I don't want to play.

I don’t remember the last time I held a bat. I avoid playing sports whenever possible – and it’s surprisingly possible in my life – so it very well might have been high school that saw me standing in the dirt in sweats and a school-assigned t-shirt, dreading my turn.

It’s easier in the outfield. I just picked a spot unlikely to see any balls and tried to be invisible. It worked out pretty often, though I was consistently nervous. I hated PE. But until I figured out a loophole senior year that allowed me to opt out of the gym requirement, I had to go change clothes every day and try to figure out the least painful way to spend 40 minutes.

So after waiting in a random spot in the grass, I would head in and take my spot on the bench, scooting ever closer to the end when I’d have to take the bat, attempt some sort of readied position, and wait for the ball to come.

I was good at the written tests in gym. I understand the rules of most sports – it’s rather elegant, actually. The conditions and obligations. The rules and their possible exceptions. I like knowing what’s supposed to happen, and the order of events when batting appeals to me. It’s very finite – the time at the plate. All I had to do is swing three times. I’d either miss and get to sit down fairly quickly, shrugging sheepishly and hoping there wouldn’t be time for me to go again, or I’d somehow manage to hit the ball. This was rare and, honestly, a bit more work. Then there was running from base to base, paying attention to what was going on with the other batters, trying not to run into any of the fielders as they scampered around, actually caring about where the ball was going.

I thought of baseball recently – standing in the bathroom at work, staring at myself in the mirror – and shook my head. I did the same thing today as I worked from home. Spent some time crying and showering and installing software on my computer so I could analyze some data. I also spent a few moments looking in the mirror, wondering what I wanted. My recurring thought?

May I be out now? Just return to my seat and avoid the whole game? Hope that given enough time, I’ll find some professional loophole and discover there is a career that will feel right. Because this one? I feel like I’m swinging halfheartedly, with no real hope of even hitting the ball. What exactly has me mopey?

Strike One
I sat at a table draped in green cloth, and glanced across Boss to smile my congratulations at Rick. Rick had given a talk that was very well received the previous day – quite a coup for a postdoctoral fellow. He happens to be incredibly bright, motivated and humble though.

“It’s all in the timing.” He told me when I congratulated him on his program placement. “I submitted the exact same abstract last year and it got rejected. I changed the title this year and people loved it.” With a shrug and grin, he noted, “You can never tell what’s going to work.”

The next day, Rick won the poster award. He had a really good meeting – the timing was right for his work, and it’s excellent research. He’s been assured of his forthcoming promotion to faculty status, his K99 award is likely to be funded, and he was awarded a private office.

I will not be saying the same in one year.

Now I’m genuinely happy for Rick. He’s really a good guy, and very deserving of all his success. For all my competitive instincts, I’m not at all jealous. I don’t – for some reason – want what he has. It’s fine for him, but I don’t know that it’s for me. Making an impact by doing research that's done well and highly regarded.

…Two…
More recently, I sat at a conference table waiting for Chris to arrive. We’d exchanged email at Boss’s request since I was to take over a menial project Chris had been handling. He was busy with classes and it would be an easy way for me to enter another clinical realm of which I’m not familiar. I’m not excited about it, but I’m not excited about much of anything. It’s fine though. I’ll do it.

Chris walked in and I noted – without any personal interest – that he was rather cute. Overly built, I decided on closer examination, and wondered when I started to prefer average stature rather than really firm pecs and arms. So he covered some of the relevant project information and I decided it was really straightforward. So I asked if we could meet, cover one example set of data when it became available, and started to stand up to leave.

“Are you sure you don’t mind me taking over?” I asked, not wanting to step on toes and knowing that once I take ownership of a project, I remain possessive of it. And I’m not exactly eager to take on more work right now, I guess. But it’s fine. (If I keep repeating it, perhaps I will believe it’s true.)

“Absolutely.” He assured me. “I just wanted some extra hours of the summer.”

“So it’s not related to your research interests?” I confirmed.

“I’m leaving with a Masters.” He confided. And I sighed. The friends I have from grad school? My favorite people in my class? They left with Masters degrees and are making 2-3 times more money than I am. Doing a job I decided to ignore in favor of getting my doctorate and doing…what I’m currently doing.

“Do you know where you’re going to work?” I asked, then nodded and offered advice as he listed his ideas. “I’ll send an email to Dave.” I finally said. “If there’s someone worth knowing, he probably knows them. He’s quite social. So he might have some decent contacts for you.”

“The only hard part,” he offered after thanking me, “is that I’ve been seeing this girl. She graduates this May and we’ve been together about 7 months, so she’s worried about where I’ll end up. She says she’ll follow me anywhere, but would rather stay in this general region.”

“You’ll work it out.” I predicted. People who aren’t me tend to fall in love, get the right jobs, live happily ever after. And that’s fine. Good for them.

And Three
I passed Steve in the hallway yesterday and smiled weakly.

“Got anything for me?” He asked as we continued to walk past each other.

“Not so much.” I said, turning my head as I continued to walk and he looked behind him as well. “I don’t even remember what I was supposed to do. Let me read that email again.” And he laughed and kept going.

Then he showed up at my desk a couple hours later, pulling a chair closer and putting one foot across his opposite knee.

“What’s up?” He asked, and I wasn't sure of his motivation. If he knew I wasn’t doing well or had some specific question or just had some spare time and decided to weave through one particular maze to find my desk.

“With what?” I tried to clarify, feeling confused and sad enough that I didn’t really want to talk any more than necessary. “Project B? I need to email someone and ask about an initial step. That should probably be redone. Then I’ll do that thing you mentioned. I found the email.”

“I meant in general.” He offered after shrugging over the work I should have completed for him.

“Meaning…?”

“How’s it going? What are you working on? How are you doing?”

I appreciate his interest – I really do. So I looked down at my papers and lists and books and plans that litter my desk, shook my head and blinked back tears. Then I composed myself and launched into a believable monologue on my plans. I know what the specific aims are, have honed the methodology and can speak of these projects with relatively clarity. Steve nodded at the appropriate times and indicated his understanding of the most pressing problems.

“It’s hard.” He commiserated. “I know it’s slow. But what’s your plan from here?”

“I don’t know.” I said softly. “I wanted to leave in the early Fall next year, but now it looks like I might stay 2 more years. Which is fine. I know it’s a good place – great people and resources and environment. But it’s not right for me.”

“Didn’t click.” He said. “That’s too bad.”

“Not really.” I argued. “I’m glad I know this isn’t the place. That I want to move on at some point. I just wish I was more than grossly ineffective while I’m here.”

So we talked and I whined and my office mate returned, so we ceased our personal conversation and he left shortly after. And I noted my upset stomach and oncoming headache and miserable attitude. I know how this feels, I thought. But what to do about it?

I’m at the point of taking my seat on the bench, giving myself time to gather my resources and strength so that I can scoot ever closer to another try. But I recently had enough – needed to take a step back and try to figure out what I’m doing here. The good news is that I feel better now than I did last night. The bad news is that I fear my next turn will yield 3 different strikes for the same general effect.

I want to be happy. I want to love my job on some days and feel satisfied that I’m doing good work on others. I want to know I can abandon this path if I’m sure it’s not working – I just don’t know when to make that call and which way to go if I stop doing this. So if you picture me sitting on a bench, people moving around the dirt and grass in the foreground, I’m peering out in the distance, seeing if there’s anything out there that’s more appealing.

I just don’t know what that is. So now I’m sad again.