If there is one thing that I have learned from my first year of medical school (aside from the fact that boring teachers make for boring science and I still prefer a cold weather climate) it is that monotony can kill you. If we are being honest here, what I really mean to say is that the more time you spend with the same people, the more those same people make you want to walk into oncoming traffic. Medical school is an interesting phenomenon, on multiple fronts, but, when trying to describe the feelings it both creates and exhumes from the depths of one’s psyche, most people get caught up in the academic aspect of it all. While it is true that medical school brings with it a stress level that I cannot even begin to put into words—one that makes such mundane things as grocery shopping and shaving seem like privileges that require a certain time and effort that one must earn—and an air of urgency that can make a person go postal, all of these issues would be nothing without the social element of it all. The academic requirements and their accompanying consequences only exacerbate the real issues, the day-to-day humdrum, that grates on your patience and makes you resent the people who matter the most.
My father, despite our differences, has said some wise things in his time. Before I left for medical school, I expressed the fact that I was feeling uneasy about the kinds of people I would meet, the friends that I would hopefully make. While I have never really had a difficult time making new friends, I, nevertheless have always found the initial flirting with boys and girls alike, the ritual display of one’s colored feathers, to be exhausting and almost beneath me. The idea of laying everything I have out on the table and offering it to the highest bidder gives me serious social anxiety; I like to stick to what I know, and medical school, or really, medical students, seemed to be the breed of people who would just browse but not buy all that is Danielle – social window-shopping if you will. My father, having gone through his own version of medical school (dental school- not the same but still not so different), tried to assuage my fears by telling me that it doesn’t matter who my classmates are, what kind of weird eating habits, fashion tastes, or hobbies they posses, these people are going to become my family…for better or for worse. Getting a little more descriptive, my Dad argued that these people will become my war buddies, the people next to me in the foxhole, who are trying to dodge the very same bullets, who carry you when you get hit. He told me that we would all become united in a unique shared experience, one that no one else would ever truly understand or relate to unless he or she had been there him or herself.
At the time, his advice sounded a little too poetic for my taste, and I was wholly consumed by my still flourishing disdain for moving to a beach-town (I live in a city with palm trees- gross), so I dismissed him and his prose.
And now I am eating my words. I could not think of a better metaphor if I tried. Medical school IS war—a war against sleep, against leisure, against the ability to say no to chocolate and fried foods—and these people, the ones who, sometimes, make me regret waking up in the morning, are the people who drag you when you can’t carry yourself, who smile for you when the realities of being a medical student won’t let you do it yourself.
We all come from different planet,; from frat boys to the Kiddush club, yet we all find ourselves thrown into the same hodgepodge of personalities. At times, this makes for a motley crew, one that moves to the beats of 62 different drummers. And aren’t drummers, afterall, just artists, elitists who are stubbornly convinced they his or her own beat is the truest? Hells yes. We make out with each other’s crushes because we are too bored and lonely to say no, we make stupidly expensive impulse buys at Zara because we think we need to outdo everyone at the Thanksgiving banquet, since it is our one and only chance to show everyone that we are actually attractive people, and we snap at each other under pressure, in the most passive aggressive of ways, because one of us took the other’s usual spot in the study room. We known every little detail about each other’s personal lives because we make it our business to find out, out of pure boredom and slight jealousy. There are no atheists in our foxhole…because, if there were, we would know about it.
But they are also beautiful. Despite our differences, we all seem to blend into this indestructible meshwork of know-it-all, Type A personality prototypes. While that sounds like it would create a community of cut-throat, gunners who are more than willing to step on everyone around them just to get the grade, life in med school, at least in my experience, is the exact opposite. We stay up until the wee hours of the morning teaching our friends the intricate details of the brain’s functions because he or she has left it all until the night before the exam because he or she was too preoccupied with family or relationship drama to prepare beforehand. We make 70 page long review sheets for our finals only because organization of the material makes us feel like we have a handle on it and email it to the rest of the class (or is that just something I do?). We go with each other to the doctor, we come over in the middle of the night and make brownies when one of us gets dumped, we call one another at the butt crack of dawn to make sure we are all awake for our exams. We carry each other when we feel like we can’t go on, we smile for each other when we feel like doing it ourselves will shatter our faces.
