Dating, part 1: desperation

“I think you should be more social.”

I stared at my mother standing in my doorway from my sprawl on the bed. I regretfully put my book down next to me, forced to deal with some foolishness. I think I was 15, plus or minus 2 years. In high school, certainly, and had been there long enough to realize that the tales of football games and parties Mom shared with me would not be part of my experience.

“Perhaps a therapist could help you through wanting to be alone so much.” She continued.

“Mom, I’m fine. I’m trying to read my book. Perhaps you could see someone about your concern for me.”

So, with a roll of my eyes, I motioned toward the door and sighed with pleasure at being allowed my thoughts and dreams, uninterrupted by other people.

The story begins quite easily. The dichotomy that exists in my head isn’t at all unique, though at one time I believed it to be so. I love to be alone. Much to Mom’s continued concern, I so enjoy solitude.

The problem is that consequence of spending time alone. Sometimes I get lonely, and have noticed and worried over it before Mom even mentioned her counseling plan. The cool thing is that online dating allowed me the illusion of being connected and searching while retaining my distance. So I did that for awhile, throughout my first year of grad school.

At 22, wise as I was (or wasn’t), I had already questioned my ability to happen across the right person. It just didn’t seem likely to run into someone while I was out. I’m not good at going to bars or clubs – it brings out all those pesky insecurities I try mightily to hide.

“You’re not going to find someone sitting home alone!” Mom insisted many times.

“You don’t give off a sexy vibe.” M said more gently. “You have this sweet, kind, polite air about you, which is great! But maybe you could do a bit of a ‘come and get it’ thing too!”

I laughed. “M! If someone was ‘coming to get it’, I’d be trying to prevent it. I need time to warm up, get comfortable, ease into it. I don’t do sexy right away. And someone who wants that isn’t looking for me.”

I’ll give myself credit for a sense of self. But the analysis was prompted by my desire for an excuse – I don’t like the looks I get when I continue to admit to being single. I’m tired of being the odd one out on family holidays and vacations. So it’s nice to have a reason, even if I’m the only one who knows it, as to why relationships are so difficult for me.

Anyway, I’d done blind dates. The first was at a really nice restaurant, where I turned down wine in favor of keeping all my wits about me. Then listened to an engineer drone on about how no one else in the world could do his job. How he was so smart, so spiritual, so special. So painfully boring. Lesson? Always, always, always take the wine.

Then later, there was someone I met on match.com, before it got overly socially acceptable in the small Midwestern cities. I had taken a break, then tried to date a friend. I couldn't let him kiss me though - my stomach turned and cramped rather flipped and fluttered. I remember shrugging at him.

"It's just not there. I want it to be. I love you. I think you're funny and smart and cute. But..."

So he smiled and we hugged and my tummy eased in relief that I wasn't going to force a physical relationship where it simply didn't belong. Sex, and the acts leading to it, are an endless source of fascination to me. And as I'm drafting dating stories and editing others, I think it's the sticking point in many of my near-misses. Which sucks because I don't know what to do about it.

But back to the story. So there was another guy from match.com. I accepted his offer to meet after only 2 emails, wanting to put something between me and this friend situation that to this day bugs me. Because we would have worked on many levels.

The blind date went reasonably well, though he was wracking up deductions in my mind. He didn’t call to confirm plans until the last minute, only reaching me after I had already changed into pajamas and started cleaning my tiny studio apartment. But I got ready and picked him up (another problem – I don’t particularly enjoy chauffeuring men around on the first date). We sat at a diner while he ate, and I drank soda (again with the no wine – some lessons just don’t stick at first). I was warming up slowly, listening to his stories, offering only a frown when he talked about how higher education was a waste of time. But then…

“I babysat my nephew the other night.” The waitress offered. It wasn’t busy and perhaps she was bored. Or maybe I was giving off the not so into this vibe along with my friendly sweetness.

We must have been talking about children in some context, though I can’t remember what prompted the comment from the waitress.

“How old is he?” I asked, only briefly hesitating to try to figure out why she would tell us.

“Four. He’s a handful! He just kept running around and making messes. I couldn’t get him to calm down.”

I smiled, not having much experience with children at that point. I was getting ready to launch into an amusing story about my new Sunday School class, when Date offered his little gem.

“You just want to throw them up against a wall sometimes, don’t you?” He said from around a mouthful of French fries. Waitress laughed. I turned to him with raised eyebrows.

She wasn’t offended, but it bothered me that he would joke about hurting a toddler. So I gave a cue that I didn’t love it. Had he dropped it, we would have been fine. But he didn’t.

“Or throw them right out a window! So you can watch them bounce off the sidewalk!” He laughed and Waitress giggled.

I settled into a glare and wondered if I could just leave him there with her.

“I was kidding. I wouldn’t hurt a child.” He attempted to placate me, seeing that I wasn’t going to ease into amusement.

So that was done – I told him I was tired, dropped him off, and proceeded home. I can deal with listening to boring stories, an endless monologue that indicates you’d be just as happy sitting across from anyone. I’ll deal with jibes against what I do and my goals. But I just keep getting closer and closer to finding the little statement that pushes me over the edge into dismissing someone completely.

Dating is hard for me. Even when easing into a relationship from a friendship or acquaintance. Choosing the right outfit, sending the right signals, wondering if you’re coming on too strong and appearing desperate, or if you’re appearing too standoffish and watching your chance at a good-night kiss slip away in the midst of natural reserve. Putting on darker make-up, pushing past my comfort zone of friendly, sweet me into wouldn’t-you-love-to-be-involved-with-me me.

It’s like interviewing for your soul. Not any skills or experience. But the little facets that form me – what matters, what I listen for in songs or conversations, what I find charming or sexy versus what’s revolting. How I look – and that’s a tough one for me. My family, my friends, hobbies, humor, all the little traits that are tucked inside and carefully protected have to be trotted out and displayed for possible rejection from a guy you might not be all that impressed with anyway.

So, screw it, right? I had friends – spent almost all my free time with M since her fiancé traveled extensively for work. We went out for dinner, took walks, jogged on the rare occasions I was unable to talk her out of it. We talked, shared everything. So I had an outlet. But she went away for the summer.

I met with Violet right before M left. Violet is wonderful - a fantastic friend who I miss dearly to this day. We met one day for Thai food – panang curry – and stretched lunch into a 3 hour marathon of green tea, rice and chicken.

Violet is much of what I hope to be. Smart, educated, friendly, pretty, she owned a house, had 2 dogs, was funny and insightful and kind. In short, she was a lot like how I saw myself in 20 years, as she’d recently eased past her 40ith birthday. So as we sat and talked through the first hour of lunch, I asked her how it felt to be single. Was it a choice? Or did she feel like she missed her chance?

She cocked her head and considered me carefully.

“Life is a series of decisions. Some you realize are important, others you don’t. I didn’t consciously say ‘I’m never getting married. Or having children. Or sharing my life.’ I still want those things. But I didn’t decide to go get them. And the years kind of slipped by, and I made friends, and moved forward in my career, and lived those years. So my advice to you is to consider what you want personally. Then go after it.”

I looked at her – her shiny dark hair and careful make-up, her generous spirit and incredible humor, and was terrified to the depths of my soul.

It wasn’t just her. Everyone in my family – male or female, any generation – has been married by age 21. Everyone. So, at 22, heading into my 23rd year, I was desperate. I’d waited too long. Missed the guy. And everyone who said I was still young? Well, they were wrong! Look at Violet! Time flies by and then all of a sudden, you’re lying in a nursing home somewhere hoping that your life served as a warning for those women who forgot to date. Or decided it was too hard.

I’m worried that I’m reducing Violet to some lesson I learned, which pains me since I think so highly of her. She’s offered me a great deal of wisdom and encouragement, and is one of the people who replies immediately when I send a pleading I need a pep talk email. She’s so great, yet so single. When someone offers that someone will recognize how great I am – smart and funny and charming and cute – I have anecdotal evidence that it doesn’t always happen. It is possible, perhaps easy in some cases, to avoid men and end up looking around wondering why nobody every saw what a gem you are.

So I went home and looked at an email I’d received but ignored. It was from a guy my age, from a town not very far away. He didn’t write very well – the grammar was poor and the spelling was iffy. He said he was shorter than my profile mentioned I wanted. But he was faithful – very strongly Christian. An EMT, with prior military training. Most importantly, he liked me. He wrote of several items I’d mentioned in my profile, telling me how special and smart I seemed.

So I replied, hesitantly accepted his offer of a meeting, and headed down the path to my next decision.

The lesson, if you can't see it coming and don't mind learning it over the next few posts, is that you don't want to make desperate decisions, grasping eagerly for the guy in front of you to be the guy. Sometimes he's just a guy - with great qualities and a few flaws. So if I'm hard on these men, and I'm worried that I will be, I want to point out an underlying knowledge that I enjoy men tremendously and appreciate that dating can be difficult for them as well.

But for now, we wait with a pre-doctoral student for the next piece of her adventure, worried and wanting something she still doesn't have. Poor thing.

Flirt

I’m liking the flirting lately. Perhaps it started with the rain and warm temperatures that defined January, reminding me of spring and encouraging the clothing that shows a little extra skin. I feel like I’m emerging from a hibernation from boys – cuddled into my house and busy with getting settled at home and at work, hesitant to emerge from my little cave because I can remember all the times I’ve tried before and ended up alone.

Honestly? If I’m going to end up alone anyway, why not save the energy and just leave the awkward first dates, the wondering whether you like him more than he likes you, cataloging faults and determining which can go on the could be charming and which go on the hell no list. Dating is exhausting for me, and I haven’t missed it at all.

In fact, I was at the point of starting to worry that I’d never get motivated again – that I’d just go on without wanting to be escorted to dinner or a movie, to be kissed or cuddled while watching football on Sunday, to have someone to call when you have really good news. But just as most things in my life, I go through these cycles – productive/lazy, social/hermit-like, etc.

