what do you do for fun?

I had my first medical school interview on Friday. It was ... blah. Not bad, not great. This school has a reputation of being rigorous and competitive. Everyone there - from students to faculty, made a great effort to try and dispel this perception. They kept saying:

"Don't worry about the interview! It's just to make sure you are a social person and someone we would want to have as our classmate!"

That's understandable. What became aggravating, however, was that many people - including current students as well as my interviewers, all asked the following question:

"So, what do you do for fun?"

I've decided that this is the dumbest question you can ask in an interview. I understand you want to gauge where I fall on the social aptitude test (the "New" SAT!). But honestly, how are you supposed to answer this question without sounding like a total toolbag? Standard answers (some of which I said, many of which I heard fellow interviees say), along with my personal interpretation include:

#1: I hang out with my friends
(Please believe me! I really have friends!)

#2: I go to the movies and hang out with my friends
(Please believe me! I really have friends! And PS I grew up in the suburbs).

#3: I play the guitar
(By any chance will you believe that I'm really chill and not competitive? I'll host campfires in my room and we can roast marshmallows. PS: I'm really a freak who loves Star Trek).

#4: I sing
(Shout out to my resume! Please take a second look and see that I sung in an a capella group, re-emphasizing that I am indeed a well rounded individual. Can you please tell the admissions committee that? Please??)

I was partial to #2 in my own interviews. I find it ironic that had I been truthful, people probably would have looked at me like a freak. Even though the things I do are TOTALLY normal. Here's what I mean:

#1: I wear hootchie mama outfits and go dancing with my equally hootched out friends.
#2: Lifetime, Television for Women.
#3: My Super Sweet 16. Actually, this should be #1.
#4: Taco Bell
#5: Any Will Ferrell movie. Especially Old School. Frank the Tank! Frank the Tank!
#6: Making fun of people. We all do it. And admit it. It's fun.
#7: Write about people who ask dumb questions like "what do you do for fun?" on my blog.

When I was banking, I had to interview potential candidates. I asked one girl what she did for fun (I know, I know). She said she makes stained glass windows. And you know what? She GOT THE JOB. Because when it comes to med school or a job, it doesn't matter what you do for fun. What matters is can you get the job done and not get on my nerves too much.

*~*~

I had a bad weekend. I felt overwhelmed and really depressed - and no, I did NOT need a Midol. I stayed in bed all weekend and felt sorry for myself, while indeed watching Lifetime, Television for Women. Seriously, there is a reason that channel rocks. Depressed women everywhere, unite!

So, um, what do YOU do for fun?

mmm, foot tastes good.

The other day, one of my roommates was telling me about a great deal on a pair of shoes. He wanted to buy casual black shoes. He shopped around and didn't really find anything he liked. Exhausted and frustrated, he wandered into Marshall's for one last try. And -- ta da da da -- he found the perfect pair of shoes on the CLEARANCE RACK! Isn't it so great when that happens? You find exactly what you want, and it's super cheap! He kept saying how cheap the shoes were, etc. Then he said "Oh, I'll get the shoes and show them to you."

So he did. They were um, nice. Men's shoes all look the same to me. My roommate said, very enthusiastically:

"Guess how much they were? Guess! You'll never guess."

I said "I don't know..."

"Guess!"

I mean, he kept saying they were on CLEARANCE so I ventured, "I don't know, $30?"

He looked crestfallen. "Oh man! You just ruined it for me. That's no fun. Come on man, they were $43."

Oops. I should've realized that I was on a slippery slope once I let a number out of my mouth. Seriously though. Whenever I'm that excited about a deal - it's because I found something that was worth $100 for $1.99. Like, "Guess how much my shirt cost? Don't mind the mismatched sleeves or flammable material. Guess! 50 cents! That's right, my shirt only cost 50 CENTS!"

THAT is when you brag about getting a deal. FYI, I'm totally the person who would guess $1 on the Price Is Right. Or, if someone did it before I did, I'm the person who would guess $2. Don't you just hate that person? But secretly you LOVE them.

les larmes, part deux

(Translation: The Tears, Part Deux. Sort of like, Hot Shots! Part Deux.)

Previously, in Sophialand ...

Lots of crying, for rather asinine reasons, up until college.

Fast forward to Summer 2001 ...

