Congratulations! You have won a return trip to high school!

During the years of grade school, middle school, and high school there were all kinds of shenanigans that revolved around this person being mad at that person, which led to this person talking a lot of shit about that person, which ultimately led to a great deal of drama between those two people in addition to anyone else who happened to be caught in the crosshairs of this person and that person. In college there was still a great deal of drama, most often revolving around similar circumstances but with more gratuitous sex and alcohol, and then it tapered a bit after college and into graduate school. So the trajectory of the shenanigans/drama was an arc; it increased steadily until reaching an apex in the middle of college and then it subsided and had nearly abated in recent times, i.e., during real grown-up life. Or so I thought.

In the past I have alluded to the fact that academic scientists on a whole are a strange bunch. Not all of them, but at least a particular sub-population (moi excluded). I had come to accept their quirkiness and social retardation, hypothesizing that their inabilities to act like normal human beings in situations that require them to communicate with other human beings is a result of having spent too many Friday nights trying to derive complicated functions in quantum physics or the like. Now I would like to take this opportunity to extend that hypothesis to include the possibility that this particular sub-population never participated in the normal middle school-high school he said/she said experience. And now I am getting to my point.

In November I had a conversation with a colleague of mine about a dinner club she wanted to get started with people from work. It wouldn’t be anything fancy, it would meet once per month, each person would take turns hosting, there was no pressure, ordering in pizza would be fine, etc. I supported this endeavor fully, thinking that these were people I socialized with on occasion anyway, perhaps some interesting work collaborations would be born, and the event seemed low key enough. Several months have gone by and I have not been able to attend any of these dinner club gatherings. I have been either enmeshed in the holidays, out of town, or somehow previously engaged. I am not apologetic about it, seeing as how I am not among the socially retarded and I have a full social network outside of my coworkers. However, it has come to my attention that not having attended one dinner club to date is an egregious error on my part. Actually, the importance of dinner club has become so inflated, I feel it should be capitalized: Dinner Club.

Let me back up a bit and tell you a couple things before you come after me wearing tattered loin cloths and carrying torches. First, Dinner Club does not always entail copious cocktails and glasses of wine. I suppose it depends on the host. Bleh. Second, sometimes there are children at Dinner Club. Granted, they go off somewhere to play and do whatever it is kids do when unsupervised, but still. Third, Dinner Club occurs on Saturday nights. In case you have forgotten, there are only 4 Saturday nights per month so I am sure as shit not going to spend 1 of them wondering where my next buzz is coming from while my co-workers’ kids run around. Do you see where I’m going with my rationale? Fourth, in the past 5 months Dinner Club has evolved from this no-frills down-home chill-out meal to haute cuisine. The one I missed last week was a Hawaiian dinner complete with ingredients that were flown here from Hawaii. That is a far cry from the original paradigm that led me to believe I could cop out and call Domino’s if I felt overwhelmed. Which leads me to my fifth point…I would feel overwhelmed to cook for 14 people. I enjoy cooking for 6, 8, maybe 10 if it’s a buffet brunch. But 14? No. That removes the enjoyment from cooking and injects it with an icky sense of dread. I feel put upon just thinking about it. And resentment, my friends, is not the choice ingredient for preparing a meal for your friends. OMG! They’re not even my friends! I guess that is my sixth argument against Dinner Club. Half of the people are virtual strangers to me and the other half are people I wouldn’t mind socializing with, but on my terms. That is, until now.

Monday came and the founding sister of Dinner Club marched into my office to praise the Hawaiian goddess for the culinary delights she bestowed upon the Club. I oohed and aahed at all the appropriate times, hoping that would be the end of it and I wouldn’t have to explain my absence. But instead, I actually received the full-court press from several members. To make a long story a tiny bit shorter, lest you put something sharp in your eye to make it all stop, let me get to the point. She is quite aggressive about my continued absence and apparently she expressed displeasure openly with other members of the Dinner Club. This led to what one member insinuated was some sort of bashing of moi. I am not entirely sure how many of them chimed in, nor am I sure exactly what was said. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that assassinating my character and bandying over my flaws-of which I am well aware and for which I take full responsibility-does nothing to induce my attendance at Dinner Club. Riddle me this: if I am such an asshole, why do they need me to be there?

It seems there is some push to make Dinner Club this exclusive get-together for the kids who were not popular during high school, but who fancy themselves the cool kids now. I can say with certainty, under no circumstances, are these people cool enough to warrant such exclusivity. They are nice enough, and I would have considered some to be “work friends” which is a step up from mere acquaintance, but this really has left a bad taste in my mouth. I am even a bit embarrassed for them. And again, I am not apologetic about not attending. Especially now that I realize it’s a ruse to engage in the she said/he said bullshit of yesteryear.

Currently next month’s subpoena…er…invitation... to return to high school… is sitting in my inbox, unopened.

Command, constrain, compose, etc.

Once again I have been stricken with the feeling of being a caged animal. This is a most uncomfortable feeling that fills me alternately with panic and then rage. And then panic again. Racing heart? Check. Throbbing head? Check. Clenched fists? Check. People, we are on our way to a meltdown. I repeat: a meltdown is in our sights. You may ask, what makes a seemingly well-adjusted individual approach the edge of reason and then teeter there precariously? It is really quite simple, and in the case of this particular individual (i.e., moi), it is a lack of control.

Control, oh my beloved Control. Control, you are my sweet little pet. I love you with all my heart. I am begging you to stay with me and be with me and be mine for all time. Please, please, please don’t leave me alone. I am nothing without you, my precious Control. I promise to be nice and shiny and reasonable if you will just cuddle up in my pocket forevermore. But alas, Control is fickle. Some days I feel like our bond is unbreakable, while at other times it feels downright flimsy. This is one of those wobbly times, and I would go so far as to say that we are on a break. In fact, I suspect that Control is taking liberties and shacking up with other people...

When I refer to [my undying love for] Control, I certainly do mean in everyday situations that I like to orchestrate. But even more so, I mean in the overarching sense of my destiny in general. Destiny in this instance is a grandiose and melodramatic code word for my career, which has a tendency to eclipse almost every other aspect of my life. For instance, how is it that in the past two years I have written 6 manuscripts detailing my research findings, yet only ONE is in press? Not even published per se, but in press. ONE. That is because ultimately they are not in my…yes, wait for it…control. This in turn is frustrating, because one cannot be promoted to assistant professor if one has not published a sufficient number of papers. Of course, papers cannot be published if they are merely languishing in someone else’s inbox. This becomes a circle of pain rather quickly. And frankly, it’s gotten quite old. And frankly, I am all too familiar with the way it plays itself out. Let me skip ahead to the bottom line: there is little I can do to speed things up. That’s right. This situation is not in my control. I have already done everything I have the power to do in order to make things move forward, believe you me.

So I have established a routine that begins with a stricture in my chest and proceeds directly to a suffocating feeling of screaming in a dream without any sound. This leads to a feeling of helplessness (accompanied by sniffling and whimpering) that alternates with rapid, blustery denouncement of “the system” (accompanied by fists raised and shaking at the gods of all that could be just and right in the world), and then back to helplessness again. After this repeats several times, I move on to the proactive phase of the routine. This is the part where I immerse myself into some other project in an effort to experience a modicum of achievement-just a pinch. While this side project usually does not contribute at all to the overarching goal at hand, it does provide, at least temporarily, a sense of satisfaction.

As a result we have had some great home-cooked meals, I have run a half-marathon, and you have this little nook of nonsense to tuck into when you are out and about in the worldwide web.