I should have known my feelings were changing when I started feeling pretty. Looking in the mirror and being surprised at my reflection. At some point, my hair got long and has this cute curling thing going at the ends. The exercise plan that I’ve been half-heartedly pursuing might be working a little since my clothes seem to fit just right. So, encouraged at what I see in the mornings, I spend a little extra time with make-up and hair, choose clothes that might be a little more flattering, suffer through shoes with higher heels. Though I know I’m not a great beauty, and tend to beat myself up over it, I feel pretty lately.

I went to get dinner one night from Fazoli’s. I decided that after a long day at work, I wasn’t up for making a salad, pasta and bread. So much easier (when I’m lazy) to just go get something. I stopped at home to get Chienne – she likes to ride with her snout out the window, and I think it’s funny to watch her little jowls flap in the wind.

So I ordered and pulled around to pay and get my drink. I don’t generally talk to drive-thru workers. I realize that it’s probably a sucky job so I’m polite and grateful for their help, but don’t bother them otherwise. It's just part of my natural reserve. But Fazoli’s wasn’t busy, and Chienne got in the backseat to stick her nose out the window again.

The cutie working that evening smiled and rubbed her nose with the back of his finger. We discussed her pedigree, though she’s from a shelter and it’s difficult to define the parentage of a dog likely born of 2 mixed breeds. I like to think of her as an American – an amalgam of various dogs from many places.

Anyway, the smiles, the dog, the very light flirting made me flutter the tiniest bit. But it was easily pushed aside as an aberration. After all, I returned home to my salad and pasta alone, eating in the glow from the television, curled up on my loveseat, with only my dog and sitcom characters for company.

Last week, in an attempt to avoid the worst of the traffic, I coaxed myself into work clothes and pulled my hair back early on Tuesday morning. Leaving the garage shortly after 6, I promised myself Starbucks via the use of my Christmas gift card. Waiting patiently in the drive-thru line, listening to Chandler through the car speakers, I finally gave my order to the sexy voice emanating from the pretty speaker box. I kept my window down while waiting for my iced coffee (I scoff at your idea of cold weather), and was soon the next to be served my precious caffeine.

Sexy voice popped his head out the window to reach the woman ahead of me – handing her a pastry and hot coffee. Disheveled, scruffy, and in short sleeves, unafraid of the cold, I was immediately sure we were kindred spirits. Destined to fall deeply in love and frolic in the mild Southern winters.

I arrived at the window after quickly removing my ponytail holder, shaking my hair loose. I made a mental note in bold to set a hair appointment. I hadn’t yet found a salon since moving, relying on my sporadic trips to my grad school city to visit my much beloved Aveda stylist.

I handed him my gift card, and he graced me with a grin, confirming my order. My blouse didn’t allow for enough freedom of movement to reach the window easily, so as he leaned out to hand me my whipped cream topped treat, I handed him my dollar with a shy “I can’t reach your tip jar.”

“You’re a saint beyond measure.” He murmured. “Thanks a lot.”

I ducked my head, hoping he noticed how my hair fell forward and caught the light. And perhaps covered the fact that I had skipped the eye makeup that morning.

“You’re welcome.” I said, peeking up at him again. “Have a good day!”

“You too.” And with another smile, he ducked back inside the small window and left me to find parking and wait for the shuttle, iced coffee grasped in both hands.

As I begin to yearn for companionship greater than that of my furry puppy, I’m going back over my dating experiences. It’s Valentine’s Day – the day that makes me question what I’m looking for, why I’m alone and turns wistful thoughts to being part of a pair.

To understand why I’m alone, and what I’m looking for, an examination of my romantic past is in order. While I’ve had a few relationships I’d classify as semi-serious, I’ve had much more experience in dating. I’ve resisted publishing those posts, some already written, because they read a bit mean for my taste. I appear critical and confused and I question whether my descriptions of the men are very fair.

But as I read Dryden’s questions about why people would subject themselves to the horror that dating can be, I realized I have stories in this area that I would like to share. So, I’ll set the scene tomorrow – defending my decisions and defining my motives, then we’ll move on to the dates. So if you’re not up for it, give me a week to get it out of my system and return next weekend. If you’re in, we’ll be starting soon. It should be interesting if nothing else.

Aveda

It’s been a long time since I’ve had my hair cut. Asserting my resistance to change in small ways, I have refused to find a new salon here. Instead, I relied on my sporadic trips back to my grad school city to relax into the luxury of my hair’s home.

When I was in undergrad, I selected a place relatively far out of town. An Aveda concept salon, I was charmed by the attention. Scalp massage before the shampoo, hand treatments while I waited for chemicals to force the curl out of my hair, and a cut that looked consistently good. I never questioned the talent of my stylist, and would eagerly anticipate my trips there. In that salon, decorated in pure white and various shades of green, I found a place I loved to go.

Then I started grad school and quickly found another Aveda location. This one was decorated in jewel tones – deep ruby chairs, golden walls, emerald accents. I had my first full-body massage at this one, my initial discomfort of being naked in a small room with a stranger easing away as I realized you could pay people to rub your back. And not be expected to reciprocate! Yay! I had good hair in grad school too – my only downfall was in waiting too long between visits.

I had a good cut in September. It was cute and functional, but putting off finding a new salon had taken its toll. The length was starting to annoy me, and pulling it back in ponytails almost exclusively indicates that it’s time to buckle down and find a new hair home.

So, Friday evening, I entered my post-doc salon. Still Aveda – I like the smells, I’m used to the service, and I don’t know what training is involved for other salons. This one was bright. Cheerful orange walls, exposed wood supporting the roof, chic fans sweeping the air from high in the ceiling. Bright lights, accents in blue and green, were offset by sleek black chairs, sinks and stations.

I had to wait for a long time – finished my bottled water for the first time ever in a salon. I perused the products, already knowing I had adequate amounts of my favorites tucked away at home.

Finally nestled into a chair, I consulted with a petite wisp of a girl who would take charge of my hair.

“Shorter.” I decided. And she nodded in response, still ruffling through the length, pulling it back, then letting it fall around my face.

“Layers?” She questioned.

“Some.” I replied. “I like them subtle though. Easy lines, nothing that falls funny or sticks out from the rest of the hair. It has to be simple to deal with – sometimes I’ll straighten it, but often I’ll let it curl.”

She nodded. “You have a nice natural wave. You’ll want to take advantage of that. So how much are we cutting?”

I narrowed my eyes in concentration. “Two inches? Just above my shoulders, I think. But I’ll let you make the other decisions. Just go classy – professional, but cute.”

We continued to the shampoo chair, and I noted the leg rests. Very nice, I decided. My legs always hung funny in the jewel-toned place. This décor was hurting my eyes a little, but I do like the leg rests.

Relaxing into the scalp massage, and letting the conversations around me ease into murmurs in my head, I took deep breaths and enjoyed one of my favorite parts of life. I love being pampered. The massages, the offers of drinks, putting on complimentary robes for a day at the spa, having eyeshadow and lip gloss reapplied after having my hair styled. Even the short hair appointments are targeted for my pleasure, and I like it.

I breathed in the rosemary mint shampoo, then the conditioner. The water was a bit hot when she rinsed, but my frown quickly resulted in a drop in temperature. Then she started rubbing my hair dry.

I sighed. You’re supposed to squeeze, I thought. This rubbing stuff was not cool. It didn’t hurt, but I knew it would tangle my thick hair. I was wrong. She eased the comb through quickly and twisted three sections then clipped them to begin snipping away at the underlayers.

She cut (and cut and cut), leaving me with a layered chin-length style that I do like. It’s a bit shorter than I expected, and it was completely straight, courtesy of a blow drier, products, and straightening iron. So when it curls, it’s going to be borderline too-short. But that’s OK – it’s different.

The reason behind this extensive discussion is because I’ll have a first here too. And not a good one – like the chemical straightening, or the massage.

“I had a standing agreement with my old stylist. If she started seeing gray hair, we’d talk about coloring options.”

There was a long pause as the young Southerner debated polite vs. true responses. “I just saw one.” She confessed quietly.

I frowned (because I’m not so worried about wrinkles). “I had a few when I started grad school, but I pulled them out and they didn’t come back.”

We talked of other things while she combed and clipped, cut and dried. As the straightening iron pulled and steamed my hair into submission, and she prepared to do the final layering, I asked again.

“There are a few.” She admitted, avoiding my eyes in the mirror.

“So I should think about coloring it.” I stated grimly. I’m not sure what this fixation is all about, but my hair can’t look old. Not yet.

“It’s so shiny and pretty!” She protested. “Once you dye it, it’s different, and you can never go back. So I’d wait. If you start to see the gray and they bother you, we’ll highlight it then.”

She finished up and I complimented her work, tipped her well, and headed home through the rain that would not, as I predicted, turn to snow.

I scolded myself for being ridiculous. For letting tears roll slowly down my cheeks while grieving for youth. I haven’t done enough to be old yet. I’ve lost track of many beloved friends – falling into the pattern of returning calls and emails but rarely initiating them. I don’t have local relationships, and haven’t cared to pursue them. It seems like there will be time enough for that later. If I stay past the post-doctoral limit on my time here.

I’m desperately sad that I don’t have any romantic interests. That I don’t come home to someone. That I don’t have his number memorized so I can call to share my news. That there’s nobody to tell me that I don’t have gray hair after all, or to at least show me where they are. I want the affection, the reassurance, the comfort of knowing that someone likes me and wants to spend time with me. I want the flash of heat when he’s wearing glasses, intent on his work, or wearing really good aftershave. Lazy weekends where we nap and shop together, teasing because we understand where the line between jokes and hurt feelings lies.