I began a job at Stuffy Investment Bank, LLP. I wish someone had slapped me really hard and said "Snapoutofit!" a la Cher in Moonstruck before I took that job. The reputation of the firm as very demanding and cold preceded it. They even gave me an exploding offer, which in retrospect I realize should have been a red flag. An exploding offer is one where you basically have to take the job on the spot or they take the deal off the table. No more Man 1? I can't go on trial for Murder 2 ... No! Put the deal back on the table!!

Perhaps I am being too mean. But that's my prerogative (Bobby, not Britney). All the things I had heard were true. The firm was quite impersonal and my life was analagous to an indentured servitude. There was hazing and there were all nighters and situations where I was made to feel this big. I worked really hard - sometimes for people I respected; oftentimes for people I didn't.

I tried to stay strong and show a professional demeanor. But I will not lie to you. I cried on the job many times. It was a response to being yelled at, slighted, or patronized. The NY Times article from before describes some reasons why women may be prone to crying. I agree with many of them. I knew I shouldn't cry and that it made me look really childish and annoying. But I couldn't help it. I tried every trick in the book - biting my lip, deep breaths, Kit Kat bar or two from the vending machine. But there are times where you are so frustrated that tears flow before you can stop them.

I will never forget one day where everything was so bad that I started to cry. And I couldn't stop. I was sitting at my desk, and after a few minutes of tears I started to feel better. But I physically could not stop crying. It was as if the switch had broken. I began to get really worried about being unable to stop crying. It was so bad that my coworker who sat next to me had to lead me outside and take me to lunch just so that people wouldn't see the spectacle.

Now that my life is totally different, I reflect back on that time and think several disjointed thoughts. Primarily, I feel anger. Yes, certain jobs are demanding and people have short fuses and stress levels are sky high. But for goodness sake, it's JUST A JOB. The people I worked with took themselves way too seriously and had such masochistic tendencies that humiliating other people made them feel good. As always, I must caveat that this only applies to certain people I worked with - there were others who were supportive and helpful. I have two conclusions about that time in my life that I have reached. They are:

1) I should not have taken things so personally. I think this is definitely in the top 5 of life's most important lessons. It's never about you. Sometimes people suck. I would have cried less and muttered some expletives more had I been less emotionally involved. Also, I think men have serious advantage over women in this arena. Must be the estrogen or something.

2) People should be nicer. It is a waste of energy and it is poor management to lead with an acidic approach. Ex-post-bad-job-o, I have had many positive work experiences - whether professionally or through community service. And guess what? Positive feedback works! At my second job (a hedge fund), I worked with a lawyer who I can only describe as one of the best and kindest people I've ever met. Whenever I did any analyses for him, he always thanked me and encouraged me. And that made me want to produce really good work for him, and for the firm. It's not brain surgery people.

Were my tears wasted? I don't think so. I do think I was young and uninitiated to the big bad insensitive world. And I know that that world is not limited to finance. I'm sure I'll face my fair share of abuse in medicine as well. But there are some key differences. I'm older and (hopefully) stronger. I realize that one reason I cried so much in finance was because I felt helpless. Deep down I knew that I was working so hard for a field in which I likely had no future. My heart knew I was in the wrong career way before my brain did. Re: medicine, I will face significant stress, but - pardon the cliche - there is a perpetual light at the end of this tunnel.

(Cue: "Wind Beneath My Wings" for sappiness followed by "Bootylicious" for some Grrrl Power, since those are the two themes spilling out excessively from this post. I need to shake the emotional fog. New post to follow immediately after this one...)

the crying game

I just read this article in the NY Times about women and crying. It talks about reasons women may be prone to crying as well as why women shouldn't do it at work. It really hit a nerve. Or my lacriminal duct.

I am a crier. If you yell at me, I will cry. If I have a fight with my friend, I will cry. If you may be wondering about the origins of this tendency, I invite you to meet my mother. If Muslims believed in Goddesses, I would christen her the Goddess of Tears. Because the woman could irrigate the Sahara Desert under any of the following circumstances:

1) A phone call from me. Any random phone call. She loves me so much she sometimes cries if I just call. I realize this makes me the luckiest person in the entire world. It also makes her absolutely insane because I'm wacko. But if loving me is wrong, then she don't wanna be right.

2) A fight with anyone. Especially a fight between my brother and me. (N.B. the grammar nazi confirms that the correct preposition following between is indeed "me" and not "I")

3) Any Jennifer Lopez movie. Either because she ultimately gets the guy or because the movie sucks that badly. Usually both.

