Dr. Mrs. Vandertrampp

I ran into a friend last night after auditions for Reefer, waiting for the bus. I asked about her schedule, she asked about mine. She mentioned her boyfriend (I think I might have had a date or two with him at one point, but didn't want to ask) and I mentioned R. Her relationship is a year old in September, mine in October. We sat on the bus for a second, staring into the middle distance.

It all came out in a torrent when it did, out of both of us at the same time--yeah, it's great, and yeah, I love him and all, but don't you ever feel like you're too young for this? Like you should be getting drunk and getting random ass while it's still socially acceptable? When my home friends are all engaged and the Case girls are starting to drop, don't you want to hide under the table and scream, but you can't, because you're one of them--the girl with the Steady, Ready, Marginally Handsome and Dependable Man? It's not even a case of What Better's Out There, because we both know we've got it pretty good. She's nineteen. I'm twenty-two. These are our years to have sex with rock stars, not sweat while we stare at ice.com and wonder when it's our turn.

And yes, I want to get married and yes, I want it to be in the next few years, and maybe, I want it to be with R. But I also want to dance on a table and make out with someone who is completely wrong for me (that I haven't done in a long-ass time) and maybe do a post-doc in California for two or three years, or travel somewhere because I haven't been anywhere and it's killing me, and I cannot do these things with what feels like everyone breathing down my neck about quitting after my master's so I can have kids and be a Stepford Wife. I don't want to think about timing. I'm tired of thinking. I'm tired of planning. I'm tired of scheduling my life around some Husband and Babies that aren't anywhere near real yet. I'm tired of telling my mom I don't want to be Mrs. Dr. Someone. I'm going to be a Dr. Mrs. Someone, and it feels like a race. Like if I'm not Mrs. first then my Dr. is a failure.

Honestly, I want to enter my career knowing that I picked education and stuck with it till there were no more certificates to grab. I'll never stop learning, I know that. I just won't let my tits get in the way of my title.

For Some Reason

For some reason my ass is dragging today, and I still have auditions for Reefer to go to, which entails walking all the way to Northside from my couch on Murray Hill. I want to go because my old roommate is directing and I have to drop her off a check for some things and also because I want to see her. I want to be in the show. I don't want to go because I broke my toenail in half yesterday and walking seems less fun than usual, especially after a three-hour ecology lab spent literally hugging trees.

The ecology lab was supposed to end at five. For some reason, the bus driver didn't show at the Farm till six. He claimed to have left at four and gotten caught up in traffic. My ass, you did.

For some reason today I am in love with many men I have met. I don't know if it's the greyness of the day or the lack of romance in my relationship lately (fraternity rush leads to much conversation about boobies and beer) or just the fact that it's been almost a year and my feet are getting itchy.

For some reason the first season DVDs of Prison Break actually ended and now I have to watch it every week like a normal person.

I Don't Know Why/I Can't Keep My Eyes Off Of You

Nothing worse than a little alt-rock stuck in your head in the morning. Especially if said alt-rock was used as a breakup song in Smallville (which would be approximately 30% of all music on Smallville, including the revolting "You're Beautiful.")

Anyway. The school year has resumed for the last time, and so does daily posting. My schedule's pretty good--plenty of time for my senior project, and a little free time too. I'm going home this weekend to see my brother off to college: my baby brother.

Lately, what with working Orientation and it being my senior year and all, I've been doing a lot of thinking about Ferris's statement that life comes at you fast, and if you blink, you might miss it. Being with the freshmen as they start here just makes me think of my freshman year. My freshman friends, and my freshman mistakes.

How short a time ago it was that I was 19 and leaving home for the first time. I was always convinced that I wouldn't live to see college because I couldn't picture myself there--life after high school was just a grey blur. You know what? I still can't see myself in college. I've moved past the point where everything in my life is clear-cut and visible.

Thoughts like this lead me to how much anyone really knows about their life, or if this is just me. I don't know if I'll ever know that I want to marry someone the way I knew I wanted to marry my high school boyfriend. I have more experience. I've seen multiple ways for situations to work out and everyone involved be fine.