I wish I knew where I was going professionally. I can’t balance the pros and cons in my mind. I just know some days feel right – like I’m doing something important and cool. Other days feel awful – like it’s all pointless and hard.

So I don’t know that I’ll go back to the bright orange place. It seems like a gaudy reminder of what I’m losing. The exchange of bright, shiny brown hair for numerous memories of years lived.

I’ve always loved getting my hair cut. Watching the old fall away and the new emerge. But this time, I looked at the pile of my hair on the floor and wondered if this was the last time I’d see the color in masses like that. Or if it was slowly being replaced by gray – symbols of stress and age, but with little dignity in my case.

I started this post on Friday, and have edited it like crazy. Cutting, styling, carefully reordering to try to make my point. The point is I’m not ready to get old. But when I told my mom that same thing, she laughed and said I never would be. That if I ever felt complete and finished, what was the point of going on? So I can’t make this post look like it should. I keep poking at it, unwilling to give it up because I like certain parts, even while I wrinkle my nose in distaste over others.

Then this morning, I washed my hair, easing the smell of Aveda down the drain and replacing it with the smell of me – Pantene shampoo and Dove soap, finished with a spritz of Light Blue. I let the hair curl, encouraged it with a little light product. And it’s cute! Light and pretty and framing my face perfectly. I was looking at it, moving the strands around and admiring the effects of $50 well spent.

Then I saw it – the gray strand glistening evilly among the dark background of the pretty hair. Upon closer inspection, it wasn't that bad – it laid nicely with the rest of the hair. I could only see it if the light hit perfectly, which resulted in some strange contortions after I found my tweezers. I found it again though, painstakingly separated it from the darker strands, pulled it out, then found one more. After 5 minutes of squinting and combing, I gave up. Perhaps there were only 2 strands to find.

If not, maybe that’s OK. Perhaps I’ve earned them in some weird way, and will eventually stop resisting my inexorable slide into being older. Bothered not by birthdays, but by my hair. Foolish? Absolutely. And that’s why I can’t have gray hair – I’m not wise or wonderful enough to deserve it yet. I think.

Update

A few things while I'm waking up again.

Thank you for the comments on the last post. I tend toward gushing praise when I like people ever so much, so that's where this is going. If I lived near each of you and we had actually met offline, I would call you all the time. We could go to dinner (I would buy), see your favorite movies, shop for much beloved books. Then I could hug you all the time, shower you with presents, and tell you how grateful I am to have you in my life.

Of course, then you'd have to deal with my mood swings and stress to a much greater degree. But the presents would be really cool, I promise.

Getting to read your words - whether they're here in my comments or within your own posts - is truly a privledge. So I feel lucky to have caught your attention, and truly appreciate any thought you might give my situations.

My days lately have looked something like
5AM awaken, stumble to living room, read blogs, feed/water dog, get ready and leave
6AM drive to Starbucks, order iced coffee so its consumption is unhindered by excessive heat
6:30AM work
4PM fight traffic to drive home
9:30PM fight against falling asleep like an old woman, but lose.

So today was
5AM awaken, look at clock at shock and dismay, sigh and progress to living room to read blogs
8AM back to bed
11AM awaken again, read a book, eat lunch
1:30PM back to bed
3:30PM awaken again, assure the dog I'm not dying, and return to the laptop.

So now I really should be rested, and ready to write something. I like to update on weekends since the readership is smaller and there have been many days where I scowl at bloglines and wonder where all the writers have gone. So if anyone happened to wonder about me, I was sleeping.

Ghosts are scary

There were 2 classes when I was in third grade. I mentioned my teacher, and I loved her. I still remember scampering to the front doors of the single story school building to find my name on the lists, and feeling thrilled when I saw I had the teacher I wanted. But we had to switch rooms for certain courses, and I had math with Ms. Awful.

I don’t like to introduce evil characters here, because I don’t think I’ve met a truly bad person. It’s a quest of mine to understand circumstances, figure out why people react poorly in certain situations, to look past initial anger or pain. Unhappy people seek to hurt others. So when someone seems evil, I try to pity them a bit and work at peeking into her life so I don’t misjudge.

Ms. Awful was going through her second divorce, leading to my years long belief that women used Ms. to denote their divorced status. During one class, we were toiling away at worksheets. I kept staring at mine, unfamiliar with concepts and completely lost as to how to work with the numbers. The sounds of pencils depositing their marks on papers throughout the room echoed in my head as for the first time, I was unable to quickly finish a task. Feeling miserably stupid, I worked slowly through the problems, sure I was making mistakes and not understanding how I could have fallen behind the entire class.

I placed my paper at the bottom of the stack as we passed our pages toward the right side of the classroom where Ms. Awful would collect them. Ashamed of my ability, I walked home that afternoon with my head down, near tears.

Dad was there – he stopped working outside the home to care for Brother when my Grandma was unable to babysit full time. He can always bring the tears out from inside – all concerned comfort. He cradled me in his arms until my sobs eased, then started with questions.

“We’ll learn it.” He promised. “Tell me the problems and we’ll practice until you get it. You’re very smart. They’re just not teaching you right.”

Full of anger and eager to fix my problems, he called Mom at work. Demanding she call the school and get a copy of this worksheet from hell, he had already failed his attempt to have me reproduce these problems which had brought me to despair.

Mom didn’t call, but after soothing me on the phone, left work early and proceeded directly to school. She arrived home, 2 papers in hand, shaking with anger.

Dad, Brother and I were sipping root beer floats in the living room. Pushing the white ice cream into the liquid, then watching it pop back up through the foam made Brother giggle. Dad’s face eased into another frown of concern when she stepped inside.

“It’s 6th grade work.” She stated. “She feels that [me] acts superior, and wanted to show her how it felt to be confused. She wanted her to feel stupid!”

She glared at Dad, infuriated. Mom and I ease out of anger slowly, burning with rage for hours after a confrontation. There was yelling at Ms. Awful, and I’m pretty confident swearing occurred as well.

“I told her we’d do it. You can turn it in tomorrow. If she thinks she can beat you, she's wrong.”

The three of us sat at the table, working slowly through the material. We drank root beer, had dinner, and made our way through the worksheet that had so distressed me. I remember Dad putting his hand on my shoulder after we finished.

“You’re very smart.” He told me, blue eyes serious and kind. “People will try to make you doubt that, or feel bad about it. You can’t let them. You just do what you can, then find people to help you learn what you don’t know. And if people don’t like it, that’s too bad. They’re just jealous because they’re not as smart as you.” He’s wise, my dad. I’ve never doubted how much he loves me or how very proud he is.

Same goes for Mom. But her instinct was to soothe, fighting to suppress her own fury to ease my injured feelings. She laid next to me after I’d showered and put on pajamas. Tucked under my covers in my double bed, blanket under my arm, we talked. She was the one who explained that Ms. Awful was going through a hard time.

“It’s not at all acceptable that she did this. She knows I’m watching her though. If you ever feel bad in there again, you walk out and call me. I told the secretaries that if you ever come in the office, they’re to call me and keep that bitch away from you.”

I turned my head to look at her, now glaring at my ceiling fan.

“It’s not nice to call people that.” She told me, and I laughed at her, rolling to cuddle to soothe us both. “Your dad’s right – you are smart. But sometimes… Sometimes it’s nice to let other people shine. To maybe not answer every question. To not show how well you did on every test when other people don’t do well. It makes them feel stupid, and it hurts to feel stupid. You’re very smart, but you can’t always talk about it.”

She paused to sigh, trying to choose the right words. I understand her problem. Dad wanted me to kick ass, which is wonderful. He still does want that, and screw other people’s feelings. If I feel superior, that’s because I am.

Mom wanted to make life OK – for me to be liked and not singled out like I was that day. That my attitude targeted me for failure bothered her. She attacked Ms. Awful, and continued to torture the woman. I think she mentioned the incident when they met last year, and it’s been almost 20 years. But she also wanted me to learn to be a bit humble, to avoid being hurt again.

So I learned, staying awake that whole night, thinking about who I wanted to be. The lesson, that being slow and confused hurt, stayed with me. I got humble, to the point of downplaying my own ability so severely that I actually think I’m stupid at times. I don’t accept compliments well, play dumb to make other people comfortable with asking questions or trying to teach me things, and I’m tremendously hard on myself because I can’t stand someone else trying to cut me down.

So when Charlie sent me this article, I started thinking about coveted traits in science. I’ve developed the ability to wax poetic on my strengths. Many of them could be viewed as more feminine approaches. I’m good with patients – sympathetic, patient and comfortable. I like working with students, again, having social skills and relatively gentle mannerisms makes me easy to work with. My humble nature and excellent work ethic leaves upper level people eager to collaborate – I’m very appreciative of their attention and the opportunities, and I don’t require excessive credit for a great deal of work. I accept responsibility and blame, even when they’re not all deserved. So while I may not write code as quickly as other scientists, or understand the more complex concepts as effortlessly, I’m good at what I do.

Feminism never resonated with me. It just didn’t fit with how I was raised. Mom, Aunt and Grandma all worked through their adult lives, and had played the dominant role in caring for the home and family. Being female came with great responsibilities, but I had wonderful role models – women who worked hard, loved deeply and were smart and resourceful enough to make it work. I also had men in my life who adored all of us - appreciated our strength, cheered our successes and were quite impressive in their own strengths and talents.

I think saying women aren’t capable is garbage. Absolute trash that’s not even worth writing about.

For me, this article was good. I think it brought out some general points that spoke to me, and encouraged some progress that I think would help science and academia as well as some talented women who are currently overlooked.

I do keep coming back to the fact that I’ve mentioned many times that I don’t want to stay here. I’m just sticking around to learn and work a little more, but I know I’m not good enough for academia long term. And that’s OK, because I don’t want it. I’m not good at teaching, so don’t bother to evaluate those abilities. I suck at writing highly technical papers, so please help me after I tell you from the beginning that I’m struggling.

