Multiple Choice Hell

This is a bit belated now that I'm in my 4th year.  We no longer have exams--just long shifts and oral rounds for clinicians to evaluate our knowledge.  Last year, though, these were my feelings precisely.

I am the quintessential product of the American school system, for better or for worse. I am not particularly innovative, but I can follow directions like no one’s business.

And I excel at taking multiple choice tests.

Filling in little bubbles was the only thing I could handle with aplomb as an awkward child. My ITBS scores were peppered with little graphs that clearly illustrated my superiority.

Naturally, I enjoyed these exams. They were easy, garnered much-desired praise, and stroked my burgeoning ego. I’d sit, pencil poised, ready to conquer the world.

I could ace those puppies in my sleep, and my continued academic success made my study habits rather complacent. I got slightly more ambivalent in high school and nearly apathetic in college. I studied less and less. The exams were progressively more difficult, but my grades never dropped. I guess my memory is just photogenic enough to scan through my notes to find enough key words, eliminate enough distracters, and prevail with the correct answer. If I heard or read it at least once, I can sit quietly, often tugging at my right eyebrow, and the answer will come to me, as if it’s highlighted on the page.

I hate this skill. Abhor it.

It made me feel like a fraud.

It’s kind of like doing a stupid party trick hasn’t been funny since you drank your first beer, but you’re compelled to whip it for the amusement of others because the routine is firmly ingrained in your psyche. But secretly, you wish you’ll choke on it, so you have an excuse never to perform again. You are a freak show at best.

I do feel deserving of my grades now that I have been forced to study in vet school. There are often hundreds of pages of notes for each exam, and every exam past the 2nd year is essentially cumulative. I can’t memorize every page of my notes anymore. I drink obscene amounts of coffee and jiggle my feet compulsively to keep my body seated in front of my notes while every neuron in my brain resists being held captive. Still, my multiple choice skills are serving me well. But I don’t get that warm, fuzzy feeling of accomplishment during the exam. I actually feel physically ill. Not nervous (although I do sometimes wryly think that missing one question will probably drop my class rank 10 places because many others in my class possess a similar talent), just like I’m gonna hurl. Actually, on second thought, that part probably comes from the pot of coffee I drink on test mornings…

Mostly, I’m just really tired of taking exams. I’m 26. I might be 34 by the time I’m completely done with school, and I’m a little bitter that my ovaries might be sad, shriveled little marbles by the time I even have a real job. I don’t suppose parenthood comes in a multiple choice format?

For today's pure randomness and nostalgia, here's my dog howling at me playing the clarinet last winter and me charmingly yelling at him.

Tough Mudder and my heavy ovaries

Obstacle races punctuated with copious volumes of mud have swept the nation. Colorado can also heighten the stakes with a hefty dose of altitude. I’m a tepid fan. They get a few more people off the sofa, but they tear up a bunch of land with massive swarms of runners, and many people are barely in shape enough to walk the course. Nevertheless, we made our way to Copper Mountain ski resort for the Warrior Dash last year, and we ended up at Beaver Creek ski resort this year for the Tough Mudder. Tough Mudder is a little different because it emphasizes team work. Many obstacles would be exceedingly difficult to scale without a helping hand.

It was about a month after Quad Rock, and I hadn’t run much in the meantime, so this was one to let out the steam. I felt amazing. My lungs and legs cooperated, and I felt like I could go for miles more. When the trail headed directly up a ski run, my heart plodded along, completely content to allow my head to enjoy the wildflowers. When the scheduled 10 mile race suddenly turned into 12, it rolled right off me. It didn’t matter to me whether the race were 5 miles or 20. I was just having fun, reveling in the capability of my body and mind. I did derive some additional satisfaction by making it over every.single.upperbodystrength.obstacle without falling in the water.

A coworker of Jason’s had put the team together, and several of his non-running friends had also come out for a celebratory weekend of drinking and sitting by the hotel pool. They had all brought their wives, and I started to become painstakingly aware that I did not fit in with these women in the slightest. I was the only woman on our team, which I hadn’t thought of until I saw their blonde wives in high heels that probably don’t run, get dirty, or drink beer.

I asked Jason if he wished I would stay on the sidelines and drink prim cocktails with the girls instead of plowing my way through the mud with my legs that hadn’t been shaved in a few days. He grinned and followed my gaze to the women daintily dipping their manicured toes in the pool. “Those guys are fools.” Yup, reason 1251 why I’m marrying this man.

So several rounds in, I was the last woman standing. To be fair, many of their wives left to attend to their kids. But others left in a snit, annoyed their husbands were ordering another round and flirting with other men during their grand exit. I found myself talking to a guy I don’t know, a friend of a friend, who has been giving me an incredulous, inquisitive glance all night.

As we peered at each other with the frankness that can only come from drinking heavily with a complete stranger, he leaned in with a familiarity of someone about to take you deeply into their confidence.

“You know,” he said, shaking his head, “I still can’t believe you kept up the boys!”

Though my senses were slightly dulled, I couldn’t keep the smirk off my face. I had just enough self presence not to unleash a diatribe against someone who had just bought a round of drinks for the entire group. Practicing my maturity and sangfroid, I did NOT say, “Yes, my ovaries are extremely heavy and often hold me back from the men’s pack, but today, I managed to tuck in my enormous breasts and keep up.” Instead, I just said, “Well, the boys helped me over some of the tall obstacles. But we run on this kind of terrain quite a bit. It wasn’t too bad.”

I neglected to tell him that I was honest-to-god hungover at the starting line. Like, elephant sitting on head, sun hurting my eyes, wish I were still in bed, kind of hungover. But the pace was slow enough the entire race for me to clear my head and enjoy the run. In fact, those boys, except Jason, were dragging at my pace mightily.

I’m sure he meant it innocently. I mean, let’s face it, the women’s times in speed events are almost uniformly 90% of the men’s times. But those are elite athletes. Among the average Joes with beer guts, particularly as someone with no athletic inclination as a teen, it was strange to be suddenly fitter than guys who likely enjoyed celebrity status as high school athletes. I kind of missed being nearly the slowest runner on a course like at Quad Rock. That felt real. I earned that. Tough Mudder was a fun time, sure, but I left it hungry for another “serious” trail race. So I signed up for the Blue Sky marathon in October. I’m already preparing to be humbled.

Heirloom tomatoes are easily one of my favorite things in the world.  That is all.