The importance (for me anyway) in being an -ISH.

This weekend, my big sister warned me that I was about to enter the land of Type A personalities. A secret that, as a Type A-***ISH*** personality myself, I had already figured out.

I'd really like to think of myself as a mixture between the two of them.

There's the A in me that stresses over grades, forgets to sleep or eat if my study time forgets to allow me, and will kill you if you touch a highlighter to my notes.  I don't like talkers in no-talking zones at the library, and I've been known to do something about it.  I'll delete my facebook if there's an exam in the near future. I stress. I work hard.  But.... there's a but to this:

There are some things --- some stressors, that I could genuinely give a rat's ass about.  Like, for example, when my class argued (for what seemed like a kajillion hours) about whether to use "I" or "we" for our class oath we had to recite yesterday.  The oath is important -- and I get that, but I'm not going to get heated over a pronoun. Or, when Jimmy (the gunner I wrote about in my last post) politely asked if we could make the oath more "succinct and concise," and another of my classmates straight up yelled at him for "not taking it seriously enough," I couldn't help but laugh.  But those are just two examples---- two of many more that I could choose from.

The B in me enjoys relaxing on my back porch with buddies, a good beer, and barbeque. The B in me laughs it off when Type A's take themselves too seriously. The B in me doesn't give a shit about pronouns unless we're sitting in an English class.  It's the B in me that shaped my recently found approach to handling medical school: get shit done, but more importantly: stay happy.

I don't want to be depressed.  I don't care if I'm not #1 in my class...... or #30...... or if I'm #100. As long as I'm passing, I'll be a happy girl.  And if I do get higher grades than passing, well then bravo for me. I know that stress will be inevitable, but I'd like to keep the stress related to studying ---- and nothing else.  Which means no stressing about grades because they are no better than passing and no stressing over pro-nouns... I don't want to cross over to the wholly type A side.... I'm happy at the ISH side with Jimmy where we belong.

stress relief for the stressers

One of my favorite peers (and everyone's favorite gunner*), Jimmy, asked me about my garden a couple months ago.  The conversation went something like this:

"So is your garden supposed to serve as a stress reliever for while you're in medical school?"

"Yes, what's yours going to be?"

"....beer."

He's that type of guy.  I appreciate his honesty --- and the fact that he can blow curves out of the water but is still willing to enjoy adult beverages with you on the weekends.  But back to the point.

cuttin' the cord.

My mother and I have had a lot of trouble getting along lately. 

The lack of getting along part, however, has nothing to do with the typical mother-daughter arguments. Or at least, they're atypical by my definition of the word.  They have nothing to do with embarrassing dances in public or missing Sunday mass or dating rebels who drive motorcycles.  It's not that.  I wouldn't bore you with that. What we have here is a classic example of the motherly anxiety associated with the youngest of chicks (bu-dum-cha) ready to fly the coop.

Her argument: you're too young

My argument: I'm a grown ass woman

flying again

My sister and I have always had a very special relationship with my Grandmother.  The hands you see holding the leash in the picture to the left, after all, belong to her.  Come to think of it, a lot of who I am belongs to her...

Now that Grandma Roo is 95, Veronica* and I have found it even more difficult to decline any of her requests.  If she asks us to take a trip to the gas station at 9 AM for lottery tickets, we oblige.  When she signals a hand gesture for more wine, we pour (as long as my mother is not in the near vicinity).  When she asks us to dance in public places, we throw our self-consciousness away, and boogie.  And when she asked me to write this post, I picked up a pencil. 

It seems like a billion years ago that a family of birds moved onto our back patio.  In reality, their move-in was a couple months ago.  My dad was still walking around healthily, my mom had no broken bones, and my grandmother was still in a wheel chair after her recent hip fracture.  A lot has changed since then.  As you may be well aware, a lot of things happening in a little bit of time can turn a fortnight into a light-year.  So the birds moved in about a billion years ago.