It's nearly impossible for me to determine how I really feel - what I really want. Do I change my plans according to what I think is possible, subconsciously picking the easier path, avoiding the pain and criticism that I believe would be linked with staying in this world and fighting for my position?

When I’m working on a project, and I walk into my boss’s office for another reason, it hurts to be uninvolved with a meeting. To know I’m responsible for a study, but to be excluded from a casual all-male meeting about the more technical aspects is demeaning. It hurts, and I’m not willing to subject myself to the possibility of criticism or the appearance of being superior and cocky by butting in or fighting the system to make it better for other women.

The vast majority of experiences leave me proud to be a scientist, and I'm trained as a physicist. Classes full of guys were mostly great. Research in a male-dominated field has also been very positive. I had an easy time getting into grad school, earning fellowships and had an array of wonderful offers upon graduating. There are small glitches, but I don't think they are intentional or malevolent. We are working in a system where more masculine qualities are highly valued. So while I have been consistently encouraged and taught and offered incredible opportunities, there have been bad moments. Have they hit me harder than most women? I'm not sure.

For me, the process of feeling inadequate and unwelcome started early, and it came at the hands of another woman. Hell, I just deleted a paragraph at the beginning of this post that apologized for telling yet another story to make my point, taking too long to introduce the article, demanding too much time and energy of my readers. This story took a great deal out of me and leaves me feeling very small inside. It should be a reminder of my parents and how lucky I am. Instead it feeds that internal voice that says nobody likes a smartypants.

So while the process of feeling badly continued in small ways throughout my education, and was largely internal, I’m well aware of how to accept it.

There was a worksheet in third grade that taught me.

Comparisons

“Barbie? This is Post-doc. We’ve talked before.”

My parents have always paid for my car insurance. It’s little facts like this that make me pause when people ask my age, because in certain ways I still feel incredibly young. I’m not sure if it’s remaining single and retaining such strong ties to my parents, or feeling as if I’m still in school – coddled and cared for – at work.

Upon beginning my “job” here, I proudly announced, after 11 years of driving, that I would begin paying my car insurance. It was a good day.

I called State Farm and asked for a car quote (they hold the policy to my house), we were mutually unimpressed. They gave me a 6 month price that was about $250 more than my parents were paying. The woman, who had taken 4 of my phone calls without returning any of them, was a bit snippy when I expressed my surprise.

Pushed into irritation, I informed her that I would be checking elsewhere and would not require her services for my home or car needs.

“OK.” Barbie from State Farm replied. In the day since I had talked to her last, I called Allstate. It takes forever to go through all the questions, decide on coverage, move around deductible levels and check on price changes. But I went through it.

Then I called my mortgage company since I pay insurance and property taxes through them.

Armed with an envelope scrawled with notes, I was ready for State Farm again. This time, I was playing hard to get.

“I don’t have a copy of my home policy and I wondered if you could confirm the property value.” I was starting slow, lulling her into thinking I was a reasonable person.

She pulled it up and gave me a number.

“And what is the yearly premium for that?”

Another number, which I added neatly to my columns of numbers on my envelope.

“OK, so here’s the deal. The car quote you gave me last week was way high. In addition, I felt I was imposing on you in asking for it at all. So I talked to Allstate, and they can do significantly better in price for home and car. Are you able to compete or are we finished talking?”

“Um…can you hold on a moment? There’s someone waiting at my desk.”

“Of course.” So I waited, checking my numbers again and assessing the situation. I didn’t really want to move my insurance around. It sounded like a pain with contacting everyone and setting up new payment schedules. Plus, State Farm has been good to me – I had a car accident a couple of years ago and was very well cared for. I had absolutely no complaints about the experience, and hated to switch loyalties because Barbie might have had a bad week.

She came back to my call a different person. Polite and happy, she was eager to change coverage and check prices, adding discounts and providing many details about the options and benefits.

In the end, I saved $80 on my home, which put that quote lower than Allstate. More importantly, the car premium came down about $150. I dropped the check off yesterday with great relief. No messing with the home policy. Finally taking care of my own car insurance. I just had to make State Farm a little jealous. Poke at them a little to show that I could do better if I wanted.

Comparison shopping isn’t often an indulgence for me. I value my time greatly and will often pay a price I think is slightly high rather than talking to people, making charts and trying to negotiate. But I was pleased with myself for making the effort this time.

A comparison was the starting gun to my sprint from grad school. My pretty pastel timeline said I had another 18 months before it was time to graduate. I wasn’t sure where I was headed since I’d done what I had planned in less time than anticipated, but I had smaller projects demanding my attention.

So I went to a group meeting, asked some questions about a few of my side projects and expressed that I wasn’t sure where to head with my thesis work. Advisor had some suggestions, most of which I’d already tried.

Then George spoke up, talked about how he had started writing his thesis and was putting together 2 papers. Advisor talked about setting up a post-doc for him in our lab as if it were a foregone conclusion.

And I got jealous.

First, George is great. I have consistently enjoyed having him around since he started. He works hard, but thinks about research and learning in general much differently than I do. I like to do – accomplish tasks, find projects, make concrete progress. George likes to think – work through textbooks, recreating proofs, rewriting existing code so he can truly understand how it works. My work habits drive him crazy, and vice versa. But I believed that we were equals in some way – we just had very different approaches.

George is also very likable. He has a very gentle way about him, always asks about my family and dog, answers questions about his family. He was the one who would invite me to lunch when the rest of the guys would already be out the door. He helped me move, gave me a ride to the airport for a conference he wasn’t attending. He is truly a wonderful man. However…

George started about a year after I did, and hadn’t contributed nearly as much as I had (at least in my mind). Very focused and intent on his own work, he rarely wrote code for anyone else, as I was prone to do. He didn’t take over clinical projects when younger students faltered. The MDs never visited his cubicle when they had a need for some analysis. I thought all of these elements – the collaborations, the random projects, training other students – were vital to the graduate experience.

Those different approaches I talked about? The ones I thought were equal, or at least close to it? The end result was that he’d spend 2 years fewer than I in a graduate program? How did I fail so badly?

I couldn’t take it. It didn’t ever reach the point of acceptance in my head. I sometimes get to the point where I can’t lose anymore. Many people have more publications, teaching experience, conference presentations, mentoring opportunities, service hours, social lives, better handwriting. Whatever. But at some point, I can't smile and be happy for them anymore. I have to do something cool myself rather than mope through feeling inadequate.

So I pushed to finish. Wrote my thesis in about 6 weeks, editing thereafter. I finished paperwork, always trying to think of an answer to “You’re finishing already?” other than “George is finishing! And he started after me! I’m not losing again! Dammit!” as I stomped my foot, crossed my arms and pouted.

I don’t think it was Advisor’s intent to force me out. I had funding for more than another year through an F award from the NIH. I was doing good work. But once George had followed a quicker path to the end, I was desperately unhappy with my own progress. I wrapped things up – allowing time to be spent in work or sleep. Nothing else.

I went into interview travel mode while my committee made thesis edits and discussed my headlong rush into the job market. That three month period of giving talks, touring labs, and meeting people validated my work. All those extra jobs I’d completed were important – people did care about them and were surprised I was leaving a place early where I had done so well.

I don’t know if it was the right decision or not. I wonder if State Farm looked over my paperwork and thought it would have been better to let me go as a customer than make cuts to their prices. My guess is they only went as far as they were willing to go. It’s difficult to force people in to something they truly resist. But when it’s an suppressed desire, the seduction out of the standard path is easy. At least for me.

I sat with George at graduation. We had both already moved, started new jobs, and talked quickly to catch up. I still like him – wish him all the best with complete sincerity. But when I go into my standard spiel about recruitment issues and interest in certain areas unavailable at my graduate institution in response to questions on why I finished unusually quickly in my department? I’m thinking of that day I sat in a conference room, breathless with shock, thinking about how I’d come up short when being compared to George.

Sometimes I think it happened for a reason. The series of events that were set into motion occurred for the greater good of my life. Other times, I wonder if I was manipulated inside my own head. If I got caught up in the comparison too easily and forced myself into a move that was ill-timed. I'm still trying to figure out the lesson.

But at least I got a good deal on car insurance.

Teaching

I read your blogs. I see posts about problem students, review packets, incredible lectures and unfair evaluations. I try to think about those things, relate them to how I might approach things, but there’s this big mental wall.

When I approach the wall, there’s a little old man on top. He smiles at me when I get close.

“Hello.” I say to the old man, head back as I meet his gaze from his perch high atop the stone structure.

“Hi there.” He replies, easy and friendly.

“What’s over there?” I ask, just like I always do.

He looks, sometimes turning his back to me completely as he observes the goings on that I can’t see. He returns his attention to me, and shakes his head.

“There’s nothing there for you.” He says.

So I nod, then wave to him as he guards the barrier between me and passing on knowledge via classrooms. I can write papers, give seminars, work with students individually. I enjoy these pieces of the academic experience. I screw them up, seek to improve, but overall, they’re comfortable formats.

I didn’t teach at all in grad school. I put it on my pastel colored timeline that I showed proudly at my prelim. It was on my list of things to do for about 18 months. I even looked over the syllabus for my advisor’s class and tried to pick a lecture I’d give. Just one lecture – like a seminar, but with notes. Never happened. Perhaps I have little skill in teaching, but I rock at avoiding unpleasant tasks.

I don’t mind public speaking. I get nervous, but once I’m engrossed in my presentation – thinking more of the material than of how I appear to my audience – I’m fine. While I’m not crazy about being shaky with apprehension before the talk, I crave the rush of relief that follows it. The questions, the ideas, the flow of information – I loved that part of interviewing and finishing my thesis work. There's something powerful in the verbal - in watching expressions and adjusting accordingly. In telling a joke and the instant gratification of laughter. The give and take is sexy somehow - compelling in a way that makes me feel like an important piece of the puzzle.

