Airing of Grievances

During this time of Festivus, it’s appropriate to air one’s disappointments from the past year. Traditionally, as far as one considers Seinfeld’s Frank Costanza traditional, the airing of the grievances occurs on December 23rd at a dinner during which each person at the table informs everyone else how he/she has been a disappointment. While I have a number of grievances to air, and I am duly cynical, it does seem a bit difficult to be particularly negative on Christmas Eve. I guess this is a hold-over from my Catholic upbringing, but I do tend to focus on the positive and get quite reflective at this time of year. However, in the spirit of Seinfeld, consider this entry my blogging Festivus. Unsurprisingly, it is a day late and a dollar short.

One of my biggest disappointments from this year is that I don’t use this space more often. Originally I thought it would come in handy for working out particularly vexing problems, as I have a tendency to perseverate on things. Or I thought I could vent about the frustrations that accompany the career choices I’ve made while also cluing people in to the wacky world of academic research. But instead, I have let this space languish. I think about it often, and I feel as though I should write something. Something insightful and clever, that resonates with others and maybe gives a voice to their secret thoughts. So why don’t I do this? Can I do this? How disappointing it would be, to realize that one’s observations which typically burst forth from the mouth dripping with juicy witticisms and sarcasm, do not lend themselves easily to the written word for others to experience. How could that be? How could I---she of the keen eye for surveying all that is preposterous surrounding her---be unable to convey that with words? I could have sworn I have plenty to talk about, and a story to tell. But when I sit down to write something, my inspiration evaporates and I am left with the briney residue of dissatisfaction I feel when a task is incomplete.

In addition to the Airing of Grievances, Festivus would not be complete without the Feats of Strength. This typically takes place after the meal when the head of the household is wrestled to the floor. In lieu of such a physical display in the present moment, I would propose an alternative: I shall write at least one blog entry per month from here on in. Judging from the amount of time that has elapsed since my last, this is in fact, a Herculean effort, and if successful, will be quite a feat of strength.

Having said that, happy Festivus, and bring on the meatloaf!

Just-What-I-Needed

Every once in a while I will read something that really sticks in my craw. For the past week or so I have been mulling over the business management concepts of Just-in-Time (JIT) vs. Just-in-Case (JIC). That there were “concepts” behind these phrases was news to me when I read an article differentiating them in Oprah’s magazine (say what you will about Oprah, but her magazine is an absolute delight). But it resonated with me on several levels so I have been turning it around in my head.

The author, who is a life coach named Martha Beck (and you should know that I heart Martha Beck), introduced JIT and JIC in the context of their origin, which was with respect to manufacturing and product inventory. Historically, car makers would stockpile parts and supplies just in case they were needed to fulfill an order. After WWII, Toyota turned the world on its ear by having on hand only enough parts to keep their production lines moving. If they had more orders, they would obtain the parts just in time to deliver. This innovation made Toyota legendary, and Ms. Beck could not resist but to apply business theory to real life situations.

Most people, whether they realize it or not, have the mindset that resources are scarce. This innate and subconscious fear causes people to stockpile (food, money, love, possessions, etc.) just in case. However, the opposite is true. Basic necessities typically are relatively abundant, and they are readily available just in time.

This realization struck a chord with me on a global level because I do believe that there is an excess of excess in the developed world today. People are driven by the acquisition of stuff: big houses, expensive cars, designer clothes and accessories, electronic gadgets, etc. I am not saying I am not guilty (I love me some diamonds and I know my ass looks better in $100+ jeans), I am just saying that I am very aware of my materialism and I try to limit it. But I do think that the JIC mentality is pervasive on an even smaller scale in everyday life. For example, when I go to the grocery store I have a list of things I want to get. Half of the items are not things I actually need for meals I plan to cook over the course of the following week. They are things I will keep in the pantry…wait for it…just in case. As soon as I deplete our stores of any number of random things (coconut milk, artichoke hearts, cashew butter, peas, what have you) they find their way onto the grocery list. I could wait to buy them until I actually need them for concrete plans to whip up a curry or an antipasto, but I like to have them on hand just in case. Do I believe these items will be unavailable to me at a later date? Not really, although Shaw’s is notorious for disappointment and sending me home with unchecked items on my list. Most likely I am protecting against having to run to the store when we are in desperate need of a change of pace during the week and I am trying to be creative in the kitchen. Although it appears my thinking is a bit dysfunctional, I can’t say that I am inclined to change this approach to my grocery inventory.

