I’m younger than my briefcase

In light of my recent mental state, I thought I would tell you about my briefcase. I don’t know the entire history of the case, other than it existed before I was born, and on the day I was born, it attended University to write a final exam in Spanish literature.

Twenty-five years later, the case went to night school to upgrade high school chemistry. Within ten years, the case had attended two community colleges and two universities, and obtained three degrees including a PhD. This weekend the case arrived via Greyhound, and Monday morning it joined me at my new Uni for a postdoc. The case is nothing if not persevering.

F*%@ you to all those who thought the case wouldn’t make it. (you know who you are)

I apologize for the profanity. Too much Hallowe’en candy - gets me riled up. That, and gossip from old Uni. But, I’m actually glad about being pissed off. I find it’s really motivational and usually followed by a period of great productivity; on several occasions I’ve succeeded just to spite someone else (like when I quit smoking – ah, good times). It may not be the healthiest of attitudes, but it works. I’ve had a few crossroads where significant people in my life didn’t want to see me succeed, and those times all resulted in me becoming a stronger person, even when I wasn’t sure myself that I had the strength to carry on.

Or maybe it’s the presence of my briefcase? Regardless, I’d like to thank all the wonderful, supportive people in my life for being wonderful, supportive people. (you know who you are)

Starting over

I’ve recently started at a new University, which has a completely different culture from my last Uni. I feel like I’m a barnyard kitten someone has brought into the house: I have no idea what is appropriate and what furniture I can sit on.

I guess I can excuse myself for needing a few weeks to get myself into powerhouse mode, since I did just leave my entire life to start a new one, but I always forget how hard it is to start from scratch and gain that momentum. I remember my first year after the last career phase shift – it was the worst year of my life. I was so depressed some days I lay in bed thinking about dropping out, wondering how I was going to struggle through it all. But I did, and I survived, and I thrived. And I will again.

Tonight I went to the movies after work for a change from my usual routine of Home-Uni-Home-Uni-Home-Uni…you get the idea. The movie was okay, I wasn’t moved by the actors, or riveted by the plot, but it didn’t offend me with stupidity, so it was okay. And, in fact, I did get something out of it. In my blasé-ness for the characters, I left the theatre feeling pretty good about my life. I may not be doing wild and crazy, exciting, dramatic things on a day-to-day basis, but overall I’m no Lucy Jordan (reference to Marianne Faithfull song). I’m living in this new, vibrant city. I’m doing a postdoc in a great lab. I travel to conferences and I love what I do for a living. I won’t be here forever, and while the uncertainty of not knowing when and where I’ll end up is painful at times, it’s also exciting, and one day in my next new life, I’ll fondly reminisce about the time I had here.

Closet full of collared shirts

Every Monday morning, my advisor stops by the lab and asks how my weekend was. I dread it. His seemingly innocent, if not downright nice, inquiry into my life only serves to make me feel like more of the workaholic loser that I am. The only difference between my weekends and my non-weekends is that I wear a t-shirt to work on weekends, rather than a button up collared shirt (hey, I can be wild and crazy!).

So, how to answer the dreaded question? Smile…say ‘good’…nod your head a few times…change the topic.

Lately I’ve been dreaming about work; writing a review paper, setting-up an experiment with my honour's student, and giving the same presentation over and over again. They aren’t stressful dreams, I’m not panicking and they aren’t nightmares, but I wake tired and disappointed that I didn’t get any of the work I was dreaming about done. What’s also frustrating is that it all came so easy in my dream. Last night the entire introduction to my paper was perfectly laid out in front of me, but reverted to that shapeless thought-bubble of an idea when I awoke.

It’s hard to describe the thought-bubble process. My ideas first come to me as shapes in my mind. I spend some time, turning them around, getting an idea of what shape they are, and which end might be up. I then go to the literature to find supporting ideas that best fit and fill-out this thought-bubble, but it’s like a giant 3-D jigsaw where not all ideas fit together, and not all ideas are supported or available in the literature. This is when I get most excited, when I can see how much empty space exists in the bubble, because empty space means ‘me’, it means innovation and my contribution to the topic.

But the thought-bubble process is also frustrating and sometimes embarrassing in those first painful stages. Sometimes I don’t even know what it is I’m thinking about yet. And when asked to bring these ideas to the table, literally, like at lab meetings and such, I have nothing to say, because I can hardly get up and describe my ideas through a series of mime-gestures.

I’m older than my advisor

I was talking with a prominent professor in my department the other day over lunch at a meeting we were both attending. We hadn’t met before (I’m a newbie in the department), and we were talking about the instability and unpredictability of life during the postdoc stage. I’m sure he was trying to be supportive, but not realizing how (um) old I actually am, was telling me his story of how his first permanent position didn’t happen ‘til he was 39. Not reassuring for me at 36 (and a half), starting a postdoc.

On top of that, I woke up the other morning, and the whole world had changed. It wasn’t a tangible change; things were just different. I woke up and I was old. Well, I wasn’t old, but everyone else my age was old.

And I started to think, maybe I should get married? Would that make me look more serious, more professional? Would that increase my chances of getting a real job before I’m 40? Would that make me look normal?

Age is a funny thing.
My advisor is a month younger than I am, and I like to tease him about that. But truth is, we are both immature and goofy, and on the verge of having midlife crises. He’s been talking about motorbikes lately; I’m thinking I shouldn’t have sold my skateboard. But who are we kidding; how bloody ridiculous would either of us look on a bike or a skateboard?

Will I ever feel like an adult?
Is that the curse of our generation?