So why don’t I teach? I respect it completely. I think it’s incredibly honorable to develop ways to pass on information. To be excited or to push through when you’re not so inspired. To get glowing evaluations or to be unfairly slammed by miserable students. (To be fair, there were many days where I was lost in mental anguish in grad school, and it can be tremendously difficult to resist from inflicting that pain on some professors. My better judgment always won out, but I can see where some people would gleefully slash at professors, even talented ones.)

I think part of me is afraid of that. Of damaging someone accidentally. Of explaining something wrong. Not knowing the answers to questions, or worse, not caring. I don’t get lost in proofs and thrilled from developing known concepts from first principles. In fact, when I read, I look at figures, read text, and think “blah blah numbers equations blah blah” when I get to those sections. I don’t want to teach things incorrectly or stifle some innate curiosity by saying the wrong thing.

I do have some skill though, and feel a bit guilty that my mental wall with its nice little guard prevents me from contributing in that way. So I’m tutoring. Junior high. For an hour each week. Peeking through a tiny crack in the wall, one located very near the ground so I don’t have to stand on my tip toes to see through it.

Things went well yesterday – we talked about multiples and factors. We played a game. Then they wrote out multiples for different numbers.

One girl took 11s. So she went through them. 11 22 33 44 55 66 77 88 99 110 111 112.

So I’m nodding along, but if you noticed, things sort of fall apart there at the end. So I stop nodding, and frown.

“OK.” I begin. “That’s great through 11x10! But I don’t know about 11x11. Can we write that one out for me?”

So the five of us gather around a single white board, and I begin to write upside down so they can see the numbers.

“So, 1x1 is 1 – that goes here. 1 x this 1 is 1, and that goes next to the first 1. Then we put a 0 here in the next row to hold the place, and use this left 1. That goes there, then this goes here, and we add. So…121, right? Does that look right?”

Nods from 2. One cocked his head. The other shook hers. “That’s not right. You have this 1, then another 1, then the other 1 just goes out front. 111.”

Taken aback, I think, no! You can’t just make up math rules!

And that’s the problem. I can tell you how I think about it, how information clicks into place for me. But beyond that? Just…no! I just told you how to do it, and I don’t know how to do it another way. But those extra 1s? They go underneath! Not in front! Because...those are the rules!

I took a breath and dived in to another example with multiplying 2 digit numbers. But I was frustrated with my inability to know what to say. I can multiply! I feel much more comfortable with my understanding of that subject than what I currently research. So I’m disappointed, circling numbers near the not-so-great end of the scale for my personal evaluation.

The man at the top of the wall watches me. He smiles fondly, not encouraging or discouraging. Just waiting, pondering my decisions, peering down as I weigh my words and frown over white boards. I wonder, as I wave again and start to walk away, if I really understand what’s on the other side of wall. Or if I’m ever going to.

Squint and shield

This morning, I wrote that my eyes are very sensitive. I don’t mind the contacts; in fact, I like them a great deal. I enjoy the full range of vision, of not seeing the frames of glasses out the corner of my eye and being stupidly startled into thinking something menacing is very near my face. I wear disposable lenses, and don’t often notice them at all. But the light – it’s always a problem.

I sigh pleasantly over cloudy days when I don’t have to keep track of at least 2 pairs of sunglasses. I always try to have an extra in case of loss or failure of the primary shaded lenses. In their absence, I often close my left eye completely, squinting only through the right one just enough to make out shapes.

I sat in the doctor’s office in undergrad, having suffered a cold for about a month and yielding to Mom’s repeated requests to get checked out. There was a resident visiting the family practice, and Real Doctor asked if I would mind letting Learning Doctor perform the initial exam. Learning was charming and very cute, so I deigned to allow him to view my stuffy, draining head.

I first enjoyed the closeness when I he shined the light in my eyes. But he wouldn’t stop. He drew the penlight away once, frowned, stared fixedly at my pupils. Then he shined the light at me again. I returned his frown, but forced my eyes to stay wide for his perusal. Again, he took the light away; brought it back up once more. This time I closed my eyes before he switched it on again.

“Is there a reason we keep doing this?” I asked, at least slightly politely. “It’s starting to hurt my eyes.”

“Are you on anything?” He asked quietly.

“I have a cough drop.” I said, obediently sticking out my tongue where an almost finished Halls sat dissolving in the center.

“What else?” He asked, putting a hand on my arm, gazing at me compassionately.

I raised one eyebrow. Had med school driven him crazy? “Nothing else. I think I took Nyquil a few nights ago. But nothing else. Why? Is something wrong?”

“I’ll be right back with Real Doctor.” I waited impatiently, trying to blink the spots from my eyes.

I was still blinking when Real came in with Learning following closely behind. He turned down the lights.

“Again with the eyes?” I asked, exasperated. For crying out loud, I thought. No more students. Light-happy suckers.

“Just for a second.” Real Doctor said. He checked them both quickly and told Learning they were fine.

“They don’t constrict!” Learning exclaimed. I continued to look at Real.

“They don’t constrict as much as normal, but they do get a bit smaller. She’s fine.” Then, sensing I was about to turn my growing glare on Learning, he added, “I’ll go ahead and finish up on my own.”

As he had me cough, looked up my nose and in my ears, assuring me that I’d be better soon. Then he smiled a bit.

“Your pupils don’t constrict much at all. Does light hurt your eyes?”

“Very much.”

“Can you see in the dark?”

“Yep.”

“He thought you were on drugs.”

“I’m not. Never. You gave me a pamphlet when I was 12. It changed my life.”

We giggled together.

“Real Doctor? I’m really not taking drugs. I wouldn’t.”

“I know. You just have abnormally sensitive eyes.”

I sometimes wonder if my heart matches them. Things hurt me, sometimes events leave glancing blows, other times there are deep wounds. But events, statements, people often leave me rubbing at bruises while others emerge untouched.

I try to protect myself. Like the cloudy days I favor, I avoid situations that may sting. Sad movies – won’t see them unless tricked. Mom took me to see Stepmom (“It’s funny! With Julia Roberts!”) and had to drive home a sobbing mass of pre-Post-doc lying in the backseat, sick with a headache from soaking through 2 purse packets of tissues.

Tragic novels – refuse to touch them unless assigned. Then I’ll quickly block them out. Name anything you’re sure I’ve read from my years of education. Can’t remember what it’s about. Give me a title and author of any of my 1000+ (yep, that’s 1000, not 100) romance novels, and I can tell you character names, background, basic plotlines, and my evaluation of the work.

I’m currently working my way through Wicked on my commutes. It hurts me. I feel a tug at my heart for every moment of affection I have for Elphaba. I know she meets a bad end, and I anticipate my grief for her. It makes me want to quit listening, to forget her story, and try to make up a sunnier ending in my head. I’m always seeking the happy, sometimes missing that the tough times are often the most critical. Pain usually occurs for some reason, and can elicit a great deal of growth.

I’m all or nothing. If we’re close, I’ll love you. Give you every bit of caring, compassion and help you’d ask for. I’ll worry over you, and pray for you. Thrilled to be in your presence, I’ll make every effort to make you feel special and loved. But it sucks energy straight from my soul. Losing people, watching them go through horrific life events – I can handle it. If it’s the occasional cost of loving people, I’m in.

But for pretend? To watch movies, listen to songs, read books? Why suffer? I prefer to let my heart rest, to pretend that people, all of us, are inherently good. To save strength for real events that require my anger or tears.

The problem is I find myself unprepared. Reeling from unexpected blows I haven’t practiced blocking. I cope, but always feeling raw, alone and afraid.

This afternoon found me seated in a padded leather chair in a small office. Rather than the cleaning supply smell I recall from my own days in junior high, this building smelled like too many bodies had been crammed there. I wrinkled my nose and settled it into my binder, checking over my tutoring plan one last time before the students arrived.

I’ll love them – I decided today amidst the pleas for quiet, the requests for more gum, and pre-teen demands to listen for their many stories. I’ll try to teach, though my talent is iffy at best. I’ll endeavor to encourage, because knowing the pride my parents felt in every good test score fed my desire to do better, to learn more. I’ll weigh my words carefully, terrified that I’ll accidentally hurt feelings or scar someone else’s tender heart.

But when a small girl entered the conference room first, stared wide eyed at me while I told her my first name, she broke my heart. Dark hair and eyes, pale skin, loose t-shirt and old jeans – she reminded me of myself – hesitant, shy, unsure. She’ll be fine, I told myself, easing the tug I felt at her unease.

“Are you my new caseworker?” She whispered, placing herself across the table from me, but not sitting down.

I’m so sorry, sweet girl. I hate that you need a caseworker. I’m angry that you seem frightened of someone who should be here to help you. I’m crying inside, already completely emotionally involved, and knowing I’ll only grow more so in knowing you.

“No.” I said softly, shaking my head gently. “I’m just here to help you with math.”

I can do this. It probably won’t be enough. I’ll probably leave feeling sick for being inadequate. But it’s better than nothing – it has to be.

But my sensitive heart? It’s already squinting, searching desperately for even a broken piece of sunglasses to shield itself.

I trust that it’ll open completely though – it always does.

Monday morning

It’s cold in the house – I didn’t want to wake up, pulling myself reluctantly from my sleepy cuddle into my fluffy comforter 20 minutes late.

I shuffled to the bathroom, squinting at the brightness. My eyes are sensitive to light – pupils always too dilated. Tears will come if I forget my sunglasses, as if my eyes can’t protect themselves adequately by constricting, limiting the light that comes in, like normal people. So I avoid harsh light, protecting myself, always seeking the comfortable. I don’t use the light about the sink, I use the light near the center of my long bathroom. In the indirect glow, I forced eyes wide to insert contacts.

