Yet more excessive navel-gazing


We all have pictures ourselves, in our heads. I have come to realize that the picture I had of myself was a sort of photo-negative of how I might actually be.

I’ve thought of myself as accommodating, shy but friendly, poorly understood. Not especially fashionable. Not especially coordinated. I’m an English major pretending to be a science nerd. I’m not a good student: I almost always procrastinate until the last minute. I’m sloppy. I can’t keep the kitchen clean, and can’t keep my clothes off the floor. I indulge myself a lot, in magazines and craft projects and snacks—trying to stay afloat. I don’t make dinner at home often enough. I don’t keep my lab bench in order, and my desk is a weigh station of papers and post-it notes.

Oh, there were hints that I was wrong about myself, but ignored them. My favorite clue, looking back, was this: my government AP teacher once told someone that she liked me because I was “such a perfectionist.”

What, is she CRAZY? I thought to myself. I must have her really fooled. I’m so sloppy. I procrastinate. What she sees on her desk is really not my best work.

Being in grad school has taught me a lot about myself because:
1. I’ve met a whole class of students who are frighteningly like me.
2. After awhile, when you no longer change courses or have your summers off, you are forced to see the common denominator that is yourself.

My largest problem is this: I have a driving need to be in control, which is road-blocked by a desire to have everything perfect, the first time. Not perfect the first time means FAILURE. It means I’m no good at it. God forbid I can’t do something right the first time, because there have been too many assignments, projects, roles where I DID get it right the first time, or with minimal effort.

I often set the standards for myself absolutely unrealistically high. And lately I’ve found myself asking: “what is all of this for?” In science, the things that move you forward are good research, networking, and a bit of luck. All of this other crap is just me fighting the perfectionist that screams when things aren’t completed, beautiful, and with a big bright “A” at the top of the page. I don’t know where I’m going with this, but I needed, once again, to get it out on paper. Ugh!

So here are two paragraphs of random things:

Today on the bus I saw a girl wearing an enviable outfit. At least, I envied it. It was so damn simple: a white, thin t-shirt with a white, thin camisole underneath. Soft wide-leg linen pants that were magically unwrinkled, and avoided looking like pajama pants. The faded stripes in those pants were brought out by a medium-sized hobo bag that was also subtly striped. Cute beaded sandals . . . and her single accessory was a silver toe ring. Near the end of the ride, she pulled her hair up in a loose ponytail. It was all so darn comfortable and effortless and yet put-together. Today I wished I could dress more like *that*.

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Though completing grad school is still a ways off, I’m contemplating getting a tattoo to commemorate the end of this struggle. It is a strange woods that grad school has led me through, and it has changed and marked me. I’ll also admit I’ve always wanted to have the experience of getting one.

But what would it be? Currently I’ve been meditating on the story my mom likes to tell me from time to time about “drawing the tiger.” When I was very young, mom took me to her preschool class to “help out” (aka, keep an eye on me while teaching). One day, mom drew a tiger for the class to see. I tried to draw the tiger but ending up bursting into tears: I couldn’t make my tiger look like mom’s. “Amber” she said, “I’ve been through college and have a Master’s degree. Maybe when you’ve had all that schooling, you’ll be able to draw a tiger like me, but you are just starting out!”

Looking back on it now, I’m still trying to draw that freaking tiger. I see how amazingly brilliant other people are here, and I cry and stress because I can’t just do what they do. It isn’t coming easily.

Also, even though I’m sure Mom’s tiger was good, I bet my brother could draw a better one. . . and there is undoubtedly someone who can draw a tiger even better than that. But that doesn’t mean these other tigers are unacceptable. There will always be someone better, but that doesn’t make you a failure.

So for now I’m thinking of that darn tiger. It’s tough because most tattoos of tigers seem either cliché, too scary, or too much like a zoo poster. I’ll keep looking, or eventually enlist someone with more rendering skill than I.

Ok! That’s all for now . . . thank you for listening to the rambling!