Interestingly, my other maladaptive JIC tendencies also revolve around food. I had become aware of this relatively recently (within the past year or so), but I have been trying to understand it only during this past week after reading Martha Beck’s article. Basically, when I am in a situation where there is a buffet or some kind of collective dining, I feel anxious. It is bizarre, I know. But I am on edge and antsy and I think I lose my head a little bit. I have to force myself to approach the buffet line calmly. I don’t need to look around me nervously and get pushy. What is that all about? I know for a fact that some of it is learned behavior from a parent, but I will save that conversation for my therapist. Does the remainder of my behavior really stem from a primal fear that there will be no food when it’s my turn? And when it is my turn, what drives me to put more on my plate than I know I need? Typically I am a proponent of small portions, but turn me loose on a buffet and I become another person. Perhaps I am afraid that the items I have served myself will be so delicious that I will want more, but maybe I won’t be able to get more, and then I never will taste anything so delicious like that again in my life, ever. So I stockpile the food on my plate, just in case. Or I feel compelled to try a bite of every single dessert. Crazy, right? Of course it is, particularly because although my actions support that notion, I don’t truly believe this situation is my one and only opportunity in life to taste something delicious. I also don’t truly believe that if I don’t pile my plate high I will leave the table hungry. And even if I wasn’t satisfied with a more reasonable portion of my selections, so what? There will be other meals. I will not starve.

Going out for sushi strikes a similar fear in my heart. Now, I love sushi. I could eat it every day and twice on Sunday. But there is something about the communal nature of eating it with a group that fills me with apprehension. I first noticed the distress last fall when I went with a group. We were having a grand time. There was plenty of great conversation and laughter as well as great sake. But when it came time to look at the menu I panicked a little. Internally of course, but externally, I opted out of the sushi boat and placed an order of my own. I probably also should have plied myself with more sake to relax, because although effectively making myself a party of one helped to avoid the feeling of ants crawling on me a little bit, I still felt tense watching other people help themselves to offerings on the boat. How could they be so calm? Why weren’t they being grabby or shoveling it in their faces like it was their last supper? I tried to emulate them with my own dish, but it will take much more practice before I am proficient at this particular task.

I have not worked out what this is all about, but now that I have recognized it I can begin readjusting my anxiety thermostat. It seems that without realizing it, I have been operating with a JIC mindset, when what I need to employ in these situations is more of a JIT approach. Even if I don’t taste every single offering or someone else finishes my favorite, there will be other times, and this was just right.

I will have the opportunity to practice this weekend when a friend comes to visit, and as a group, we go out for sushi. Between now and then I will be mentally preparing myself. Yes, I will be engaging in self-talk and rationalization for close to a week in order to eat raw fish with my friends like a normal person. But I thank Martha Beck because I believe she has opened my eyes to my maladjusted behavior, and her article came to me just in time.

A love letter

Dear Sweetheart,

Since Hallmark has strongly suggested that I express my undying love for you today specifically, I thought I would write you a letter to do just that. It is actually quite timely for me to examine our relationship and how I operate within it since in the midst of all the soul-searching I have had to do to determine if I could ever become someone’s mother, I have been pontificating lately on my ability to show affection. This is a bit of a sticking point for me because in the past I have been accused of withholding such displays and of being stand offish. I don’t want to be such a cold person, yet sometimes I cannot bring myself to show my true feelings. I suppose this is one manifestation of how we sometimes become our parents.

But alas, I do love you so very much. I think about you all the time and my actions typically are motivated by a desire to make you happy on a daily basis. Each meal I make is carefully thought out so that you might taste my love every day. Every time I put your clean laundry away or buy you new clothes I hope that you will wear my love and feel it on you every day. Every night when you walk through the door of the home we have made together, I call out to you so that you are welcomed by the open arms of my love every day.

My desire is to fill you up with so much of my all-encompassing love that someday when you look back upon your life there is no room in your heart for fear or sadness or anything other than a sense of contentment and satisfaction that you were provided the best love has to offer.

