I Lied About the Vertigo

Road trips abound in opportunities to contemplate identity. 

The right music helps: Antje Duvekot's "Vertigo", John Gorka's "Broken Place," and Sarah Jarosz's "Edge of a Dream."

"oh the view from this height
high above the ferriswheel lights
might cause me to sway
but i am teaching myself to be brave"

"That beautiful broken place

you could not outshine your twilight

your demons were not outpaced"

"Smiling face, that no one really knows
Singin' bout the passion in my soul
Playin' it safe, move in time with the beat
Take a chance, learn a new dance"

If that isn't enough, you can contemplate the unlikely coincidence of traveling for two out of six hours while neatly closeted on a two-lane road behind one or more dump trucks. The view doesn't change much behind one of these guys. Seeing what lies ahead is all but impossible, and instead of glorying in the mountain scenery, you find yourself fixating on the grimy brown shade of the truck's back panel and wishing that it would move faster. 

Road trips also reveal unmistakeable truths about your shifting identity.*

A simple license plate is enough to strip you of Bible Belt citizenship and reaffirm your status as a penniless student. Like a red-green color blindness test, the way you interpret cryptic vanity plates produces a more accurate representation of your psyche than does a Meyers-Briggs typology. Eight characters: 4EVRAMEN. The Bible Belt citizen reads, "Forever Amen!" and gives a pious nod. The penniless student sees the word "Ramen" and ignores the rest, suddenly seized with an intense craving for that 33-cent delicacy.**

There is no limit to the powers of self-discovery unleashed by acceleration. Lighting out for the territories is sounding better every day...

*Even if you drive an automatic. :)

**On second thought, the Jesus fish, family-sized van, and location near Lynchburg, VA ought to have been a giveaway.  Just saying. Ramen. You cannot escape its magnetism.

Out of Rhythm

Every small town has its flavor, points of interest, rhythm of life. Even a corner gas station, linked to a major national chain, evinces this fact. Whether it's the two-for-three dollars sale on two-liter cokes, the individually plastic-wrapped chocolate bars on discount at the counter, or the few endlessly hamster-wheeling hot dogs at the grill station, they all keep pace with some inaudible metronome. 

Two sisters in the ladies' room follow suit: wearing bright-colored shirts, high-waisted shorts, and straight hair in rumpled ponytails, drawling in accents with a surplus of "a" "o" and "w" sounds, they demonstrate the resourcefulness of an older sister who can instruct her junior in a calm tone martyred by repetition to crawl under the locked bathroom door (watch, I'll show you), remind her that she's NOT too big to fit beneath (scrunch up your knees), and then demand that she wash her hands WITH SOAP (but only two pumps, silly).

They belong here, alongside the cashier with teased hair and bright pink lipstick who is giving out free smiles to a tattooed regular, in a way that I, with my peripatetic after-work ways, never could. And, what's more, they all know it. No wonder the elderly man standing in his carport across the street stares at me, arms crossed over his plaid shirt, as I slowly turn back onto the main road.

The winding country roads and their small-town synapses are full of memories and untold stories. None of them, however, answer the question most prominent on my mind: if not here, then where? If not this, now, then what? when?

After much hesitation, doubt, and over-thinking, I decided not to accept my one offer of admission to a PhD program. As I keep telling myself, "not now" does not mean "never." I know I made the right decision. But, having said that, I will admit I'm left feeling a little lost. A little weary. A lot uncertain. Making a decision without a backup plan is scary. Closing the one open door that stands between you and the future is frankly terrifying.

So please don't ask me what comes next. I know that's a logical question. Believe me, I've thought about it. I still don't have an answer. Respectfully, I suggest that you pose the question to Ask.com instead.

Or, if you must ask, please be prepared to join me when I light out for the territories. I'll bring the two-liter cokes.

Like Petey in Remember the Titans

Okay, grad schools. Let's have a 50%-off chocolate heart to heart.

I am deeply appreciative of your consideration in not "breaking up with me" over Valentine's Day.

That being said, the stores are now making way for Cadbury Eggs.

Any day now would be fine.

