A funny thing happened while my dad and I were moving my stuff out of my apartment this weekend. We loaded up a truck that, unlike a fine wine, has aged like Mick Jagger’s right testicle, to the brim with all sorts of big things that I own: a desk, a dresser, boxes and boxes (and boxes) of porn, and my virginal mattress and box spring. Since the mattress and box spring were the last things we took out of the apartment, they ended up on the top of my pile in the truck. We turned on the engine with a fiery switch of the ignition (at this point I would like to thank the fine craftsmanship of the Ford automobile company…circa 1954) and were off on a treacherous 10 minute drive to my grandmother’s apartment, where we would ceremoniously dump all this stuff in one of her unused rooms. We arrived at the apartment, hopped out of the truck, and opened up the backside. It was at this point that my dad made a funny look with his face that had nothing to do with the Pollo Bowl (without pollo, of course, because we’re such good Jews and we doubt the fine folks at El Pollo Loco carry Kosher chicken products) we had a few hours earlier. Naturally in my completely oblivious state, I started tugging at the mattress to pull out it of the truck and get the misery of moving over with. This led to the following exchange:
“Umm…I think we’re missing something.”
“Ehh…where’s the box spring?”
(In unison) “Shit.”
An airborne box spring sailing somewhere on one of the major streets we had just driven past has made me a little introspective over the last 24 hours. I couldn’t help but feel that, during these last few months, I too had been missing something. I couldn’t shake the notion that there was something I was supposed to be doing, someone I was supposed to be talking to about something moderately important that had happened in my life, someone who was exceedingly thoughtful and genuine with concern for my future. What could it possibly be? Fortunately, I have you, the reader, to keep me in line in situations like this. For as I searched for this missing aspect of my life, I received an email with the subject heading “Fuckface”, by S.C., that went as follows:
“Did you match you fuckin’ cock sucker?”
Of course! After all this soul-searching, I knew that what was missing was…passion. Passion for the career-path that I am following. Passion for the study of medicine. Passion for a life that thousands of people work so hard to attain each year, a life that I have been trying to minimize during these last four years. In all seriousness, if I had the opportunity to look at myself as I was four years ago, I would have a hard time recognizing the idealism, hope, and excitement that I had within me throughout college and the start of medical school. At some point during the last four years, something started seeping out of me, slowly at first, but then quickly and ferociously, and it makes me sad that I have such a hard time reigniting that fire again. So it is with a mixture of excitement, trepidation, and somber realism (something I clearly lacked before embarking on my medical school career) that I have matched at my first choice institution. More importantly, I am hopeful that that missing element, akin to the joy that people who love their jobs and their lives display for everyone to see, will begin to reveal itself once again.
Wait, what was that? I have to work 80 hours a week? Christ. Well, on the bright side, my dad and I found the box spring resting comfortably on the side of a quiet street, far away from oncoming traffic, and in surprisingly good condition. Something is missing, no more.
Huh? Oh you want to know where
I matched? Seems like there's always something missing, no matter how hard I try...