Losing the first one, I continued to the left eye so I could see to look for the missing lens. After a quick search of the floor, I grabbed a new box to put in a new one. Try to remember, I told myself, then you can replace the left one tomorrow.

I patted the covers, the pressure reaching the dog beneath them at the foot of the bed. It’s early still – she’ll get up when she’s ready.

Alone, I continued down the hallway, stopping at the guest bathroom to brush my teeth, not remembering why I keep my contacts in one room and toothpaste in another. I inhaled deeply, wanting to smell coffee.

I carefully measured grounds last night, spooning beans into my grinder, transferring them to the filter waiting on the counter, and filling the pot with just the right amount of water. I pressed auto-on, I mused, and set the timer. But I found myself standing just inside my kitchen, the tile cold against my feet after the comfort of carpet through the rest of the house. Must be an AM/PM issue – either the actual or program time is wrong.

Sighing, I pressed the red power button and resolved to fix it later.

I picked up my laptop off the ottoman, where I’d left it last night. I carried it around all weekend; packed it carefully away to take to my parents’, brought it home only having dialed in twice. I didn’t write at all – not a post, not a paper, not a grant. Just pushed everything out of my head to let family stuff – Mom and her struggles at work, Dad and his stress test, the little one and her constant desire to have her own way.

She went from whine to giggle in less the a second several times. Having her wishes granted, she’s precious. Sweetly ducking her head and smiling at you, while she peeks from beneath lowered lashes. She let me hold her right away, praising her beauty and intelligence. She fell asleep in my arms on Saturday morning. I had one protectively around her back, the other pushed long bangs of the lightest brown away from her closed eyes. I wondered if I’d have this, thought sadly about the man I’ve yet to meet or perhaps recognize. Then I pushed that thought away too. I didn’t drive so long to mope.

I spent hours last night reading, have surrounded myself in other people’s words all weekend, in fact. Listening raptly to the free member selections from Audible on the drive there and back, returning home last night to books from Amazon on my porch and 41 new entries on bloglines. I didn’t have words of my own, starting several posts in bursts of energy, only to be left looking at paragraphs, unsure of what I wanted to say.

It doesn’t take long though – several hours of solitude – to make me want to connect again. To get past my curiosity of how things are going for you, and to direct some attention to myself. The coffee’s done, and the threat of snow was an empty one. I should be getting ready for my early meetings, preparing a little more for my first volunteer tutoring session this evening. But I’m comfortable, warm again under a green fleece blanket, curled up on the couch cushions while my fingers click the laptop keys.

I guess I’m done here – eager to publish, put something new on the blog. Then I’ll get ready. Drink coffee, curl my hair, find make-up I took home but didn’t use. I think it’s still tucked away in my suitcase.

It’s good to be back to the routine, comfortable to be again isolated from the outside world, except when I seek other people. It was good to leave it too, surrounded with people and noise and the comfort of family.

Red velvet problems

I like red velvet cake. I hadn’t tried it before moving to my current home, but I’m fond of it now. I had a really good slice of cake at a friend’s house when I first arrived here. It was so moist – you could just press the fork to it, the tines parallel to the layer of icing. The silver nestled through the creamy white frosting and into the vivid red cake and the treat would ooze between the tines and stick until I pulled it off. Perfection.

My friend got this perfect specimen of red velvety goodness at a bakery near her house. She lives about 30 minutes from me though. I decided that was for the best. My metabolism wouldn’t tolerate constant enjoyment of the treat, so I'm lucky that it’s not readily available.

But I have craved it in the months that I’ve lived here. Once I taste something novel and fantastic, I think about it at odd moments. Have a bad day? I bet red velvet cake would help. Have a good day? Let’s have red velvet cake to celebrate! I go to the grocery store, and on the way to the carrot sticks, the red velvet cakes nestle temptingly in their refrigerated case.

I caved one weekend. I was homesick, overwhelmed with work and I had no plans at all. So I brought the cake home, and set it on my table while I put groceries away. I got the perishable items off the counter, but the pantry food was neglected in my desire for cake.

So I sat down, glass of ice water and dessert fork on the table, small plate and cake serving device in hand. I carefully carved myself a slice, and placed it exactly in the center of the plate.

Then I frowned.

The cake wasn’t bright enough. I don’t know how they make it so red. My best guess is that it’s Southern magic. Like voodoo for the Bible belt. If not, it must take like a vat of food coloring, because the good cake is red.

This cake wasn’t trying hard enough. It was reddish, but not red. I scraped my fork through the frosting, distrustful of the red velvet cake that wasn’t very red. The frosting was some cream cheese derivative. I do like cream cheese. So I tentatively separated a small bite from the slice, and lifted it from the plate. It fell from the fork, landing on the table, sad and dry and not red enough. I felt badly for the cake – it was clearly inferior. The frosting was good though.

Time passed and I talked to my friend on the phone. We laughed about my love for the red velvet cake she’d served and talked about other topics I now can’t remember. But I craved the cake again, just days after my failed attempt at having some. Traveling to her side of town seemed excessively weird though, so I thought I’d try another store. A bakery this time!

So I found a shop not too far from my house. The cake was gorgeous, and pretty reasonably priced. After asking if I could buy some portion of the cake (since I knew I wouldn’t finish the whole thing), I couldn’t leave without at least a slice. The baker was an all or nothing type of gal, which I can respect, so I came home with a lovely cake that I had been assured was bright red inside.

After I cut through mountains of white icing, I validated her claim. The cake was a deep red, and a push from my finger revealed its moist texture. But when I said mountains of icing, I meant it. If I scraped the icing off of every cake I’ve ever had in my life and put it in a pile, I could have created an equal size mound from this single dessert.

Perhaps it’s for decoration, I decided. And it was pretty, I admitted, poking at the mound of fluff with my fork. Deciding that the red moistness of the cake was worth a little effort, I scraped most of the icing off. Settling with another glass of water and another silver fork, I tested the stick-to-the-fork-iness of the cake. Perfection.

Upon tasting it, the cake was quite good. But my enjoyment of the experience was marred by this frosting. It kind of coated my mouth in this sheen of intense sweetness. I don’t mind rich food – honestly. But this was too much. So I swished the water around to try to ease the sugar concentration that was starting to hurt my teeth.

This cake was tricky! Pretty, bright red, very moist, but deadly sweet! And it resisted the water's attempt at cleaning my mouth. As I brushed my teeth, finishing off with some mouthwash, I returned to consider the cake. So pretty, even with most of the icing removed. I ended up frowning at this cake too. Then I walked it to the garbage can and threw it out.

I bring this up not because I’m obsessed with red velvet cake – I don’t even want it right now. My point is that there always seems to be something missing. The perfect cake is too far away and likely expensive. The difficulty of obtaining it outweighs the joy of consuming it. The cake located closest to me has excellent frosting, but the cake is dry and dull. Then I found good cake, but it was destroyed by overwhelmingly sweet, sticky icing. It’s always something.

I do a specific type of research that can contribute to multiple clinical areas. But there are a few that we work with a lot – our pet clinicians, if you will. So when I interviewed, I was examining a few departments closely. I was especially interested in the group with whom I struggled in grad school. Their lack of interest, support and communication caused a couple of major problems, one leading to a fatal flaw, in my thesis work.

I found the perfect chair in that specific department. He’s great – excited about me, eager to get started, loves to introduce me to other MDs, can give me exactly what I was missing from grad school. This would be the excellent icing part of work.

In grad school though, there was another department – one more closely associated with what I actually research. There were several men I learned tremendous amounts from. I continue to be profoundly grateful for their knowledge, patience and interest in helping me develop as a scientist. What I know about the clinical environment – what’s important, how to communicate, what sorts of problems they have – I learned from them.

I didn’t expect to find cake like that anywhere else. I thought I knew quite a bit – had learned what I needed to know and was ready to be independent. Once I found good icing, I was fine. I was the cake.

Except…I’m not. I do research, but I don’t understand all the intricacies of using the information in the clinical environment. So making certain decisions and interpreting vital pieces of the data is beyond me – as it should be. I don’t have an MD for a reason. I need cake! It doesn’t even have to be fantastic, moist, or deep red. I’ll take something dry and dull, as long as I can get its attention occasionally.

But this department isn’t very research oriented at my new institution. I’m not criticizing – their focus should be clinical, and having staff dedicated to research purposes requires extensive funding and interest. It’s extra work for them, and while it can be important, I’ve been involved with a number of research projects that have gone nowhere. So their lack of participation is understandable.

It’s also a bit frustrating. I need to know the answers to some questions and nobody can tell me how to get them. I also have a complex about being a bother to people, so knowing they have a strong clinical focus and a lack of interest in research applications makes it hard, terrifically difficult in fact, for me to approach them. Especially since I think parts of my research should be implemented clinically on a large scale. This creates work for them even without being directly involved in my study.

So…yuck. I can control my decisions. I should have been more grateful for the cake in grad school, though I did appreciate them very much. And I love the icing I have now – it’s wonderful, honestly. My guess is that research in many areas has at least some element of working with what you have, while missing what you don't. Maybe you don’t have the best equipment, perhaps you work with people you don’t love, maybe your boss has moods that are difficult to decipher.

I appreciate, so much, hearing about problems. It makes me feel like I’m part of a talented group of scientists with bad luck sometimes, rather than a solitary figure in a sea of crap. I also love hearing when things go well. It reminds me of my own triumphs, gives me hope that there’s so much more great stuff out there.

I smile over this world. It’s hard sometimes – frustrating and time-consuming and impossible to understand. But then there are rewards. I laughed with 2 other post-docs for 20 minutes after a group meeting today. Giggled over lack of funding, problems getting started, inability to find a structured direction. Commiserated over lame social lives – time away from their fiancés and children (I didn’t mention that I just have the dog – no boy or babies here). Discussed upcoming talks we were required to give, shared nervous glances, laughed over past performances. We talked about how evil our thesis advisors were, then fondly recalled happier memories of our mentors, eager to impart that while there were drawbacks, we had great affection for those people who had guided our careers so far.

