Cold Turkey

There's a middle-aged woman rubbing slow circles on my decidedly un-six-packed stomach while her elderly, cane-assisted mother pats the butt I've been meaning to do more squats with. Pats repeatedly.

We three huddle close together, standing in the entrance of their tiny kitchen, and I might as well be a mannequin for all I'm contributing to the animated discussion they're having about my body. My friend, Nil, the daughter/granddaughter of this dynamic and overly-tactile duo, participates in the conversation from just outside what my older brothers might have called a classic "Amanda Sandwich."

I thought I was coming for a cooking lesson, but it doesn't look like that's going to commence any time soon as the stomach-rubbing and butt-patting, with occasional full-body squeezes, has been going on for at least five minutes.

Nil hasn't felt the need to translate much of her kinswomen's remarks, other than letting me know the general argument consists of whether or not I've put on weight since moving into the neighborhood.

That's right, I moved all the way across the world from Boise, Idaho, USA to Istanbul, Turkey, and the first home that welcomes me is full of women standing in the kitchen arguing about my weight.

You might be wondering how a 36-year-old, Jesus-following, single, Caucasian, second-grade teacher from the City of Trees managed to find herself in a massive concrete jungle generally, and inside a room so highly disregardive of personal space boundaries specifically—and I would respond by saying that that is an excellent question!

So you know those stories that begin with a woman scorned and, more often than not, end with her sleeping her way across Tuscany or Appalachia or Vermont? Well, I don't want to give you the wrong impression within five minutes of meeting, but I feel like I should probably be up front and tell you that, barring divine intervention, the 80-ish-year-old woman currently patting my butt is the only patting of my butt that you'll be forced to bear witness to for the duration of this, my tale of casting off the known and running into the wild.

Regardless, this is not going to be a grand operatic tale where you cheer from the sidelines as I walk through a giant life crisis that causes me to pack up my things and hike across Turkey whilst entertaining you with all the men with whom I'm sleeping.

That's not to say I'm not susceptible to handsome men, because let me tell you, in my limited experience Turkish men are quite handsome and I might have to throw up a few personal boundaries so I don't accidentally suscept to one of them.

It's also not to say I wasn't having a life crisis, double-negative notwithstanding, because obviously something was going on or I wouldn't have made such a drastic choice—but the bottom line is that sleeping my way across any geographical region, foreign or domestic, is not really my cup of çay.

That's tea in Turkish, by the way. That wasn't too difficult, was it? Perhaps you'll find my tale to be educational as well as entertaining!!

What happened was, after the College & Career pastor suggested I was too old for his group, in somewhat stereotypical fashion I possibly overcorrected by skipping right over Young Marrieds to a "Women's Night Out." I'd always assumed these evenings were geared toward the elder stateswomen in our congregation, and when I walked in the door my assumption seemed to be more or less correct.

Perhaps you can imagine my surprise—or frankly, my horror—when I was escorted to a seat at a table containing seven very lovely, very grey-haired women who kindly started inviting me to middle-of-the-day, middle-of-the-work-week Bible studies suitable for the clearly and obviously retired.

It gave me the strangest sense of vertigo, like I'd somehow wormholed my way from swinging 20's to creaking 60's, with nary a stop in between.

I had a weak moment one lonely Sunday morning and fell under the spell of a British accent and the promise of a place to use my gifts for the glory of God. Now I'm in a contract I can't wiggle out of, teaching eighth graders—my least favorite demographic of humanity—at an international school catering mostly to expats called Istanbul International, sometimes referred to as I-Squared.

Eighth graders! I did not sign up for a course in how to most effectively martyr yourself in the pursuit of being a living sacrifice, but apparently I'm going to get it anyway.

That's probably enough to get you started, which is good because I might need to pull focus so as not to choke on the previously-bitten, partially-pre-owned pastry grandma just shoved in my mouth. At least she's stopped patting my butt.