Now that the genetic lineage of my crying has been established, let me share with you some vivid crying memories.

* Sixth grade. The entire sixth grade class took a 3 day trip to a ghetto place called Frost Valley, where we learned cross country skiing. Now that I am an 'adult' I realize this was just a flimsy excuse for the teachers to have illicit affairs and to let the kids run around and be obnoxious to each other in a venue outside of the classroom. There were two girls I was friends with - Alison and Lena. But they seemed particularly chummy on that trip and I felt left out. So I started crying and didn't stop for the entire three days. Amazingly, Lena remains one of my closest friends to this day. And for the past 15 years, she has continued to remind me of the sob fest that was Sophia circa 1991.

* Eleventh Grade. Second day of AP American History. We were supposed to write a scholarly book report over the summer and turn it in the first day of school. I got it back the second day of school. I had written it the night before it was due, and I hadn't even read the book. But come on! I was Sophia, earner of good grades, sometimes even if by magic. The very butch and daunting teacher handed me back my paper. With a 72 written on it. Holy sh*t! Surely the paper must have been graded out of 72, right? I got a C on a paper? How would I ever get into Harvard?! My life was over!! A little psycho? Sure. But I bet my life that every single person I went to college with had a similar experience at some point. Because all people who go to Harvard were anal retentive dorks in high school. And frankly through most of college. Anyone who says otherwise is a liar. That's right. I said it. Whatcha gonna do?

Oh, I lost my train of thought. Sorry. Anyway. 72 on the paper. Cue the sobbing. In the middle of class. Tears and snot and stifled giggles by classmates galore. The next day, I walked into class and raised my hand during the discussion. The teacher looked at me, didn't miss a beat, and said "Yes, Ms. Weeper?" He called me Weeper for the rest of the year. Lena was also in this class. For the past 10 years, she has continued to remind me of the disaster that was Sophia circa 1996.

* Freshman year of college. I had just been dumped by my boyfriend of four months. Which, if you can recall your freshman year of college, seems like the social equivalent of an eternity. Enter the saltwaterfall, Hershey chocolate bars and Sarah McLaughlin CD. Cried straight through chemistry class. Though, at Harvard, one could easily attribute that to the pain that was freshman Chem.

Since it's late and I'm a bit sleepy, I will end this post now. It's interesting, actually. I began the post with the full intention of writing about my experiences of crying at the job while on Wall Street, and all the things I dealt with and learned. But I delved further back into my life than I thought. The second half of the post shall come tomorrow ...

*~*~

Jimmy Dugan: Are you crying? Are you crying? ARE YOU CRYING? There's no crying, there's no crying in baseball. Rogers Hornsby was my manager, and he called me a talking pile of pigsh*t. And that was when my parents drove all the way down from Michigan to see me play the game. And did I cry? NO. NO. And do you know why?

Evelyn Gardner: No, no, no.

Jimmy Dugan: Because there's no crying in baseball. There's no crying in baseball!

i watch too much TV.

The hardest part of any addiction is admitting that you have a problem. So here goes:

I think I watch too much TV.

More acurately, I think I watched too much TV for a good part of my life. Because today something happened that made me realize two things:

1) Precious brain space is being clogged up by TV related things
2) Too much TV can blur the lines between reality and, well, not-reality.

This afternoon, I met a British doctor who is spending a year at the hospital to do research. I had to meet her at the reception desk and show her to a conference room. We chatted briefly. She is obviously uber-intelligent, well put together and quite personable.

So why did I have this nagging feeling that I didn't like her? I met her for all of one minute and I decided something was off. Am I so judgmental and petty? As I reflected on my immature reaction, I realized what it was about her that seemed offensive.

She looked and sounded exactly like the woman who played Emily (Ross' British chick) on Friends. It was eerie. What was truly frightening though, was that my thoughts about a fake person on TELEVISION somehow manifested themselves in real life. Thank goodness I didn't look at her and say: Damn you for trying to get between Ross and Rachel!

I have cut down on TV significantly though, so I'm well on the road to recovery (from what, I'm not sure). Although - if you aren't yet, you really must check out My Name is Earl. It is hilarious. I hadn't seen it yet but they replayed the first three episodes this past weekend. I was laughing out loud in the living room like some mental patient while my parents were asleep upstairs.