Good stuff. But I’m still looking for that cake.

When I grow up

In third grade, I wanted to be a lawyer. I liked LA Law. That was the extent of my reasoning.

In eighth grade, the small local paper decided to add an insert from each of the local grade schools. I sat in the English room with 8 of my classmates as we looked at the editor of the paper.

He asked who wanted to be in charge – read over what other people had written, make sure the articles were typed in properly, correct grammar and spelling as needed.

I always want to be in charge, and was even more eager for credit and approval in my early teens. But I didn’t want to appear too nerdy, so I stayed silent with the rest of the students.

I wiggled happily in my seat when I was singled out by the English teacher and got to edit our small section. It appeared three times. I was excessively proud.

I wrote editorials, talked about issues that were important to junior high students, but tried mightily to be mature and thoughtful in my discussion. Apparently it had some impact, and I was asked to continue my column on a bi-monthly basis throughout the summer then into high school.

I’ll be a journalist! I decided quickly. I loved having a response to the future plans questions. So I wrote for the school paper, making my way up to editor-in-chief my senior year. I talked to sexy baseball boys my freshman year, interviewed a teacher who was later fired for divulging standardized test essay questions prior to the exam sometime in my sophomore year, talked to the Dean about drug prevention, and finally got to run the paper.

I spent significant time in that local paper office, working 20 hours/week one summer to gain some experience. I’d walk in the small storefront just off the charming town square. I’d greet Betsy, the receptionist, and wander past the chest-high white counter with baskets perched atop. One was for birth, death and wedding announcements, the other for new subscriptions.

It always smelled like crayons to me and I’d pass the pots of melted wax that were used to paste the printed copy to the full-size mock-ups. Even after they obtained software to perform the necessary cuts and pastes, the waxy scent lingered. There were notes tacked to walls covered with paneling – reminders scrawled on scratch paper, corrections sent in from readers, advertising requests.

I would open mail, occasionally go on interviews, terrified that I wouldn’t properly use the camera to capture the picture of Miss State talking to the grade school class about scholarship and service. I was coddled, gently encouraged and carefully taught, part of a staff of 3 – the receptionist, the owner and the editor, who would create an 8 page paper each week. There were two of us who would come in part-time – the typist, an older lady whose name I never learned since arriving before 8AM was never my habit, and me, reserved, polite, but reasonably confident in my talent.

Thanks to my editor’s connections, I was able to spend a day with writers at the daily paper in the city. Grandpa had worked there – he was a pressman, and I can remember holding his hand and smiling at his friends, always distracted by the loud machines that would whisk the papers away, depositing ink to form text and pictures. He was so proud – of his family and his work. I love him, and miss him, ever so much.

So I felt a little like I was coming home upon entering the large building, fondly remembering toddling through on my childhood visit. It even overlooked the cemetery, and I was convinced that if I could find the right window, I would see the flowers at his headstone.

I talked to people all day. That morning, there was a photographer in a dim room, hunched over a computer screen, adjusting levels and contrast. He mumbled to himself, asking me twice how much more time I was supposed to spend with him, and finally turning the most intense green eyes I’ve ever seen on me.

“Does it look better to you?” He asked, disrupting my vague fantasies inspired by breathing him in. He smelled delicious. I could have sat there all day.

“Oh. I ... I don’t really know.”

A smile squinted his eyes, and I was suddenly even more nervous. He was breathtakingly sexy, and my meager experience didn’t enable me to respond in any way apart from blushing.

“I showed you the picture when you came in…” and he had – it was of these pretty blue vases on the mantle of a stone fireplace. He was considering it for the cover of the Saturday Home section. “and I’m showing it to you now, after I’ve worked for how long?”

“Ten minutes.” I murmured, with a glance at the bulky gold watch Grandma gave me for 8th grade graduation. “And I honestly don’t see any difference.”

He laughed at me, tugged a brown curl that had fallen around my face when I ducked my head bashfully, and stood.

“Well then, let’s get you out of here. You don’t need to watch me waste more time.”

The other moment I recall was much less sexually charged. I was speaking to a political writer, an older man, at his desk piled high with slender notebooks scrawled with notes, a stack of phone messages, and countless icky Styrofoam cups once filled with coffee. They were now filled with stains or sludgy goo. The reporter was finishing a phone call when I arrived, waved me into a seat, and continued to talk as I wrinkled my nose at his work space.

“So!” He said, turning his attention to me. “You want to be a reporter?”

“I think so. I’m still trying to figure out what I want.” I replied, exhausted after a day of talking with people, trying to be impressive, and becoming increasingly unsure of what I actually wanted for my future.

“That’s good. It’s never wise to decide your fate too soon.” Then he stared at me. I wasn’t sure what he was looking for, and if he wanted to gaze into someone’s eyes, I’d highly recommend that photographer. His vivid green trumped my deep brown any day. Uncomfortable with his scrutiny, I started to talk.

“I like the idea of it – talking to people, understanding something, then telling the public about it. And the people here are great – they seem smart and dedicated and talented. But how do I know what I want? How did you know this was the right place for you?”

His heavy shoulder raised in a shrug. “I just found my way to this. It’s a long, boring story, but this is what I do now.”

“Did you study journalism?”

He laughed at this, shaking his head. “Sweetheart, you don’t learn this in a classroom. You can write or you can’t. If you can, we’ll make you better. But you get there by working – talking to people and seeing what you should have asked, writing something and hearing what people hated. You learn as you go, and if you really want this, you’d be better off to start working right now.”

I must have looked alarmed, because he gentled his tone and continued.

“Want my advice?” He waited for me to nod, then sighed. “You want to go to college?”

I nodded, still frowning with great concern. He was stealing my “what I want to be when I grow up” answer!

“Don’t study journalism. Learn something else – science, technology, history, political science, religion. Then you can write about it. But if you’re going to school, learn something good. That’s how you get the good jobs.” With that, he tapped the stack of stories from the AP. He shook my hand, accepted my thanks for his time, and sent me on my way.

He, with his stacks of nasty coffee cups, changed the course of my future. I quickly altered my college application to reflect a nonexistent interest in electrical engineering. I entered a world of calculus, physics, binary theory, and circuit design – one where men dominated the classes and I struggled to understand some of the concepts.

I went to a college newspaper meeting, dragging a friend with me. But the staff was late, and 4 incoming freshmen waited in a stiflingly hot 2nd floor hallway. Nobody talked to me, though they each seemed to know each other. Intimidated, I never returned, giving up my writing interest to focus on more reasonable goals.

Then I started this blog. Found writers I love, then realized one of my new favorites – a real live writer with impeccable talent – actually reads some of this. I feel a little twinge, wondering if I suppressed my dreams for too long. I’m not like them, though I try to mimic their styles at times. I find myself trying to identify what I love, writing tricks that engage and improve flow, that elicit emotion and bring my own experiences to mind while engrossed in their words.

There are two times when it's great for me to check bloglines. When I first wake up, then again when I return from work in the evening. I search for particular people before making my way through the whole list. I look forward to all of the new material, but some people are particularly compelling.

I find myself reading as fast as I can to get the idea of their posts, then returning to the beginning to savor the phrases, the words I wouldn’t have thought to use, the flow that pulls me in then holds me past the end of the work – wanting to know more, feel more, spend a little extra time within these thoughts so beautifully presented.

In those moments, and when I continue to type out my own thoughts, wondering if anything is coming across on screen the way it plays in my mind, I momentarily wish I was a writer. I like what I do – think I made a series of choices for some reason – but I’m profoundly grateful that I have this. It’s a source of comfort that I can come back and read my words and hope I’m a little like those writers who are trying to understand life then attempting to tell other people what they might have figure out.

Camden, redux (with a different ending than I'd planned)

I got to work early yesterday morning, and happily skipped to my desk so I could set a few things down, proving that I had been there first. I like for people to know that I won the race to the office on the mornings I actually get there before dawn.

Now that winter is easing its grip (because it’s downright balmy here, and I scoff at the person who berated me for telling her there was no need of a jacket), it’s getting light earlier. I also have discovered that my sensitivity to coffee works in my favor. The bitter liquid that I attempt to mask with cream and sweetener makes me almost desperate to do work.

So, hyper and early, I set several items on my desk, gathered my notebook and pen, and headed off to the seminar I wanted to attend. It’s surprisingly populated by a number of students, professors and clinicians, despite being held at 8AM.

I’ve personally drug myself to the talks many times since starting my post-doc, but always walk outside to get to the appropriate conference room. I like to (right – that should read I need to) see all the buildings, able to orient myself as I make my way toward the center of campus.

On several occasions, someone has walked me back to my office after the seminar without going outside at all. I try to pay attention, and honestly, the route seemed relatively simple. And I liked the idea of not having to slosh through the rain on my early morning trek.

Hopped up on caffeine and allowing extra travel time, I head off to the meeting. I find the hospital easily enough – it’s the building through which I’ll navigate to reach my conference room. As I wander through the halls, I think of a trip to Toronto. They have a whole system of underground tunnels, like I’m sure many other cities do. I like them. They have shops. In fact, the umbrella I carry in my bag came from underneath the Royal York (By the way, I still think it’s a shame they removed that sign and put up the Fairmont one atop the building. Not cool.)

Right. So I’m walking down the hall and I reach the cafeteria. In short, it confuses me. I can’t remember which door I passed first on my last trip back to my office – the main cafeteria or snack shop. Maybe I should go up a floor. I think the hospital is built on a hill, so perhaps I’m down a level too far.

So I take the elevator up. Then I start to walk again. I see a sign that I think might be in the right direction, so I head that way. Then I stop and look around. It doesn’t feel right. So I turn around and head the other way.

