Spring Break or The Day that Doctoral Poverty Broke Me and I Started Looking for a Real Job

Your Typical Graduate Student

When I think about graduate school, I think about the novel Confederacy of Dunces. If you have never read Confederacy of Dunces, it is a story about a 30 year old man who has been in graduate school for about 75 years and who still lives with his mom. The story is awful and tragic and kinda funny and he is a total toolbox. When I started graduate school, I promised myself I would never be that guy. And people, I think we’re on the precipice. 

I shall now relate to you the progression of the breaking down of the part of the human brain known as “Pride” as told through spring break vacations. 

*Year negative one through negative six of doctoral studies: I am a teacher. My bestest friend D—and I would go on vacations together pretty regularly. Sometimes they were good adventures. Sometimes they were crazypants adventures. Those are stories for another day, some of them with burned skin in broken Spanish. Some of them with cinnamon tequila shots (don’t do it!) and crappy Vegas hotels. But always, always we would split the bill 50-50. 

*Year zero of doctoral studies: I decide to give up my reasonably paying teacher job for a doctoral program that pays bootie, and D- is now working as a school administrator making a beautiful salary, not unlike what people our age should be making. 

*Year one of doctoral studies: I can’t afford a vacation, but I totally refuse all help. The closest we get to a vacation is going to an Indian Casino. I wouldn’t even take $20 dollars to gamble with.  I have my pride you know. 

*Year three of doctoral studies: I agree to go on a Jamaican vacation with D-- after extensive discussion. I really don’t think this is right. But I think it will be fun, and I pay for my plane ticket to help assuage my guilt. 

The Kind of Cruise I Could Afford

*Year six of doctoral studies: No end or vacation in site, D- mentions that her mom doesn’t want to go on a cruise with her and wonders if I would like to go. I do not even let her finish her sentence. I offer to pay for nothing. Doctoral studies have officially broken my spirit and made me a greedy mooch ready to syphon off of other people’s vacations. The shift is complete. 

*Year six and one day of doctoral studies: Jen starts to look for a real job. She begins to dream again about paying her own phone bill and owning a car that was made in this century. 

So friends, here lies the tale of how a once independent young lady turned her bestest friend into a sugar mama. And then, just possibly, she started to get her shit together.

Awkward Encounters with the Male Species

When people are trying to lose weight, some of them might be trying to get back to their “fighting weight.” Or possibly people they want to get to their “pre-baby weight” or their “swim team weight.” Some people think into the future and want to be at their “I’m at my high school reunion and everyone can kiss my booty” weight. I am at none of these weights currently, but it seems that I may have reached my “threshold for awkward encounters with men” weight.

Most awkward picture I could find. 

I have recently lost about ten pounds, and I am now at that level of cuteness wherein strange men are starting to pay me attention again. It was kind of restful running under the radar for a while there. But it seems that I must now choose to either eat more chocolate, or deal with the attention of really random menfolk. And I don’t know about the rest of you ladies, but the dudes I attract are RANDOM. I’m pretty sure that anyone who has traveled with me can attest to this. Of course, that is like eight blogs right there. I digress. 

Now let me make it clear, that while some of this awkwardness can definitely be attributed to the fact that the strangers I attract tend to be pretty strange, I too must take some of this blame. I have the super-helpful ability to turn even a perfectly respectable flirtation into a completely awkward situation. For instance, if another girl had a perfectly normal guy come up and talk to her at the gym, I’m pretty sure she would talk to him and not run away with a look of shock and confusion on her face, only to realize five minutes later that he was indeed flirting and not a serial killer. 

So let me tell you the story that made me realize once and for all that the awkward Olympics was soon to commence. My brother and I often go to this Vietnamese restaurant in North Austin. We have been there many times before. We will often sit there for an hour or two catching up on a Monday afternoon. We have seen this one guy who works there many a time before, and I am a bit under the impression that he owns the place. He is probably around fifty years old, and I would hazard a guess that his first language is not English. 

So, my brother and I have had the check for about five minutes, when the guy comes by, hands me the fortune cookies from off the check, and then hands my brother the check. I start laughing a little at what seems to me to be a) super unexpected, b) pretty sexist and c) some sort of confusion wherein this dude thinks my brother and I are a bit closer than all that, cause I’m pretty sure there is no rule wherein younger brothers are forced to pick up the check (although I would fully support that cultural practice). He then waits there until my brother pulls out a credit card and gives it to him.  (*note: to any waiters in the crowd, he did not do this because he was getting off shift because he was there for at least another hour and a half and there were plenty of empty tables.)

When he walks away, we talk about the unusualness of this encounter, but no harm done as my brother often picks up the check because he feels sorry for me and my doctoral student income. But then, the dude comes back, and he is talking to me and making jokes that I can’t quite understand, which I smile politely at because I have no idea what he is saying to me.  I think there’s a compliment in there somewhere, and he seems nervous about something, and then he tells me he is giving me his phone number and it’s on the bill. What? Surely not. Not after he just made this brotherly dude I am with pick up the check. But there it is, the number of the restaurant. I can make neither heads nor tales of this, but it reminds me strongly of when the parents of my students used to hit on me in Spanish. 

                Parent: “Sus ojos son regalos.”

                Me: Um… como?

                Parent: Your eyes. They are gifts.

                Me. Oh. Um. Okay. Thank you. (Awkward smile)

In any case, this is not the first of the awkward encounters so far, nor is it the last, but it’s the one where I noticed the change in climate. Winter is coming. And you, dear reader, shall be kept abreast of further awkward situations as they develop.

The Time Machine for Petty Adjustments

I have always enjoyed thinking of myself as a good and reasonable person.  And as a good and reasonable person, I have often thought about what I should do if I ever had a time machine in my possession. These important, world altering events would of course include killing Hitler, and possibly getting George W. Bush arrested for cocaine possession in the 70s. And of course, like every right-minded person, I would help myself to win the lottery.

The Hamlet 2 Time Machine (if ever a story needed a time machine)

Of course, if I was truly honest with myself, this is not what I would use a time machine for. I would use a time machine to do truly stupid things to make my own life microscopically better. I might for instance go back in time and prevent my drunken self from dragging someone into the bathroom to tell him that “I loved him” in 2005. Or, I might just do something like turn in my taxes on time or never go to grad school. And maybe, just maybe I wouldn’t have jumped off this one cliff in Jamaica and busted my shoulder. 

This is why I think that it’s fine that time machines don’t exist yet. Because like me, most scientists I’m sure have a ton of things about their lives that they wouldn’t mind changing. Especially scientists that have decided to work on a time machine.

Scientist #1: Quick sir, we only have moments to travel back and prevent World 

War III.

Scientist #2: Just give me a second, I need to find the exact time that Cindy James refused to dance with me because I was wearing bell bottoms.

Quick Steve! Send me to prom 1978!

It’s like how we as a people invented a way to be connected to everyone all the time.  Instant global communication. And what do we use the internets for? Stalking people we think are hot. Or becoming facebook friends with people who were mean to us in high school, and watching their photos for signs of beer belly, grey hair, and general wear and tear. 

So no time machine for me I guess, because as much as I hate all the dumb shit I’ve done in my life it’s pretty clear that our mistakes (Attention: After School Special Moment) make us who we are. Just try to make most of them without the help of tequila. And please, don’t vote for anyone that I’m going to need to time machine.