Uh, so maybe this road to recovery will be longer than I thought.

clown feet.

For my size, I have relatively big feet. I have strange feet issues; for example, one foot bends inwards and causes pressure on my knees.

Over the past few years, I've realized that I will have to forgo fashion for comfort in the footwear arena. Fancy occassions still call for painful 4 inch heels of course. But the day to day routine will have to be sacrificed to the comfort side.

Over the summer, I wore Dansko sandals almost exclusively. What can I say? They hug my big clown feet. Since today was relatively warm, I wore my red sandals. After work, I stopped by The Gap and a shoe store for some browsing. While in the shoe store, an older woman (maybe mid-60's) came up to me and said:

"Excuse me, may I ask you something?"

I said "Sure."

"Where did you get your shoes? They look so comfortable."

Oh maaaaaaaan!

crossing guard

The main road near the hospital is under construction. It's quite dangerous to navigate, and for the past few months police officers have literally been acting as crossing guards and shepherding us wee lambs across the street.

Yesterday afternoon, as I was returning from getting some lunch, I waited by the crosswalk for the policeman to let me across. He turned to me and said "Student?" I didn't want to get into it, so I just said "Yeah." "Medical?" he continued. I nodded (I mean, I will be one day, right?).

"Where you from?" he asked.
"New York."
"Bronx, Brooklyn?"
"Long Island."
"Verrazano. Yeah. I was on the Verrezano Bridge a few weeks ago. Crazy. Crazy construction. Verrazano. My buddy's from Staten Island. Yeah."

Jigga wha? I was so confused. I stood there with my Miss America fake smile plastered on. The light finally changed. I turned to him and said:

"Have a nice day!"

And he said "Yeah, yeah. I'll try but look at all this sh*t" and proceeded to gesture to all the crazy cars driving by.

I forgot about my strange crossing guard, until I encountered him again this morning. I looked at him to cross, and he said "The doctor right? Smile baby, don't look so severe!"

hotbox

A friend of mine had an engagement party this past weekend. Another soldier down. Just joking - she looked amazing, her fiance is terrific, and I had a great time at the party.

I came back to Boston yesterday. Fortunately, my friend N. was heading back as well and we took the bus together. About halfway through the ride, she leaned over to me and whispered "Do you smell pot?"

I sniffed (but didn't inhale!). No, I didn't smell pot. A few minutes later, the purple haze rose and I definitely detected the eau du reefer. N indicated that the guy sitting in the seat across the aisle from her had been in the bathroom for quite some time. He was making the bus bathroom a hotbox!

We couldn't stop laughing. Only on the Fung Wah bus, people, could someone get up and light up in the bathroom and not give a second thought to getting caught. And that INCLUDES the paranoia that comes with the experience. How I love thee, ghetto Chinatown bus.

Our neighbor finally exited the bathroom and reclaimed his seat. He was so obviously high. And he reeked of ... soap. He tried to wash the scent off, but it wasn't happening. Now he just smelled like someone who smoked up in the shower.

I had bought a box of Entenmann's Chocolate Chip Cookies for the ride, and briefly considered offering them to him, since he presumably had the munchies. But I didn't.

After I got home, I unpacked and settled down to watch Desperate Housewives. What better way to relax than a soapy drama? Toward the end of the show, I decided to indulge in some chocolate chip goodness and ate some cookies. After the show ended, I called my best friend to chat. 15 minutes into our conversation, my stomach did a somersault. And then another one. Luckily, since it was my best friend on the phone, I didn't have to mince words. I interrupted her mid-sentence and said "Babe, I gotta go puke and will call you back."

The cookies made me vomit. Stupid Entenmanns! Another aside (and probably TMI). I throw up very violently. It's like a Jerry Bruckheimer film. Whenever I experience reverse peristalsis (hah!), it is accompanied by minor petechial hemorrhage. That is a fancy way of saying some capillaries in my face burst and I look like I have two black eyes.

Bottom line: The pothead smokes and goes to sleep. I get the munchies and look like I was in a gangfight. Sweet irony.

*~*~

Ali G. "What are the effects of marijuana?"
DEA Official: "Well, it makes you lazy, sleepy. You lose focus..."
Ali G. "Yes, but wot are the negative side effects?"

(paraphrasing of course ... I couldn't find a script of this episode, but it was hilarious.)

Booyakasha.