Now life outside of college is staring me in the face, and I can't see myself in grad school, getting married, or holding a job. I think I've hit the point where I have to stop worrying about where I see myself and just do it.

It's like diving. You can sit on the ground and calculate how fast you'll be going when you hit the water and which body position will offer the least resistance till you're blue in the face. But there comes a time when you actually have to jump, and all those calculations don't matter anymore.

I can sit and weigh the benefits of "close to R" and "close to family" and other facets of graduate schools, but in the end, I still have to decide and go.

WHAT Is That?

The above is a comment my lovely roommate and I received at the Feast tonight. In defense of the speaker, we were both wearing corsets and may have been holding hands.

My corset is reddish purple taffeta. Strictly speaking, it's not a corset at all. It's the top of a prom dress that I wore my sophomore year. Which means it is also spangled with rhinestones. Most importantly, since my boobs didn't finish coming in till freshman year of college, it no longer strictly fits. I mean, it fits my torso and the bottom half of my chest. Feeling a little more modest than usual, tonight, I tied a scarf around to cover the top half of my breasts that splurged happily out the side and top.

I don't really like the feast. It's only a matter of time (about 15 minutes) until I want to start pushing people and shouting MOVE. I have very little patience for crowds. Less patience for crowds of stupid/drunk/high school-aged people.

The Constellation With the Man Down On His Knees

Today, I got Starbucks before work. This isn't really important except it means that I approach the medical school from the Rainbow Babies side as opposed to the nursing/dentistry school side. While I walked up the sidewalk, I saw the usual morning assortment of employees and parents of Rainbow Babies patients enjoying their cigarettes. You can always tell the parents because of their air of worry and disregard for any other children they have with them.

One mother brought her son, obviously a patient, with her. He couldn't have been more than seven or eight, and was in a wheelchair, all propped up with pillows. His mother sat no more than three feet away as she smoked. I felt a little touched by the idea that this mother wanted her son to enjoy the lovely morning, even if she did smoke right next to him while he did so.

Then I realized the kid had an oxygen tank strapped to the back of his chair.

Good in the Rain

My best friend J got married this past weekend, on the day I turned 22. At her wedding reception I saw an old friend, Abby. Abby and I used to sit next to each other in band, laughing. She played the piccolo and dated a steady stream of attractive-but-stupid-and-poorly-socialized men. Abby, who when I told her to open her throat to help her low notes come out richer, said "oh, it's like giving head!" Abby is married and has a nine month old daughter.

Strange times, these are.

Last night I constructed a bouldering route at the rock wall. It is difficult. Everyone should try it.

It has come to my attention that I am hypocritical or carry double standards about many things. Upon further consideration, I don't think this is necessarily a bad thing. It just ties into the universal human need to be unique or somehow superior to everyone else. We hold ourselves to very different standards of behavior than those to which we hold other people. Here are a few of my double standards:

I claim to hate weddings but secretly spend a lot of time planning the perfect anti-wedding.
If you flirt with my boyfriend, I will mentally label you a whore. Even if you're a virgin. However, if I talk to your boyfriend and you get upset about it, you are obviously insecure.
I commiserate with my parents about the spending habits of friends. I have not balanced a checkbook since coming to college and rarely know how much money I have and how much money I've spent.

To close on a more positive note, I've just finished Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones. I'd be lying if I said I didn't know why I bought it (which is what this sentence said previously): it was a test. I don't care about the gimmick, nor do I particularly care for it. But reading, for the first time, a book that is kind of about rape, with no nightmares, no flashbacks, no waking up in terror, and no tears is...a non-feeling. I can just read it and say "this is interesting, but it also feels kind of flat, writing-wise." I have no feelings to get in the way. Nothing pre-empting my judgement. Nothing derailing my life.