Although I began this letter on a satirical note at Hallmark’s insistence, it has taken a turn and unveiled that perhaps I am so wrapped up in my love for you, that I cannot get out of my own way in order to offer a more obvious display of affection. So while I now pontificate on this revelation, please accept my meager gestures for what they are and know from whence they came: my love and my heart. Happy valentine’s day.

How the hell did I get here?

The beginning of a new year typically is a time for me to become reflective and think about the course of my life. I take stock of the past year and look forward to things I want to accomplish, tackle, overcome, or enjoy in the year laid out before me. This year in particular I have felt satisfied with the course of my career. I finally moved into my own office rather than the romper room I was sharing with three other people, the excruciatingly protracted promotion process was begun, and the promise of more research money beckons, provided I jump through the requisite flaming hoops of bureaucratic paperwork. But in the midst of the subsequent frenzy of disbelief, excitement, and bustling activity, I am not so much engrossed in thoughts of the upcoming year, but instead I am wondering how the hell I got here in the first place. What was it that led me down this path of academic brain research that at times is both tortuous and torturous? How did a cheerleader-turned-sorority girl ever become a scientist in the first place?

I cannot help but think that my journey to science was not that of the prototypical science nerd. In my mind, individuals belonging to this group all tell a similar tale. As children, their curiosity was insatiable. They read Encyclopedia Britannica under the covers with a flashlight and they nearly burned the house down repeatedly while using chemistry sets recklessly in their basements. Adolescence turned them pimply-faced and taciturn like the rest, but what differentiated them was a thirst for knowledge that was slaked at least partially by science fiction television. I suspect these individuals even attempted to coin a new language eerily akin to Klingon. As they transitioned into young adulthood they channeled their yearnings into acceptable outlets such as advanced placement science courses, participation in science fairs, and staying in on Friday nights. I can assure you, I never belonged to this group. Ok, in 6th grade I did have an illustrated thesaurus that I read for pure enjoyment, but otherwise my trajectory could not have been predicted with any kind of precision based on my interests or academic strengths.

As a child, I played well by myself. My only sibling is close to nine years older than me, so I spent a good deal of time by myself after having been tossed out of her bedroom unceremoniously when she had friends over. Thankfully, my solitude did not impact my vivid imagination, much to the dismay of my mother. She was outraged upon entering into my bedroom to find that I had spit all over my mirror because I was pretending it was a window and it had been raining. Similar to the science nerds, I was a voracious bookworm from a young age, but I don’t believe that marked me for science. It very easily could have led me down the path of literary genius (obviously it did not). By third grade I had read most of the age-appropriate books in the school library and my interest was piqued by the perennial favorite of pre-teens: Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret by Judy Blume. The librarian was reluctant to sign it out to me due to its more mature content, but my precociousness must have swayed her because she handed it over anyway. All told, I read that book at least 13 times. In fact, I read it again several years ago when I won an entire lot of Judy Blume books in an auction on eBay. However, as an adult who had years of experience being female under her belt (i.e., many menstrual periods later), the story had lost the titillating aura of mystery and confusion that ultimately inspired fear when that book was in my eight-year old hands. It was scarring, actually. But indeed I was precocious, and this was brought to light shortly thereafter during the 4th grade when I was tested. At the time I had no idea what was being tested, and to be honest, I can’t say with any certainty what was measured on that day or how effective the yardstick was that determined the results. Regardless, my parents were called and asked to come in to discuss the findings. Apparently, they were led to believe that I was-and please forgive this ridiculous term- “gifted”. To hear them tell it, which I did only more than 20 years after the fact, they laughed out loud and asked the teacher if she was sure they were talking about the same child. How could their happy-go-lucky and extroverted-to-the-point-of-being-dangerous-if-not-just-annoying child possibly be gifted? It was a stretch, I admit, and the following four years were marked by “special” programs during school that were designed to be rewarding and provide enrichment, but were perceived by me and my gifted peers as punishment and extra work. Moreover, they alienated us from the rest of the dumbasses, who frankly, were a great deal less uptight and more fun. Still, even cumulatively these things together did not spell scientist.