Reaching a window, I look outside and, startled, realize I’m almost back at my office. I’ve circled around completely.

So I go outside, and find another entrance and start to head in the right direction. Once again, I feel like going up a floor would help me out. So I’m again on an elevator. I exit and wander to a window, check my position and head in the right direction. I end up in another section of the hospital and wonder how the hell this building snakes around so viciously. I see some nurses, but wary of embarrassment, I turn around head back in the other direction. I end up back at the elevator, feeling discouraged and pitiful.

Back outside once again, I see the sign for my building and scurry toward it in the misty rain. I find a rear entrance and take an elevator to the appropriate floor. This time, getting lost pays off. I’ve wandered the floor extensively in the past, earnestly looking for the conference room. So I quickly ascertain my position, find my way, take a seat and relax into someone else’s words and ideas.

It is with significant energy and determination that I resolve to make my way through the hospital back to my office. I remember taking one particular hallway on a previous day, so I started out in that direction. Looking around, focused on memorizing landmarks, I realize everything looks familiar. I continue to walk straight down a single hallway, make a turn near the end, and exit the door I originally entered that morning.

Much like my trip to London, I was almost where I wanted to be very early in my journey. The place I wanted to reach was minutes away – in less than 20 feet, I would have entered the lobby of the appropriate medical building and realized where I was. Instead, crippled by self-doubt and second guessing every single step, I turned around and continued to walk in circles. I passed the same point four times, turning a 5 minute trip into a 25 minute trek.

It’s a life lesson, I nodded decisively upon reaching my desk again. If you’d just have some faith in yourself, you could be where you want to be, I continued to internally lecture sternly. Making significant progress in research, involved in a romantic relationship, laughing with good friends actually located in your current location.

Instead, I stop to think, looking around and feeling as if something is vaguely wrong, then hurrying to fix it. If I’d just focus on moving forward – straight down the hall and toward the room – I might reach my goals rather than waiting for elevators, jogging down stairs, continuing to stand outside in the rain in an attempt to regain my bearings.

This was my original stopping point, but then something happened this afternoon. It's so perfect in my mind that I can hardly believe it happened. But I promise I'm not making it up.

I was standing outside, waiting for the shuttle to take me to my parking area, huddled under an overhang to avoid getting soaked. There was a car, a black Honda Civic with the passenger side severely dented, driving around. It distracted me from dark thoughts of traveling in circuitous paths when a straight shot was available but overlooked.

I’m not observant – I spend the vast majority of my day locked in my thoughts, considering problems and composing blog posts. I don’t notice other people, let alone cars. So why this one?

It was driving around in circles. Over and over and over. I started to feel a bit dizzy watching it twirl around.

It would stop for the shuttles (none of them mine) and for other cars as they picked people up to complete the commute home. But as soon as the path was clear, it would weave around obstacles and continue to circle around the little turn-around drive.

It wasn’t going fast, I thought, frowning at the car. Just steadily proceeding around the circle again and again. I didn’t even count its revolutions, so engrossed was I in determining why someone would engage in such behavior.

The shuttle came and I hurried to board, arranging myself in line so I could sit by the window on the driver’s side. I wanted to keep watching the black car as it continued, passing the same points over and over with no signs of ceasing.

A woman was driving, I noticed upon the closer inspection my new seat afforded me. I wondered, as she headed away from me, if she was crazy. Had finally had enough of medical research and lost it. Perhaps, like me, she was tired of working so hard to make so little progress. So she decided to get in her car and just make little circles, always turning left.

But as she approached my shuttle again, I saw her face. She was laughing – shoulders shaking lightly, hugely grinning as she made her way past me again. I smiled without thinking about it, but stifled it when I realized I was probably mistaken in my interpretation of her mood.

Impatient now, I waited for her to approach yet again. It’s a small circle – I didn’t have to wait long. She was smiling – she looked joyous. I let this smile stay on my lips, eyes squinting this time, not in befuddled focus but in bewildered happiness for her.

Just as the shuttle began to pull away, one of the 4 parking spots along the cirle drive was vacated. She neatly pulled her black, dented Civic into the space, and was unbuckling her seatbelt with a smile as we drove away.

As we headed through the rain to my parking garage, I was suddenly thrilled that I hadn’t written this post last night. I would have complained about my trouble finding the room, berated myself for not trusting my original plan and for not paying more attention when I had walked through the hospital before.

Instead, I’ve decided that even if there is a quick, easy route through life, I’m not always going to find it. If I’m lucky, I’ll walk that path for at least some of the time, and spend other days of my life making circles – some small, some huge.

But if I pass the same point again and again, I’m going to remind myself of the woman in her Civic. Sometimes, there will be a reason I'm passing the same point ad nauseum. Maybe I'm waiting for the right time to progress, maybe I'm re-learning the same lessons until I really understand something.

But as it’s happening, I have a choice. I can duck my head, embarrassed, and pretend I know what I’m doing so nobody thinks I’m stupid. Worrying all the time that they see through my facade to the insecure ignorance I sometimes feel.

Or I can laugh, abandon myself to the joy and humor of the moment, enjoy my trip uncaring if passersby think I’m completely insane or realize I’m just waiting for a parking spot.

Driving home, still smiling, I thought, remember to laugh when you screw up. If this is going to be hard, at least you'll get to giggle.

Dad: work and solutions

“I have a problem, Dad.”

“OK.”

“So I have this hollow sphere. It has 2 holes in it – on opposite sides.”

“Yeah.”

“They close with small plastic screws, so you need to have both screws out to empty it. Or the air holds the liquid in.”

“Of course.”

“So, I emptied it, but now I have to fill it back up. But the hole is too small! I tried to make funnels, but it just leaks down the side because the air is trying to escape as the new solution enters.”

I wait for a response. None comes. I continue, feeling as if I’m describing a story problem, sitting at the kitchen table as I work through math homework that’s taking too long.

“I’m at home, trying to refill this sphere with a new solution I made, but I can’t get the liquid in.”

“What if you don’t put the other screw in so the air can escape from the other side?”

“No. They’re on opposing sides, so if I’m trying to pour some liquid in one side, it would just leak out the other side if the hole is open. You know?”

“Yeah.”

“So how would you fill this up?”

“I’d use some sort of squirting device. Do you have an eye dropper, only bigger?”

“Like a syringe?!”

“Sort of. But bigger.”

“No, I need a syringe! The hole is really small – a needle would be about right! Where do I get one of those?”

“I was thinking more like a turkey sucker. That thing your mom uses that moves the turkey gravy around? Something big.”

“No, the sphere only holds about a liter of solution. So something small would work. Even an eye dropper, though it would take forever.”

“Yeah, but you’re right. It would probably work.”

“Where would I get one? Wal-Mart? Would CVS have one?”

“Probably. Like in the medicine section. We have one for the little one. For liquid medicines.”

“OK, I have to go get one! Thanks, Dad!”

My father didn’t finish high school. Always having authority issues, he decided he could learn what he needed to know on his own. His parents weren’t the best, and he was always conscious of doing better for Brother and me than they’d done for him.

He’s smart though. Argumentative and superior sometimes, but sensitive and thoughtful at others. He can fix anything, and I can easily picture him sitting on the floor of my house here, staring at the garbage disposal, or the toilet, or the lighting he’d taken down. He takes things apart, looks at them, figures out how they work, then fixes them. Anything.

I sat behind my refrigerator the day I moved in, holding a flashlight as we stared at the motor that powered the water dispenser in the freezer door. I wanted to be unpacking, but I sat impatiently as he carefully took pieces off the refrigerator, then disassembled them. He’d clean some pieces, examine others for defects, and place them carefully in line so we could put it back together.

He’d explain how he thought the device worked, pulling water from the wall, then forcing it up the pipe he’d identified that lead to the ice maker and the water dispenser. We checked everything, carefully consulting manuals to find the right part number so we could order a new metal box.

We carefully constructed the motor again with the new part and the pieces we saved. Dad let me put it back in, and I remember pushing the first glass against the little lever and watching water come out. Triumphant, Dad and I grinned at each other, then moved on to the next task.

Now when I stare at something, impatient with my inability to think of a good solution, I wonder what Dad would do. Patient, thoughtful, inquisitive, he would look, draw on experience, and figure something out.

I have far surpassed both my parents in terms of level of education, I mused as I sat at my kitchen table, forcing liquid from my newly-purchased syringe into my hollow sphere. Mom graduated from high school while working part-time. She started a full time job in addition to working retail immediately after she finished school. Apart from two 6-week maternity leaves and a month-long stay at home for illness when I was in junior high, she’s worked ever since. That’s over 40 years of going to the office every day, doing her job, then coming home to care for us.

Dad aced the GED when he was drafted to go to Vietnam. He did well when he was there, was asked to re-enlist, though he declined. He returned home, married Mom, and worked as well. He mostly fixed things – all sorts of machines. Cars were his passion though, and he continues to putter in his garage behind the house.

They bolstered my confidence when it shriveled into nothing. I vividly remember receiving a bright white plush bear with a shiny black ribbon around his neck when I lost the 3rd grade spelling bee. “You tried hard, and that makes you a winner.” Mom told me gently, fixing a special dinner and letting Dad give me the bear.

They corrected me when I got too arrogant, overestimating my natural ability and my academic background. They have served as a constant reminder (sometimes silent, sometimes very loud) that the people I respect most, those who leave me in awe of their intelligence and talent, their compassion and sincerity, don’t necessarily have any sort of degree. They would have been proud had I made other choices, ended up somewhere else, found a different path. And I am completely aware and thankful of how blessed I have been by having them in my life.

When I have problems, I’m calling my parents. I still think they know most of the important answers. And when it comes to hollow spheres with holes that are too small, they know some of the little answers too.

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