High school was a joke. I saw the same people every single day for 4 years: winter, spring, summer, and fall. College was great: I loved my friends but I also loved my vacations from them and my college town. Med school is impossible: but I can’t wait to go back. Does that make me crazy…or lucky?
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Jating
Life in the big city got really dull really fast. The novelties of being in a new city surrounded by new friends wore off but good. Don’t get me wrong, I like Tel Aviv and I love my friends, but medical school—all that unbearably dense embryology and deathly boring histology—can make a girl a little stir crazy. Excitement has been replaced with lonliness and enthusiasm ousted by self-consciousness. My initial perspective, one dancing with wide-open spaces and endless possibilities, has quickly turned into one clouded by boredom and never-ending memorization.
So, what do I do when the tough gets going? Put on my highest heals, shave my legs, and whip out the push-up bra? Hell no. I retreat to my bed, watch crime shows, and complain about how useless I am. I become a hermit, limited to communication with only the few people I find the least irritating. These poor souls tell me I should get out more, beg me to try and stimulate the other aspects of my personality, the ones that don’t revolve around diabetes, broken arms, and Downs syndrome. I promise them that I will find my energy eventually, that I need to rediscover myself on my own terms. Yet, claiming that I must be the one to take control over my life did not stop me from complaining about how much I need to get sexy, get out, and get laid. It must have been seriously draining to be around someone who desperately wanted to be someone different, whined about how hard it is to transform oneself all on one’s own, but would not accept anyone’s help. They got fed up, dragged me out of bed, and forced me to do something I would never have done on my own. Good intentions, awkward consequences.
In order to yank me out of my slump, my friends forced me to step outside of my bubble and throw myself into a different world. It would be good for me, they argued, to hang out with people outside of my comfort zone. What they really meant was, it would be hilarious to watch Danielle squirm while we sent her on dates with people she has never met. They dragged me to the computer, forced me to take out my credit card, and signed me up for Jdate.
My feelings toward the website varied throughout the course of my short time on it. At first, I was completely against it. It made me uncomfortable to have creepy, foreign-looking men send me automated messages expressing the fact that we would have “beautiful looking Jewish children” or that he thinks that he and I would definitely “make memories” over coffee. I was like: who are these people that think it’s normal to speak to someone that way? Who thought of these pickup lines and why is it okay to use them? Why is it acceptable to call someone you have never met a sassy-looking redhead? Who cut that guys hair???
Every new message, poke, flirt, wink, instant message, made me cringe. I don’t know if it was mostly to do with the culture clash, the fact that all of these men were born and raised Israelis, who, as most of us have learned by now, sort of live by a different set of guy-girl interaction rules. What I do know is that, at first, the whole Jdate thing sort of made me want to become a Wiccan (no one asks witches why they aren’t married!!).
However, as time, and my subscription, progressed, all the attention became somewhat flattering. Jdate has features that allow you to see both how many and who has viewed your profile (if Facebook was like that I would be off of it so fast it would make Mark Zuckerberg’s head spin…obviously the beauty of Facebook is it’s, ironically, faceless stalking opportunities) and I was, by internet dating standards, a hit! I got like 5 messages a day begging me for dates. When in my life have I ever been asked out by 5 different guys in one day (with the exception of that weird night at Egon when I was 18)? It was all just so exciting, I even entertained the idea of actually going out with some of these people.
