In which I am scarred for life by a PSA

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Image via WikipediaWhen I was in fourth grade, we had to watch D.A.R.E. videos. In one, a girl got into drugs, dropped out of school, got a job as a waitress, and was fired for her partying ways. Pretty standard stuff. At the end of the video, she had locked herself in the ladies room and the audio played loud sniffing. I, being disgustingly naive, assumed she was just crying. Everyone else knew that this meant she was snorting something elicit.

Since then, I've always been afraid to cry in a public bathroom. If I could mistake snorting for sniffling, someone else might mistake my sniffling for snorting.

The Good

It's hardly a bad thing to learn to be discrete, whether it's crying or just ordinary nose-blowing. Even if they don't assume you're on something, people don't want to hear that.

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In which I fear heights

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I am afraid of heights. Now, it's not a true phobia -- I get by just fine in my daily life with only minor adjustments. For instance, I prefer elevators or stairs to escalators. This isn't cold sweats at the mere though of a snake, here.

But words cannot express the haaaaaaate I felt once at the prospect of climbing up on my windowsill, reaching out my window, and grabbing said window in major gusts of wind to shut it. Now, let me break this down for you.

I don't like standing on windowsills to start. I'm convinced I'll fall. I'm clumsy, so that's a practical concern. But that's how I know it's not a true phobia -- I do it when I have to.

Secondly, I don't like reaching out of windows. On the first floor, it feels silly, like some passerby will see me and make fun of me. On the second floor, I have images of popping the screen out and impaling myself on the neighbor's fence. On the 11th floor... it's unpleasant. Really, really, insanely unpleasant.

And finally, wind. Wind is flattering to heights. Makes them seem higher. Makes the clumsy not-quote-acrophobe all the more certain that she's about to fall to her death.

So there I was, sticking my whole arm and part of my head out my 11th-story window, into fierce wind, trying to grab the window as it flutters merrily in the breeze, while my stocking-feet tried to find traction on my glossy-painted windowsill.

Let me assure you right now, that even if my life were to spiral out of control and I were to lose the will to live, I will *never* jump off a building or bridge. Hell, the idea might be enough to encourage me to live.

The good

You know, I really don't let it stop me. In fact, I love roller coasters. I've always liked bridges. No, I'm not a fan of escalators, but it's healthier to take the stairs anyway.

In which I attract explosions

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When I was an undergrad, I was a writer for the newspaper. One day, walking from class to the local Wendy's, I saw that the next block over, where the new dorms were being built, was completely blocked off, with firetrucks and police cars lining the street. I started asking questions, which turned to making phone calls and sending frantic emails to my editor; it turned out that a crane fell and sheared the valve off a gas tank, making the whole construction site a biohazard.

The following year, my now-fiance and I were coming back from the evening Mass when we, once again, saw the street where our dorm was blocked off by police. I sent him to get his camera, and another round of questions, calls, and frantic emails began.

I could have had the hat trick, actually; I was on campus when the wall collapsed. However, I was attending a screening of The Vagina Monologues at the time. The Gender Studies department didn't have the easiest time getting permission to hold that screening, so the joke was that the video caused the wall to fall.

The good
Not that it's my strong point, but I picked up a healthy taste for investigation on those days. I was also the one person who could cut through the rumors.

In which I fail to donate blood

I've always planned on giving blood. It's odd: I don't like the sight of blood, and I despise needles. I never even got my ears pierced. But even as a little kid, I always planned on giving blood.

In high school, I signed up the first year I was eligible. I was one pound below the weight minimum.

After 9/11 I inquired about giving blood. I was told I couldn't since I was on antibiotics. That's only half true -- if you're on long-term preventative antibiotics, as in for acne, you can still give blood. Which I was.

Twice after that, I tried to give blood, but my iron was too low. But I was planning on starting a multivitamin anyway, so I found one with iron supplements in it. The next blood drive, I passed all their tests. Finally.

The nurse promptly began trying to psyche me out. "No one will judge you if you change your mind. If you're uncomfortable, just say the word and we'll stop. You don't have to do this." And mind you, this wasn't said in any kind of compassionate, commiserating, "I've been there and know it's rough," kind of way. This was condescending. This was, "You're an idiot and I wish you wouldn't waste our time."

This was not a good idea. Implying that I'm afraid isn't going to make me back down; it's going to make me persist. I'm stubborn like that.

Well, given my size, age, gender, blood pressure, and the fact that I'd never given blood before, it's typical that I would be a less-than-great candidate. (Of course, they also insisted that my low-ish blood pressure had absolutely nothing to do with it, which I think is a load. And my GP confirms that.) All of which they told me after I'd spent about an hour on the table, only to give enough blood to ban me from giving for the requisite 6 weeks, but not enough to use. I actually was issued a donor card that doesn't have my blood type on it; they don't test bags that are only 90% full, you see.

If I'm a bad candidate for blood donation, just tell me. Don't try to scare me away. I don't find your tactics helpful; I find them grossly unprofessional.

And you know what? You need my blood. I don't need your attitude.

The good

I stood up for myself and did something good for other people. I'm in the Red Cross's system, should I decide to try again. And hey -- free cookies!

