The need for speed

"I have a need. A need for speed."

Can you guess the quote? That's right. It's Tom Cruise's character from Top Gun. This was pre-scientology when you could take the man seriously. While I had fully anticipated extensive lively discussion regarding the ranting and raving of this actor-cum-zealot, I find his latest rhetoric has left me almost speechless (http://gawker.com/5002269/the-cruise-indoctrination-video-scientology-tried-to-suppress). In fact, he is almost speechless in this video. Well not speechless really, he is able to communicate. More like senseless. He strings words together, and technically they are from the English language, but altogether they form incoherent sentences punctuated by maniacal gesticulation and hysterical cackling. There are vague references to "helping" and "knowing", but I'll give 50 bucks to anyone who can discern the parties being helped, or what these helpers know that the rest of us just haven't figured out yet. I can't decide if his proselytizing about scientology has hurt psychiatry and psychiatric research, or if it has brought awareness of psychiatric issues to the forefront. I am guessing (and hoping) the latter because his exchange with Matt Lauer was nothing if not the grandiloquent jabbering of a [bipolar] person entrenched in a manic episode. I'm just saying. And I am saying it glibly at that.

However, that was not actually the intent of this post. As usual, I digress. I had really wanted to talk about running and the need to get out there and just open it up and go. That need for speed. This morning I had read a back issue of Runner's World and I was positively inspired, but now that it is evening and I am contemplating this screwball, I am just too exhausted.

Sands in the hourglass

Relatively recently I have begun to feel the passage of time. Before my 30s I had never really even given it much thought, but lately there are reminders everywhere. Experiencing this blatant Tick-Tock is mind-scrambling despite the fact that on an intellectual level we all know we are going to grow up, get old, become incredibly annoying to our progeny, and pass on.

I mean, have you ever looked at your parents and noticed that they have aged? Thinning hair, more clearly defined wrinkles, forgetfulness, less artfully applied make up, slowed movements, etc. are all portents that time is moving and someday they will be lost and we will become untethered in the world. I can't imagine this eventuality. It literally makes no sense to me and I try not to think about it because it frightens me. So let's move on quickly.

A somewhat less anxiogenic example of bearing witness to the march of time comes to mind. This event is one that occurred a few months back. I was at my friend's house and several of us gals were in the kitchen pouring some wine and gossiping like always. Many times we had been there, drinking, gabbing, laughing, regaling one another with tales from college, pre-partying before hopping into a cab to go out for the night, etc. Then all of a sudden, we realized there was something different about this particular night. Hmm...what was it? Oh yeah, there was a BABY there! One of my friends had a BABY. A child. A small human person. And it came out of her. It was her baby. She made it and she brought into this world. We all looked at him, this intruder in our girlie fun, and thought to ourselves that although he is as cute as the day is long, he is a reminder that time is a tickin'. Sigh.

A couple nights ago hubby and I had a party at the house. We went old school and got kegs, implemented a theme, mixed 4 hours of music, bought a ton of food, rolled up the rugs, pushed the furniture back, and had at it. I love having a house full of smiling, laughing people. It makes me feel alive. Yet at one point during the night, I had the distinct feeling of being completely over it. It was strange, because I had been looking forward to this party for over a month. I was going to wear my "uniform" (painted on Seven for All Mankind jeans with a black halter top), get my drink on, shake my money maker, and just blow off steam. And I did all that. Believe me, I have the pictures to prove it (thankfully I don't know how to insert them here). Mission accomplished. Why then, did I feel relieved at the end of the night? It wasn't just because my feet had been pinched into pointy heels all night or that I was tired of sucking myself in, although both are true. I believe my exact thoughts were, "I am so glad I don't have to do this again". What?!? Me? I am a party girl. I love to party. How could I feel as though I was yearning instead for more intimate and sedate get-togethers? Then, much like the time my girls and I realized the interloper represented time gone by, it hit me. I am aging. I am getting older. I am advancing in years. I had been trying to ignore the fine lines around my eyes, but this hit me over the head. Yup, time is a tickin'.

But instead of a soft, susurration of a tik, tik, tik, these events have been accompanied by a booming Cher-clunk! Cher-clunk! Cher-clunk! I have not yet determined how I am going to deal with these moments of clarity, as they produce a very real and visceral panic. I try to tell myself that I am living my best life so I will have few regrets at the end of the day, but sometimes it does just get too existential and abstract. I suppose for the time being I will just look at my calendar and make some plans with friends. I'll pour myself into my party clothes and we'll go have a nice dinner somewhere. We'll talk about current events, whose child is doing what, and surely it will all be wonderfully civilized. Sigh.

Ignorance is bliss

This afternoon I was having lunch with a group of psychology graduate students at another local university where I am partaking in some professional enrichment (i.e., suffering through a statistics class I should have mastered while in grad school rather than during the busiest and most vulnerable time of my fledgling career). They are a very friendly bunch and they graciously welcome me into their little group when I don't have to rush off to be a grown-up scientist elsewhere. They seem happy, and they're talkative and vivacious-somehow grad school has not completely sucked their will to live. But it's early yet. And I digress. Anyway, one of the girls said to me, "Isn't this a crazy bunch?". I chuckled, because this little muffin doesn't know from crazy.

