There's No Crying In Grad School

So I think I got a B on my last exam. Boo f-ing hoo. My teacher is inconsistent and his exams are poorly written, but to be totally honest, I'm beat up and didn’t study as hard as usual. Sleep evades me, I'm frequently emotionally crippled by visions of my father's last days, my mother’s financial position is precarious and I spend my time imagining multi-million dollar businesses or CEOships I could eventually win to save her and the rest of my family from the wayward legacy of my father’s inadequacies as a provider. He was a wonderful, benevolent man who gave every ounce of himself, so it is easy to forgive him for going bankrupt and not quite crawling out of the wreckage.

But if anyone out there wonders why I ever turned from an opera singer to a financier, there’s your whopping clue. I don’t worship money, and while I freakishly enjoy accounting, I don’t have flair for business. I want to save my family. Of course I’m failing miserably and most would argue it’s not my job…but I’ve convinced myself that someone has to drive themselves crazy trying.

So the effects of foreign direct investment on international balance of payments were the last things on my mind and I botched my exam. I'm a bit on the demented side when it comes to my grades, as I feel they hold passage to a better life. Unlike naturally smart people, I have to work unusually hard to learn and retain information. I don't mean to say smart people don't work hard, but I have noticed a marked difference between how much my colleagues study versus myself. Happily, obsessive compulsive skills I've acquired in other areas of my life have greatly contributed to my academic excellence. But dear readers, I have paid dearly for my GPA, for my squeaky clean reputation.

When my classmates were out drinking and having sleepovers with frat boys, I was usually home on weekends studying. I deluded myself into thinking such tomfoolery was overrated, but the truth is I was/am so afraid of screwing up that I didn't dare take it easy on myself, have a beer, kiss a boy whose name I didn't know (okay, that did happen a few times...) But overall, I eschewed fun for mental flogging, and any time I veered off the golden path I was carving out for myself I’d double back with renewed vigor.

Until recently.

After I saw my test results I was mad for about 60 seconds, called my husband in an angry tirade, shed a few tears, then I heard the voice of my father. “Honey, it’s okay, you did the best you could, and next time you can just study more. No big deal. Don’t cry.”

I started laughing because that's exactly what he would have said, put on Pandora and in God’s grand irony, Rolling Stones’ Satisfaction {I can't get no...} started blaring. I, raccoon-eyed, wearing ill-fitting flannel pants and black t-shirt in desperate need of washing started dancing around, cleaning up, smiling to myself and thinking of my dad.

I suppose I have my answer. I need rest, renewal, and to say “fuck it” to shackles of unachievable perfection because I’ve put myself off long enough. I don’t mean to imply I don’t ever treat myself to things I want, but that’s just it, I’ve created a life based on financial survival and reward, piling up savings, paying off debt, and while I've been known to splurge on a Betsey Johnson dress to mark my achievements, but what I really want to do is quit my job and not leave my house until I’m good and rested.

Yeah. So. That’s all.