Email is great.

Snail mail is fine.

I would even take a phone call.

You can tell me.

I can handle it.

I just gotta know.

Yet and Now

By virtue of a rare Saturday off, I have time to be in a pensive mood today.

Fridays are turning into rejection-letter days, and the second rejection letter of the season felt worse than I thought it would. In both cases, the schools said my application was very strong and they were sorry not to offer me admission.

Rather than feeling excited that I almost made the cut (again), proving that I am a competitive applicant this year, my brain immediately began to rant, "You're just not quite good enough. In a close contest, you don't have the 'spark' that sets others apart. You're not unique. No matter how hard you try, it's never enough. You'll never be quite good enough."

Come on, brain. That's not helpful. Let's rewind.

The last time I went through this process, I wrote a post called "Hello, 'Yet.'" I re-read it today. At the time, I was applying to doctoral programs with only a bachelor's degree. Looking back, I know how vastly unprepared I was for that level of work, but in that moment the rejections stung. This is what I wrote:

I got another rejection letter - three just last week, to be precise, bringing my total number of acceptances into a PhD program to - you guessed it - zero. In my tongue-in-cheek-but-not-really response on this blog, I wrote "Jen is not PhD-program caliber." And then I paused.

Am I really not? As in ever? Boy, that's depressing.

Well obviously I'm not, because they rejected me.

Um, I think there's a flaw in the logic here somewhere.

Absurd.

No, really.

Don't be silly.

No, really.

Tired of arguing with myself, which is just a little weird, I capitulated and typed "at this point," because "at this point" leaves more room for self-pity than "yet." Not quite sure why, but it does; trust me.

"Yet" is inherently optimistic. Maybe because it sounds a little like "yes." It also implies that the statement that is not presently true will/can someday be true.

That was three years ago.

Now, when I receive letters of regret from high-caliber schools like Northwestern and Vanderbilt (both of whom rejected me that year with no more than a 'Your admission status is now available'), I should be encouraged to be reminded of something I think I already know: Jen is PhD-program caliber now.

Even if I'm not accepted this year -- the odds of 7/450 or 1/64 or 1.562% are, after all, enormous -- I've come a long way toward my goal.

I guess you could say this is me attempting to practice cognitive restructuring, because in this moment my brain is much more cynical, and the emotional feeling of failure outweighs the logical interpretation I've just posited. Psychology. Gotta love it.

I think that's why tea, chocolate, whiny text messages, and Saturdays still exist. It's a good thing, too.

The Ultimate Alternative Career

As the impatience to hear the outcome of my graduate applications builds, I'm happy to announce that I have discovered the perfect alternative career should my academic aspirations fail to materialize.

How, you may ask, did I achieve this gargantuan feat?

I began by cataloging my demonstrable skills and passions:

• Researching obscure and esoteric facts.
• Correcting others' errors.
• Assisting with organization and planning.
  
• Debating unimportant details and rules.
• Taking instructions.
• Remembering details about people, past conversations, and hypothetical plans.
• Reading aloud.
• Being introverted, and just listening until directly addressed.
• Acting as a sounding board for others' ideas.
• Figuring out what people want/need to hear in a given situation.
• Misinterpreting nonverbal cues.
• Providing snarky retorts to non sequitur comments.
• Falling down at inopportune moments.

Before long, the only possible conclusion became clear.

I'm sure you know what I mean.

It's obvious, right?

If I don't get into grad school, there is only one thing left to do.

...

...

...

...

I shall become Siri.

Weltschmerz

weltschmerz • \VELT-shmairts\ • noun, often capitalized
1 : mental depression or apathy caused by comparison of the actual state of the world with an ideal state 2 : a mood of sentimental sadness.

This was yesterday's "word of the day" from Merriam-Webster. Besides being appropriate to the evening, it might be my new favorite word.

Return of SMIOS

Being January, it seemed about time for a re-post: The Phases of Anticipation; or, How to Avoid Snowman SMIOS. So far, I'm right on schedule.

(Please ignore the flagrant typo in the title of the original post.)

