So a while back, a lovely Canadian journalist contacted me to do a profile on my shenanigans for a magazine called The Medical Post, a monthly publication exclusively for physicians that covers everything from tuberculosis treatment to travel. OK, Vogue it is not, but it is national and seen by almost every doctor in Canada.

Naturally, I had mixed feelings about having all my former colleagues learn about my abandoning ship, but the woman who interviewed me was so respectful and smart and she asked very interesting questions, so I thought this will be fine, cool even. I’d come off looking all groovy and wise and worldly.

And I did, mostly. Of course the goofy element was loud and clear, but what wasn’t loud and clear was that the cover would feature of picture of my head. Sweet hand of god, not much subtle about me now is there? I pictured me on the back page, you know, the one that nobody ever reads and gets used to sop up spilled coffee or line the compost bucket. I should have known when they asked for multiple pictures of me. So, neither subtle nor swift, me.

At any rate, it was worth it. Even if there are all kinds of docs rolling their eyes at my follies and foibles (and there are), the beautiful emails I’ve received from the docs who found my story inspiring makes up for anyone out there finding me foolish.

While I’m still not entirely comfortable as a cover girl, the kind reaction to it was a welcome distraction from covers of another kind: letters. I’ve been putting my credentials out into the universe, summarizing my skills and selling myself like there’s no tomorrow. I must say, recent depictions on magazines aside, I look pretty good on paper.

The reality is that there is a tomorrow—one that will bring definitely more chaos and hopefully continued joy. I’m excited to see where the journey takes me and I’m curious about how my career path will unfold from here on in. CEO or CFB (Chief Burger Flipper)? It’s a toss-up.

At least I’m consistent—the commitment to uncertainty and taking wild chances and middle-age mayhem remains. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: where’s the wine? It’s flowing like mud around here.