The Waiting Game

Medical school is an interesting phenomenon. Everyone always tells you that it’s the hardest thing you will ever do in your life. You are warned that you will shut yourself off from the world, become addicted to coffee, and hate every minute of everyday. Doctors discourage you from going. People smile knowingly when you tell them you are about to start, as if they are in on the plot to ruin your life too. No one ever tries to sugarcoat it, paint it rosy, or tell a little white lie… medical school is going to suck, but, hey, good luck to you. Someone’s got to do it.
It’s funny because, from what I can see, which, let’s face it, is not much, medical school doesn’t suck at all. I have spent the past 2 months drinking myself into a naughty oblivion, socializing with people who I never would have spoken to 3 months ago, and discovering a whole new side of a country in which I have spent half of my life. I am in medical school but I still watch TV, I still hang out with my friends, I still go out on the weekends…hell, I just got back from a week long cruise to Greece. Everyone who said medical school was going to be the death of me can bite me because med school fuckin rocks.
I know, I know. It’s only the beginning. It’s going to get harder. It probably will suck at times. I will probably drink a lot of coffee. I will probably stop thinking Tel Aviv is so awesome. But, for now, I will try not to burst my own bubble by thinking about how much things are going to change and enjoy my time for now. I’ll worry about the important stuff later.
But there’s a catch of course. Since I have decided to dedicate much of my time to socializing instead of academics (which I will inevitably pay for later…work with me), I find myself noticing, once again, how lacking I am when it comes to…well…social charm. I was thrown into a mix of 62 new people who come from different upbringings, schools, countries, socioeconomic statuses, genders, and sexualities. Part of me is excited by the prospect of getting to know so many new and interesting people; however, another part of me, the one that is shy and scared of the unknown, is highly overwhelmed by the notion of having to be on my game at all times. These people are going to become my family and they don’t know me from a hole in the wall. I, therefore, have a very rare chance to reinvent myself, to show these people the most awesome version of Danielle there is. And, yet, I act like myself. I am loud and course and opinionated and judgmental and sarcastic and ultimately, not charming. I want to be charming so badly. Do I have it in me? Can I be soft and welcoming and easy to be around or am I destined to be the tough chick, the one with the big mouth and the big hair who talks dirty and shows a lot of cleavage?
My lack of feminine mystique wouldn’t be such a problem if I weren’t so concerned with finding myself a lover from among the slim pickings in my class. If I am going to be honest here, I am not sure if my desire for a partner stems from my need for affection and companionship or from a place of raging hormones and sexual frustration, but it is there nonetheless. I know I always say that I like being single, that I cannot afford to set aside all the time and energy it takes to make something romantic work but that’s really not the issue at all.
When I cut the crap and bottom-line it for myself I am really just a big pussy. It’s not that I don’t have time for a lover, it’s that I am too afraid of rejection to put myself out there in order to get one. I never used to be that way. I used to be the girl who let it all hang out, take it or leave it. I never cared if the boy responded to my advances because I always had another project lined up if the original plan failed. This is no longer the case. A year and a half of emotional abuse from my last relationship, the subsequent and accompanying prescription for anti-anxiety pills, and the resulting extra 50 lbs (thank you Celexa for making me less inclined to cry but more inclined to eat) has drained me of every ounce of my mojo. I no longer have the balls to put myself out there; I cannot make any moves, I hold out for everyone and everything to come to me. And so I wait. And wait. And wait some more.
Ok, fine. You caught me. I have a crush. It’s a little stupid one but it’s there and I have no idea how to make it anything else. I can talk about my feelings for him and analyze our conversations until Armageddon but I can’t seem to take my shit or get off the goddamn pot. I don’t even know where to begin.
My friend told me the other day, when I was, once again, expressing my frustration with the fact that I am the lamest person on the planet, that I should stop holding onto my old baggage, put myself out there, and in the case of rejection, deal with it and let that become my new baggage. Baggage is ok as long as it’s new. She might be right and I want so badly to practice that preach but you and I both know I won’t. So I’ll just be here, in my room, waiting until my mojo decides to come home.