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In which I am a heretic

Image via WikipediaAs an undergrad, I was a Theology minor. The first college theology class I took was pretty basic intro-level stuff; I was already familiar with much of it, so I could engage and had a really good time.

One day, there was a small debate. The question: assuming (if you would for the moment, please) that God is perfect, why did God give the Israelites the Law and have to send Jesus? After all, if the Law was good enough, Jesus wouldn't have been necessary, but if God knew the Law wouldn't be good enough, why bother? Why not skip right to Jesus?

Two of my classmates got into a pretty heated discussion. I don't recall what the exact positions were, but they were doing a pretty good job of splitting up the opinions of the class. At this point, I had an idea.

I used a parable. See, the professor tended to use Sausage and Pepper Sandwiches in his metaphors, so I followed suit. "Let's say that God wanted to reveal that Sausage and Pepper Sandwiches are the best sandwiches," I said. "Human understanding is limited, so this revelation wouldn't make sense unless the people knew what a sandwich was. So God gives us the revelation of sandwiches, then once we've had time to absorb this information and assimilate it into our society, God reveals the Ultimate Sandwich to us. Likewise, God had to reveal the Law so that Jesus would make sense. It provides context."

There was a moment of silent though. The professor asked each of the debaters if this satisfied their points. It did. He asked the class if they had any problems with it. After asking a few questions to clarify, they were satisfied, as well. I was happy. The professor seemed happy too. He was smiling as he said, "Class, this is how heresies get started."

So I'm a heretic.

But you know what? I'm not actually convinced I'm wrong.

The good
Proof that I'm a free thinker who can come up with solutions to ancient problems is always nice, of course. And I have to say, it's kind of cool to be a heretic.

In which Greek Life fears me

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Freshman year of college is pretty much universally rough. Living away from home didn't bother me, and I adapted to the academics. I did suffer from the unfortunate coincidence of being enrolled in Introductory Philosophy the semester of 9/11 (cue the obnoxious existential crisis), and that was all compounded by the fact that I was having a hard time making friends. Most of the people I knew were forming those first-semester cliques that rarely last but at the same time are impenetrable while they do; I didn't fit in with the girls in my suite; most of the people in my classes were tight with the people in their suites. So I decided to rush a sorority.

I was told that in about four years, only one candidate had not made it into a sorority, and she had not bothered to participate in the process. Pretty inclusive group, don't you think?

In this process, the three sororities that were on campus at the time essentially advertised themselves to the candidates, giving us a sense of their personalities, values, and social habits. At the same time, they subtly judged the candidates in turn, looking to see exactly who would fit in best.

I was meticulous, carefully weighing each against the others, taking notes and asking detailed questions.

This process ended when the sororities announced which girls they were interested in. Each girl was issued invitations to parties thrown by the sororities that chose them; if all three liked a girl, she could attend up to two. After the parties, both girls and societies re-evaluated and made a final choice.

Does it surprise you at all that the day of this announcement, I got a phone call to warn me (for the sake of my feelings) that I had not received any invitations?

Oh, but I could be put in reserve and join up should anyone drop out and leave a vacancy! Please. You don't want me; I won't burden you with my presence. But why, I asked, did this happen? Was any feedback given?

It turns out the sisters were intimidated by my note-taking.

That's right.

My rational, sensible decision-making skills made them uncomfortable. Red flag, much?

In retrospect, the girls who were sought after by all three sisterhoods were the kind of girl I don't really get along with. In fact, my closest friends have always been guys. So this worked out pretty nicely, overall.

Except, I didn't exactly have high-status guys chasing me. Or, you know, guys, plural. There was one low-level stalker, but I've seen him at work on other girls and he has pretty low standards (those standards being: they have a conversation with him). But let's use a metaphor...You wouldn't go to the Lindt store for ice cream. You might be convinced they'd have amazing ice cream; you may really wish they had ice cream. But going to the Lindt store and trying to buy ice cream is just stupid. Won't do you any good. So even though it's inferior chocolate, you settle for Dairy Queen. And now, I'm engaged to a man who really knows how to appreciate a special edition truffle.


The good
Dude, are you kidding me? I intimidated the sisters! If that's not the best rejection I've received in my life, it definitely ranks in the top five.

In which I outline the Rules

1) All of these stories have to be mine. Other people can show up, of course, but these stories are about my experiences, not someone else's. I am the Protagonist (or Antagonist). If you want to read about the time my fiance went hang-gliding, you can read his blog. Which he doesn't have. Which is the point of this blog: if you want your story told, tell it yourself. Also, no names will be used unless I'm given explicit permission... though if you're a regular reader of Reviewing Whatever, you can probably figure out most of the key players.

2) There are things I will not talk about. My job is one. It's not interesting, for one thing. For another, I don't want to betray any of the people I work with. Also, nothing I say reflects the views of the company or its employees. Another is personal stuff. Will I tell you about how I'm a terrible pessimist? Absolutely. Will I tell you why that is? No, I will not. If you do some detective work, I'm sure you can find my LiveJournal, but I'm not going to make it easy for you.

3) The hard part. Something good must come from everything. Like I just said, I'm a pessimist. So for every story I tell, I have to include the lesson I learned, or the insight I gained, or the really cool picture I took, or something.

I'll likely be updating these as I go.