All it took was one date to show me that all of my excitement had been for naught. He wasn’t a bad guy. He was perfectly nice (except for the fact that I had to speak in Hebrew the whole time). He paid for my drink, walked me to the cab, hugged me goodnight. Nothing to really put in the diary. So, why, you might ask, did it turn me off completely? Well, I’ll tell you…it was a Jate. Calling upon the few, yet monumental, dates that I have gone on in my short dating life, this one just sort of felt…different. It was almost as though he and I were both trying to pretend like our time together had not begun with a flirty message created by some, undoubtedly single, 30-something year old reader of romance novels who worked for Jdate. The word “Jdate” was never uttered in the 3 hours we spent together, as if saying the word might out us as desperate. I never would have given this a guy a second thought if I had met him under different circumstances, and he and I both knew that, and yet, we forced ourselves to talk about nothing for 3 hours, if only to finish our drinks and not feel like we totally sucked at life. The whole thing just felt so forced, so synthetic, as if I was stomaching those 3 hours just to make myself feel better about wasting 30 bucks on a Jdate membership.
The messages never stopped flooding my inbox, but my enthusiasm quickly drained. I stopped responding to the would-be suiters, ignored the site entirely, pretty much resigning myself from it completely. What began as creepy come-ons that eventually turned into exciting prospects, became sleazy automated flirts once again. Don’t tell me that you think you and I could hit it off! What, among aaaallll of the oh-so-telling information on my profile (my height, my eye color, and my religious values) would make you think that we would get along, let alone make a darling couple?!? You don’t know me! I could be a glue addict or a lover of prepubescent boys or a Communist for all you know!
Is it so wrong to want dating, falling in love, and marriage (not necessarily in that order) to be organic? Is it a crime to think that I am above the people whose mothers created Jdate profiles for them? These people don’t appreciate what I have to offer. Again, we could attribute this to the culture clash, but no guy that I find on the internet is going to fall in love with the fact that I am a driven future doctor with passionate opinions, a dirty mouth, and big hair. Those are the kinds of people who are looking for mother-wives. People like me need to win people over. We need to make them laugh at the bride’s ugly dress at a wedding reception of mutual friends, we need to surprise them with our opinions on IUD’s as we are stuck in the corner of an overly crowded bar. I can’t impress you on a Jate because, just like you, I am too self-consciously aware of how this union came to be. I have accepted this.
My Jdate membership is now cancelled. When I called up the company to suspend my subscription, a friendly young man named Adam asked a whole bunch of questions about my account and my reasons for terminating it. I am sure that Adam was expecting one of the usual responses that most people give when asked this question—it just wasn’t for me. I am joining eharmony.com instead. I met the man of my dreams at a comic book convention. But, as I have so expressly pointed out, I am not your average Jater. Poor boy…when he asked me: “Ms. Platt, if you don’t mind my asking, why is it that you are choosing to end your membership with us here at Jdate?”, I quickly responded. “Well, Adam…I am becoming a Wiccan.” Told him!
So, what do I do when the tough gets going? Put on my highest heals, shave my legs, and whip out the push-up bra? Hell no. I retreat to my bed, watch crime shows, and complain about how useless I am. I become a hermit, limited to communication with only the few people I find the least irritating. These poor souls tell me I should get out more, beg me to try and stimulate the other aspects of my personality, the ones that don’t revolve around diabetes, broken arms, and Downs syndrome. I promise them that I will find my energy eventually, that I need to rediscover myself on my own terms. Yet, claiming that I must be the one to take control over my life did not stop me from complaining about how much I need to get sexy, get out, and get laid. It must have been seriously draining to be around someone who desperately wanted to be someone different, whined about how hard it is to transform oneself all on one’s own, but would not accept anyone’s help. They got fed up, dragged me out of bed, and forced me to do something I would never have done on my own. Good intentions, awkward consequences.
In order to yank me out of my slump, my friends forced me to step outside of my bubble and throw myself into a different world. It would be good for me, they argued, to hang out with people outside of my comfort zone. What they really meant was, it would be hilarious to watch Danielle squirm while we sent her on dates with people she has never met. They dragged me to the computer, forced me to take out my credit card, and signed me up for Jdate.
My feelings toward the website varied throughout the course of my short time on it. At first, I was completely against it. It made me uncomfortable to have creepy, foreign-looking men send me automated messages expressing the fact that we would have “beautiful looking Jewish children” or that he thinks that he and I would definitely “make memories” over coffee. I was like: who are these people that think it’s normal to speak to someone that way? Who thought of these pickup lines and why is it okay to use them? Why is it acceptable to call someone you have never met a sassy-looking redhead? Who cut that guys hair???
