Saturday, March 8, 2008

The Accidental Doctor

I never wanted to be a Doctor when I grew up. Heck, I didn’t even want to be a nurse (although there are pictures that imply otherwise). And yet somehow, here I am on the road to a doctorate. And to make matters worse, I am going to be the kind of Doctor that people respond to with disappointment. I’ve already seen hints of this type of response, so I know it’s coming. “Oh, I see. You aren’t going to be a REAL Doctor. You will just have a PhD.” Just. Right.

I often find myself wondering how I got here. So, I thought maybe I’d map out my journey as a bit of a reference point. I would like to report that my academic career came about because of a great vision that I have worked tirelessly toward fulfilling. But in truth, it really amounts to a little luck, a lot of happy accidents, a few (okay, maybe more than a few) demons and no small amount of perseverance.

To be honest, I went back to school because I had run out of options. My marriage had passed its expiry date, the business school I had attended went belly-up about a week before I was to start my final practicum and a friend’s business that I was planning to work for didn’t quite get off the ground. And so I thought a two year diploma seemed like just the ticket.

Unsure about whether or not I had it in me to finish a full two year program, I nevertheless signed up for my first semester at a reputable ‘open’ university, where I could work at my own pace and never have to step into a classroom (except for the occasional exam). Finishing the first semester gave me the confidence to sign up for a second term. Completing that gave me the confidence to transfer to a local university college and I stepped bravely into a real classroom for the first time in almost 20 years. Nothing had changed, really. It looked a lot like high school classes I had attended. Lots of fresh young faces, lots of whispered crushes and in the midst of it all a lot of frustrated teachers hoping to inspire a passion for learning in at least a few of these students. The only thing that seemed out of place was me.

I think I succeeded more because I couldn’t keep up with the chaotic exuberance of youth than out of any special talent. Studying was easier than trying to keep up with either the drama or the endless energy of those who somehow juggled academics with dating, dancing and drama. And so a two year degree turned into a four year one. And suddenly, in my fourth year, endless streams of people informed me that my options were limited with a degree in sociology. And by limited, they meant pretty much non-existent. Grad school was apparently the way to go. I applied, sure I would be turned down and have to spend the rest of my life working the drive-thru window at McDonald’s.

When my letter had not arrived weeks after a friend had received her acceptance letter, my friend encouraged me to email the department to find out for sure. I received a response almost immediately, telling me that an ‘offer’ had been sent weeks before and that a new letter would be sent immediately. I was terrified, elated and filled with self-doubt, a mixture of feelings that have stayed with me to this day.

Grad school is a place filled with terror. The constant evaluation is terrifying on its own. Add to that the expectation that as a student you will come up with new and original ideas to fuel a machine that is designed to transform ‘new and original’ into fodder for the post-‘new and original.’ It is truly a terrifying process. What if I can’t come up with something new and original? What if it has all been done before? What if I am the grad student who came to the machine just when the supply of new and original ran out?

And then an idea comes, that maybe can be passed off as new and original. We make our own little marks on the world, and the elation passes over us in great waves. We can make a difference. Our discoveries and/or insights, no matter how small they may seem, might just make a difference in how people see the world. If someone reads them. If they don’t die a slow death in the microfilm library. If we can put them into coherent sentences to present in classrooms or conference halls.

From time to time, I still do a search in the library to see if my Master’s thesis is still there. My own personal collection of new and original ideas. It is what fuels both my hope and my terror as I sit here once more, searching for another new and original idea. Maybe I’ll happen upon it in an archive somewhere, or maybe it will come to me in a dream. Most likely, it will come to me as all good things do, through perseverance, hope and a lot of luck.

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

Looking Good Naked

I was recently flipping through the channels trying to find something to occupy my fuzz coated brain. I happened across a show called “How to Look Good Naked,” which is a makeover show produced in the UK. But it is a different kind of makeover show than you might think, unless of course you have seen it, then it is probably exactly what you think it is.

In any case, I was expecting the same formula that you find on most ‘makeover’ shows. One overweight woman + personal trainer/surgery/diet intervention = happily ever after. Instead, it is a show that has the audacity to tell women that their lumps, bumps and bulges are normal and even *gasp* desirable. Women with real bodies bare all. Bulging bellies, ‘thunder thighs’ and breasts that are too small, too big or too asymmetrical are all fair fodder. It is a makeover show with a twist. The women, all unhappy with their various over/under abundances of flesh are forced to face their reflections in a three-way mirror. This is the part of the show that is the most painful to watch.

Many of the women turn away from the reflection of their (half) naked bodies, unable to meet their own gaze in the mirror. Others bravely examine and recount their inadequacies for the audience, tears often streaming down their faces. As much as part of me is adverse to the capitalistic voyeurism, I am also mesmerized and I see incredible bravery in these acts.

I expected the host to offer liposuction, dietary advice or an all expense paid trip to the fat farm. Instead, he uses a variety of (sometimes problematic) exercises to teach them that their bodies are just fine, even beautiful. The women learn how to dress their bodies in ways that make them feel good about their bodies. They are often confronted with their own unrealistic perceptions of what their bodies really look like. In the end, they are given the opportunity to pose naked for a photo shoot. The photos are beautiful.

I know that these so-called reality shows only provide part of the story. The emotional makeovers that the women undergo may simply be fabrications of some producer/director or corporation. But the best part of this show is that it offers women an alternative to the same thin, blond, unmarked, unblemished version of beauty that they are offered every day. In addition to the women who volunteer to undergo the makeover, the program also unabashedly shows the bodies and faces of women who celebrate their bellies, thighs and buttocks, stretch marks and all. They come in all shapes, sizes, colours and ages. They dance and laugh, in various states of undress for the camera.

When was the last time you stood naked and celebrated the beauty of your body? Maybe a public celebration of your cellulite might seem out of reach, but maybe a party with you and the mirror is in order. I’ve already penciled mine in. Next week….after I shave my legs, get a manicure and buy some candles.