in medias res

Accidents vs. Sheer Stupidity

I’m back. I’ve been lusting for this moment for the past two months not knowing how hard it would be. I slept for an hour last night. I laid down for an hour and a half, but my first bit of sleep, my mind worked feverishly and my eyes never closed. I got up –restructured my paper, had a bowl of Special K, and went back to bed with one blanket and all the lights on. I eat when I’m tired the way I turn down the air conditioner when the music is too loud.

I woke up an hour later wet with sweat and with sore eyes. But it was go time – the day I needed to present my half-baked paper to a room of smarty-pants from everywhere.

First, an explanation. The field of English Literature has not changed the number of Ph.D.s it produces for the past thirty years. However, the number of English majors has dropped (people becoming more practical, perhaps?) and, thus, there are more qualified Ph.D.s than jobs available. This breeds clawing, kicking, slitting, biting, snarling, stealing…But the English programs I have known have all been so lovely and nurturing, I have seen nothing of this scary world. But I know it’s out there. I hear stories.

To survive and actually get a job in this market, I have to stand out. I must publish, present, charm, and network. That’s what this conference was – a suggestion by my major professor to aid in my professionalization. Two other friends also needed to lose their conference virginity. We signed up for a panel, and then forgot about it. February was far. We would each read a paper for twenty minutes, and then brilliant people would ask us questions or grill us mercilessly. It looks great on a c.v.

But…Hi, my name is Tara, and I think I have a writing problem. This paper was written (hastily and badly) in December. I had submitted it to a conference and knew it would need revision, but I didn’t know how much. My professor returned my paper, full of questions and suggestions and praise and constructive criticism (he’s too kind). I read small bits of theory, constantly reprinting drafts of this paper in different arrangements and color schemes. I thought I would try multi-colored post-its on a tri-fold board, but I made too many points and they all ran together like day-old confetti. I grouped them by category and started to develop small chunks of a paper that would come together later. Problem is, it never did. It was fifteen minutes before our panel was supposed to present and I just printed it out as is. Some parts, there were no transitions. I think I planned on them all being so deep into their grocery lists by that point they wouldn’t even notice – just surface long enough for a clever phrase and a nod. The other girl on my panel did very well. It was inspiring – she was so genuinely excited and aware of her topic, and everyone in the crowd ate it up.

(The above is the blog I started Friday night. Now it’s Sunday, and I have a more interesting story. Please pardon the interruption…)

First of all, I’ve had a request to not address my boyfriend by the name “the Boy.” We’ll make him “Mike”. Please make a note of this for all future exchanges.

Second of all, I’m an idiot. I can’t even hurt myself in a cool way – like “I got that scar from a wrestling match with a cheetah.” Or even “I was rock-climbing and I fell and broke my arm.” No. No major breaks - unless you count the time I broke my pinky in the gym when I dropped a weight on it. My bones are too thick from a lifetime of loving milk (and bad breath.)

No, I sew my finger. That’s my Darwin-nominated injury. I was making a blanket and looking around the machine to check the stitches, but I didn’t stop sewing until I felt the needle in my nailbed. I looked at it for a second, reversed the needle out of my finger, and called for my roommate. I just stared and thought, “Hm. That’s gonna hurt.” The roommate came to my rescue and helped me stop the bleeding. I laughed - which feels much better than crying.

It’s like the end of Field of Dreams, after the little girl falls off the bleachers, and her parents ask her how she’s feeling. “Stooopid.”

My roommate says that when she was younger and sewed all the time, she never sewed her own finger – but she was always afraid she would.

That’s my problem: I think it all happens to other people – never to me. I don’t think I’m invincible, I just think surely the odds won’t leave me as the 1 out of 20. I never even win a free Diet Coke on a twist-off bottle. “Please Try Again.”

It’s a slow and painful process, but I’m learning to be more careful and alert. It’s just hard to remember.

posted by tara @ 11:33 PM