300...Words

Part of my job this summer has been to write very concise pieces of text about major world events, such as the Cold War, the Renaissance, and the 14th century plague.

The average word limit for the job? 300 words. Let's try that again.

Part of my ^My job this summer has been to write very concise pieces of text about major world events, such as the Renaissance and the 14th century plague. (Revised for wordiness.)

Imagine my surprise and "delight" to discover that one of the PhD programs to which I'm applying has the exact same word limit for the personal statement. No good skill goes un-recycled, as the saying goes [awry].

One would think that summarizing my [history, educational background, relevant life experiences, aspirations, applicable skill sets, research plan, and compatibility with the given program, or for lack of a better word, life] into 300 words would be much simpler than doing the same thing with the Enlightenment.

Funny. It's not.

So...

Dear Strunk and White, despite your periodic absences from the zeitgeist of writing centers and rhetorical studies programs, I could really use some advice. Or a new red pen. Or the ability to write in Chinese characters.

I mean really--is that too much to ask?

I didn't think so.

Impending Epistles

Two days ago, I did a very strange thing. I started writing a personal statement for my PhD applications. It was incredible how quickly the sense of panic began creeping over my fingers, not unlike the cricket that skittered over my foot later that night.

I can't help wondering if the cricket was a personification (cricketification?) of my application-related anxiety...In that case, I should be set for the year, as said anxiety is now irretrievably d-e-a-d.

After taking an hour to write a few paragraphs, I was left with the impression that something was still missing. I pondered the question for a while before realizing that no graduate application can begin without a dedicatory epistle.

Aha!

---

TO THE MOST NOBLE
A N D
INCOMPARABLE COMMITTEE
OF GRADUATE ADMISSIONS

WHOSOEVER
Professor of English,&c. Unwilling Protector to the
University's most Pressing Budgetary Concerns.

A N D

ANONYMOUS
Professor of English,&c. Dedicated Defender of the Arts'
Both Guardians of the most Noble Order
of the MLA, and our singular good
S P O N S O R S

Right Honourable,

Whilst I studie to be thankful in my particular, for the many favors I hope to receive, I am falne upon the ill fortune, to mingle two the most diverse things that can bee, feare, and rashnesse; rashnesse in the enterprize, and feare of the successe. For, when I valew the place you sustaine, I cannot but know your dignity greater, then to descend to the reading of these trifles: and, while I name them trifles, I have depriv'd my selfe of the defence of my Dedication. But since you may bee pleas'd to thinke these trifles some-thing, heeretofore; and have unsealed them: I hope, that you will use the like indulgence toward the Statement of Purpose, as you have done unto the applicants before. There is a great difference, whether any Graduate Student choose her University, or finde it: This hath done both. For, if it please you, the severall parts of the Writing Sample, although not published, are yours. I have but applied, without ambition either of selfe-profit, or fame: onely to keepe the memory of so worthy a Friend, & Fellow alive, as was our M A S T E R S P R O G R A M , by humble offer of continuance, to your most noble patronage. Wherein, as I have justly observed, no woman to come neere you but with a kind of religious addresse; it hath bin the height of my care, who am the Presenter, to make the present worthy of you by the perfect proofe-reading. But, there I must also crave my abilities to be considerd. I cannot go beyond my owne powers. And the most, though meanest, of comma errors are made more precious, when they are dedicated to Applications. In that name therefore, I most humbly consecrate to you these remaines of your servant's Writing Sample; that what delight is in it, may be ever the reputation yours, & the faults mine, if any be committed, by one so carefull to shew her gratitude, as is

Your Committeeshippes most bounden,

JEN

---

Now that's more like it. Let the Personal Statement writing commence...next month.

Movin' Movin' Movin'

Contrary to popular opinion, moving is just great. It comes with its own set of fabulous side effects. For example...

• Moving gives you an indefinite pass on tripping-related humor.
• The impulse to talk aloud to yourself in a British accent while unpacking increases tenfold after midnight.
• When you begin giving yourself "real person points" for things like unpacking the dish rack and setting up the coffee maker, still in the British accent, it's time to go to bed.
  

See what you're missing?