Vanity Fair

I was entertaining some impossibilities this afternoon/evening. Normal, daydreamy-type stuff, you know, the kind where you meet Jake Gyllenhaal in Tiffany's wearing Audrey Hepburn's black dress and it turns out he's not gay! The mental rambling gradually turned into some internal pontificating about the nature of relationships and how some guys fall for me despite seeming completely mis-matched. (I am here thinking specifically of my Hippie Ex)

The thing you, my imaginary male audience, need to know is this: I am pink shoes. Little pink kitten heels, worn completely unironically, if you must know. I am colorful t-shirts and the occasional ribbon in the hair. I show my affection through baked goods and meals. I am rarely drunk, and even more rarely drunk in public. I have difficulty believing in anything New Age; even fashion design and music gets a little out there for me at times. I read Vogue.

I do not wear pearls. I will wear diamonds. I hate the movie Breakfast at Tiffany's but I love Sabrina. I almost always wear blue jeans except for the times when I swear off them. I wear long skirts more often than short because I think they're sexier and because I'm self-conscious about my legs. I am smarter than I look. I am much, much stupider than people think I am. I am more intelligent than I give myself credit for.

I fall for men who want to hitchhike across the country when I want to marry someone who makes more money than I do. (this is unlikely) I love men who unexpectedly drop out of college to build houses in the Appalachians when I dumped an old boyfriend for failing ochem three times. I start relationships that will never end well.

I only ever buy three things when I shop: sweaters, underwear, and skirts. I still wear the same shirts from high school. I have twenty sweaters but one pair of jeans that are entire and fit.

I shop at J. Crew. I lust after Burberry and Chanel. I have never said the word "fart" to a boyfriend. When I'm feeling very daring wardrobe-wise, I match my shoes to my underwear and then laugh when people tell me my outfit doesn't go.

I value integrity and competancy. I am a fast-talker. I text on my cellphone daily. Unless I am wearing flipflops or on my way to the gym, I am wearing heels.

I have read Lolita more times than I can count. I have deep opinions on many major works but I read Bridget Jones at least once a year. I will probably never do my own taxes. The bookstore will always be my favorite place to shop. I love to read good writing. I am a terrible writer.

I want the American Dream, right down to the rick-rack edged apron and golden retriever. In my little pink heels.

Hips Don't Lie

You guessed it, I'm at work in the back room with a bunch of cells again. Many of the cells are dead. Four of them were alive when I started. I have used at least two milliliters of cell/media/virus fluid, which is pale salmon-colored when it comes out of the incubator and turns a lovely fuschia as it cools to room temperature. Two milliliters, in case you were wondering, is a lot. It's an entire cell plate. In a world where surface tension is a force to be reckoned with and drugs are mixed in concentrations that start with "nano-", two milliliters is a lot.

I am physically hungry. I brought my lunch today, which I usually don't do, because I knew I was doing experiments today and wanted to make the most of my time. I didn't bring enough, or I didn't bring the right kind of things. I studied for the general GRE while I crunched my baby carrots. I'm not mentally or emotionally hungry because I still have the gross-stomach thing going on that happens when you have a constant snot drip down the back of your throat for a week.

Last night we ran an oasis in our apartment for those friends who did not have air conditioning. We watched Reefer Madness and then hit the highlights again for late-comers. R did not come over. He was invited but opted to stay in his own ac with a pile of car magazines and a bottle of wine.

About 10:30 the text messages started pouring in. He'd gone over to some friends'. There had been pot. I can always tell when he's drunk or high because it's really, really obvious. All conversational niceties are gone, and he's all about the sex. As much sex, as dirty as possible, as immediate as can be done, preferably on someone else's furniture. And he won't take no for an answer. He won't stop asking, suggesting, making deals, offering, insisting. Even when it's one in the morning and his girlfriend has to be at work early.

It's such a change of pace from his regular persona. He's not a prude by any stretch of the imagination, but he's normally a little retiring, not pushy at all, content to cuddle and play for hours if that's all he's/I'm in the mood for. But get some chemicals into his bloodstream and he's a man on a mission, and the mission is to make someone scream.

Does this happen to anyone else? I've always said my first drink doesn't go to my head, it goes between my legs. But that's pretty much it; I just get a little loose-tongued and a tiny bit more daring.

Speaking of loose-tongued, I pulled a muscle in mine somehow. Who does that?