Every new message, poke, flirt, wink, instant message, made me cringe. I don’t know if it was mostly to do with the culture clash, the fact that all of these men were born and raised Israelis, who, as most of us have learned by now, sort of live by a different set of guy-girl interaction rules. What I do know is that, at first, the whole Jdate thing sort of made me want to become a Wiccan (no one asks witches why they aren’t married!!).
However, as time, and my subscription, progressed, all the attention became somewhat flattering. Jdate has features that allow you to see both how many and who has viewed your profile (if Facebook was like that I would be off of it so fast it would make Mark Zuckerberg’s head spin…obviously the beauty of Facebook is it’s, ironically, faceless stalking opportunities) and I was, by internet dating standards, a hit! I got like 5 messages a day begging me for dates. When in my life have I ever been asked out by 5 different guys in one day (with the exception of that weird night at Egon when I was 18)? It was all just so exciting, I even entertained the idea of actually going out with some of these people.
All it took was one date to show me that all of my excitement had been for naught. He wasn’t a bad guy. He was perfectly nice (except for the fact that I had to speak in Hebrew the whole time). He paid for my drink, walked me to the cab, hugged me goodnight. Nothing to really put in the diary. So, why, you might ask, did it turn me off completely? Well, I’ll tell you…it was a Jate. Calling upon the few, yet monumental, dates that I have gone on in my short dating life, this one just sort of felt…different. It was almost as though he and I were both trying to pretend like our time together had not begun with a flirty message created by some, undoubtedly single, 30-something year old reader of romance novels who worked for Jdate. The word “Jdate” was never uttered in the 3 hours we spent together, as if saying the word might out us as desperate. I never would have given this a guy a second thought if I had met him under different circumstances, and he and I both knew that, and yet, we forced ourselves to talk about nothing for 3 hours, if only to finish our drinks and not feel like we totally sucked at life. The whole thing just felt so forced, so synthetic, as if I was stomaching those 3 hours just to make myself feel better about wasting 30 bucks on a Jdate membership.
The messages never stopped flooding my inbox, but my enthusiasm quickly drained. I stopped responding to the would-be suiters, ignored the site entirely, pretty much resigning myself from it completely. What began as creepy come-ons that eventually turned into exciting prospects, became sleazy automated flirts once again. Don’t tell me that you think you and I could hit it off! What, among aaaallll of the oh-so-telling information on my profile (my height, my eye color, and my religious values) would make you think that we would get along, let alone make a darling couple?!? You don’t know me! I could be a glue addict or a lover of prepubescent boys or a Communist for all you know!
Is it so wrong to want dating, falling in love, and marriage (not necessarily in that order) to be organic? Is it a crime to think that I am above the people whose mothers created Jdate profiles for them? These people don’t appreciate what I have to offer. Again, we could attribute this to the culture clash, but no guy that I find on the internet is going to fall in love with the fact that I am a driven future doctor with passionate opinions, a dirty mouth, and big hair. Those are the kinds of people who are looking for mother-wives. People like me need to win people over. We need to make them laugh at the bride’s ugly dress at a wedding reception of mutual friends, we need to surprise them with our opinions on IUD’s as we are stuck in the corner of an overly crowded bar. I can’t impress you on a Jate because, just like you, I am too self-consciously aware of how this union came to be. I have accepted this.
My Jdate membership is now cancelled. When I called up the company to suspend my subscription, a friendly young man named Adam asked a whole bunch of questions about my account and my reasons for terminating it. I am sure that Adam was expecting one of the usual responses that most people give when asked this question—it just wasn’t for me. I am joining eharmony.com instead. I met the man of my dreams at a comic book convention. But, as I have so expressly pointed out, I am not your average Jater. Poor boy…when he asked me: “Ms. Platt, if you don’t mind my asking, why is it that you are choosing to end your membership with us here at Jdate?”, I quickly responded. “Well, Adam…I am becoming a Wiccan.” Told him!
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