how women's bodies had much higher percentages of fat. Therefore, he concluded, women's brains must, compared to men's, be full of fat.
I was appalled. I thought this guy may be cute, but he's a jerk and a male chauvinist. In fact, this was my dear Fatty (as you've probably guessed), trying to get my attention by provoking me. It was similar to when you're a schoolboy, and you pull the pigtail of the girl you like, I suppose. You can most likely deduce that I soon figured out Fatty was actually not such a jerk. I also came to realise that Fatty's reserved manner was more to do with shyness than arrogance. So when he asked me out one day, I was buzzing with excitement. I had a feeling that this was the start of something huge. Even as a romantic, hormonal teenager, I had never felt so energised. A voice inside my head was telling me - this could be The One. As it turns out, he was; he is.
To summarise - ten years ago I was tentatively bumbling my way through my job, verbally defending myself against sexist pig registars, and falling head over heels for a man with hair that was perpetually in need of a cut.
I think that about sums it up.