You see, this sweet child didn't come from a department where a student literally had a psychotic break during a formal departmental presentation of her dissertation research and practically began to speak in tongues, an event that preceded her attempt to choke a student from another department and vandalize her advisor's office. Nor did she come from a department where it is acceptable not only to ask your laboratory technicians to clean the cage of your very large birds, but also to charge their birdseed to the department. Nope, this button never heard a particularly prominent and senile member of National Academy of Sciences let an incredibly loud fart rip without causing a break in stride, let alone an utterance of "excuse me".

I looked at this girl, and I smiled. You know the kind of smile to which I am referring. It's a smile born of wisdom, and sadly, a loss of innocence. It's toothless and almost smug. I believe it is also typically accompanied by a head tilt and an exaggerated blink. Inside you are thinking to yourself, "Oh, bless your heart". It's that smile. And I gave it to her. For a moment I was horrified because this gesture confirms what I had long ago begun to suspect-I am getting old (although in all honesty I came to that realization a while ago when I began to get a thrill from seeing my grocery bill deflate in front of my eyes after handing my rewards card to the cashier). But then I regained my footing and explained that I was not actually witnessing anything out of the ordinary.

It seems as though a large proportion of people in the life sciences are a bit...well, crazy. I hate to use that word because I am a proponent of reducing the stigma attached to psychiatric illness, in which case crazy is certainly a pejorative, but this particular population is just wackadoo. I'm just saying. I can't tell you how many times I have had conversations with my friends (and fellow scientists) in which we pronounced someone in our research lives absolutely, positively, and unabashedly crazy. Too many to count. And then it hits me. What if I am the one who is crazy?

This line of thought usually takes me down the same road time and time again. It starts with questioning whether or not I'm the one who needs help, and then it morphs into this existential discussion. Do crazy people know they're crazy? The natural progression from this question is, Do ugly people know they're ugly? Inevitably it ends with a very frightening prospect. Do mothers know when their babies are ugly? At this point in time I find these questions to be mind boggling and unanswerable. Frankly, I'm not sure I want to know definitively. I prefer ignorance in this situation. It is the same ignorance I wish for this girl who is only at the beginning of the arduous journey known as grad school, and who has yet to observe the real personification of crazy. Bless her heart.

Green-eyed monster

Ah, yes. Envy. According to Wikipedia, Aristotle defined envy as "the pain caused by the good fortune of others". In the Catholic Church envy is a deadly sin and makes an appearance in the book of Exodus: "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his donkey." A complex emotion fraught with conflict and laced with negative connotations, envy is more than just jealousy or resentment. I am not going to deliver a deep philosophical soliloquoy addressing the nuances that separate those feelings, but I do often muse about others' envious behavior-as we would define it loosely and in conversational terms.

I refer to others' behavior rather than my own not only because it's easier to dissect the actions and words of other people than it is to reflect on one's own, but also because I don't seem to possess the envy gene. Or at least I don't express the gene. I know this because I test myself often. Granted, it's not a sophisticated test-there are no real genetic measures involved-but I just ask myself, "Do I covet my neighbour's house? What about his ox or donkey?". The answer is typically a resounding "no". This is an amazing feat because I am surrounded by good-looking, smart, successful people who could inspire a person with low self-esteem to jump off the nearest building if he/she was indeed susceptible to envy. But alas, no dice.

Others, however, have a way of projecting a vibe, and I can sense this vibe. For whatever reason, I have an antenna that alerts me to haters. I call them haters because their envy inevitably breeds resentment that over time will morph into hate. Hate for the object of their envy, themselves, or a combination of both. They don't necessarily realize they feel this way, and most likely they would deny it if called out, but they ooze it. I believe their "hating" is a result of some insecurity or self-esteem issues. This is an untested hypothesis, mind you, but it does appear to be a common denominator among the sample I have observed to date. There is the friend who sabotages your friendship with another mutual friend to make herself feel more popular, the colleague who wouldn't dream of congratulating you for receiving an award to make herself feel more successful, or the parent who trivializes everything that comes out of your mouth to make himself sound smarter or more of an authority. Haters are everywhere and they are threatened by self-assured people. But thankfully, if you have the misfortune of interacting with enough of them, you can learn to recognize the signs as soon as they begin to manifest themselves.

If you are the on the receiving end of snide remarks or some kind of back-handed compliment, you are dealing with a hater. If you begin downplaying accomplishments or hiding extravagant purchases, you are being hated on. If other person laments how "lucky" you are, watch out-hater on board! There is nothing you can do with these people because the problem is theirs entirely. You must avoid, avoid, avoid! Back away from the hater! This can be especially difficult if that person happens to be a family member or someone with whom you must interact daily. But believe me, this is the only viable course of action. Thankfully one of my best friends and fellow anti-hater gave me a token to ward off the evil eye. I hung it over the front door of my house to protect me and my home from envy. God help the hater who walks in thinking I don't deserve that donkey.

What weighs more?

A pound of muscle or a pound of fat? Ah yes, you are familiar with this trick question. Usually one asks a child what weighs more-a pound of bricks or a pound of feathers. Invariably the child answers "bricks". I ask because I came across this little nugget of information the other day and I have not overcome my feeling of surprise: One pound of muscle burns an extra 50 calories/day, while one pound of fat burns a mere 2 calories/day. I think most people realize conceptually that muscle contributes to a greater daily calorie expenditure, but who would have known there was such a calorie differential between them? I find this fascinating and I simply cannot get over it. I think that in addition to putting it into "print" here, I already have told a dozen people. I am spreading the gospel according to weight training. Consider yourself enlightened.