Throughout my teenage and college years, my interests were those of any typical girl my age, and even less like those who had a propensity toward science. In high school I was a cheerleader who liked boys, clothes, going to the mall, and talking on the phone incessantly. In college I was a sorority girl who liked boys, clothes, going to parties, and drinking beer incessantly. To this day I never have seen an episode of either Star Trek of the X Files, but I swear I never have missed even a single episode of Beverly Hills, 90210 or Melrose Place. These traits did nothing to alert anyone that I was destined for a career in science, and there were no tell-tale signs in my coursework either. Although I had done well in my science courses in high school, I shone in English and foreign languages. Advanced placement courses allowed me to test out of freshman English and French when I entered college, but I had refused the advanced placement Biology course when it was suggested by the guidance counselor. Actually, refuse might be putting it lightly. I believe I scoffed at the idea. I had zero interest-maybe even less than zero-in preparing the requisite science project. Of course the irony of that sentiment does not escape me now, seeing as how my entire career is a science project, day in and day out.

Why then, when I shied away from a science project and acknowledged fully that language and communication together was my forte, did I choose Biology as my major in college? Despite all the evidence pointing toward a more right-brained than left-brained existence (incidentally I always had been placed in the average math classes rather than anything advanced), I thought I wanted to be a doctor. Majoring in Biology seemed the only way to accomplish such a goal, although my attempts were half-hearted at best. I hated memorizing facts and organic chemistry vexed me to the point of accepting a D willingly just to make it go away, but the idea of talking to people and figuring out what made them tick was so appealing, I kept at it. Naively, I thought that psychiatry was about talking to people and figuring out what made them tick, but to be honest, I thought that was a large facet of being a hairdresser too. I was torn between them. But since my parents had paid the cover charge for the most intense party of my life, I continued with biology.

In the second half of my third year I took an abnormal psychology class and found myself absolutely riveted. I could not get enough, that is, until I took physiological psychology and then cognitive psychology. The brain was very cool, and I was just discovering this for myself for the first time. Oh glory! I found something interesting to pursue. So I called my parents and I told them I wouldn’t be home after my fourth year, I would need an extra semester to finish a second degree in psychology. Now science began to make sense to me. Before biology had been taught to me in what seemed like a black box. I had nothing to relate it to and it was boring. But when you think about biology in terms of the brain and behavior, it’s a different ball of wax all together. At least, that was my perspective. Most people with whom I spoke at the time thought I was out of my tree combining biology with psychology; neuroscience was not a mainstream concept at the time. I constantly found myself having to challenge people to explain to me what mediated behavior if not biology? Was it magic? Aliens? Demons? No one had a satisfying answer so I must have sounded convincing. Either that or they just kept their traps shut after that.

I left college with a double degree in biology and psychology. I felt I had a niche in terms of my interests. That was great, except I had no idea what to do with it or how to pursue it further. While I had been introduced to the brain and behavior, practical applications of this field remained a nameless, faceless stranger. I didn’t realize how lucky I was at the time, but thanks to serendipity, I landed a job as a research technician in the neurology department of a world-renowned hospital. Still wary of science projects, I decided to take this position for one year. I wanted to rule out research since I knew I would hate it. How could I not? I had seen those graduate students running the labs in my courses. They looked miserable, they were social misfits, and they couldn’t dress themselves to save their lives. Research is boring and for boring people. Ergo, research was not for me. Until it was.

Two and a half years after accepting the job I thought I would do for one year because I would hate it, I found myself in graduate school. I had not turned into a despondent misfit, nor did I lose the ability to match my clothes. Five years after that I received a PhD in pharmacology and I moved into my first postdoctoral training position, followed by a second postdoctoral training opportunity three years after that. Still, I was able to communicate with people and I knew that stripes and floral and polka dots and plaid all together does not an outfit make. I maintained social relationships and even managed to live with several boys. Very un-science nerd-like, if you ask me.

Two and a half years later, I am up for Assistant Professor of Psychiatry and wondering how this all came to be. Even though I just laid it all out and reexamined it carefully here, not to mention that I lived every moment of the decade it has taken to get here, I still feel as though I just woke up one day and this is how my career evolved without my noticing. It wound its way down the tortuous path that sometimes has been torturous and now I’m here, on the brink of a new year, wondering how it will continue to play itself out. And I will do this in clothes that match, while never having seen science fiction television nor will I have even an elementary grasp of organic chemistry.