Archive for January, 2008

The Marshmallow Test

Friday, January 25th, 2008

I cannot believe that I’ve been preparing for exams for close to two years. It has been such a lazy, nerdy, sedentary existence that I can almost feel my saggy, sport-repellent butt developing pressure sores. Add the 14 hours/day I spend in front of the laptop and the disgustingly massive American food portions to the mix, and you’ve got one potentially obese, unemployed single girl with the beginnings of carpal tunnel syndrome.

So I’m trying not to get fat. Yes, this is a shallow post, you can stop right here if you feel your IQ dropping. Or if you have a legitimate eating or body dysmorphic disorder. I have such a brazen disregard for feelings other than my own that I can’t exactly be depended on for political correctness.

Anyway. How do you not get fat when you’re sitting for hours on end, doing nothing but reading, writing, and clicking away at a computer + the thought of exercise makes you want to crawl between the covers never to see the light of day again? It sounds simple to most normal people. Diet, right? So I’ve been trying to get by on leaves, fruits and good old agua but thoughts of ice cream keep lasciviously creeping into my hypoglycemic mind. I function for a grand total of twenty minutes on the precious 200 calories that my salad provides before I start craving that chocolate-covered cookie, that slice of cheese, that frigging orange soda. I cannot bear it, the thought of having my white chocolate mocha without whip. It’s such a…crime.

I guess I’ll just have to accept that I will always, ALWAYS fail the marshmallow test. I simply have no concept of delayed gratification, which is why I must always get what I want, when I want it. Food, love, grey’s anatomy…they NEED to be there, at a moment’s notice, within an arm’s reach. Because when they aren’t, I flail around like a fish out of the toilet bowl, slowly, painfully, dying.

I’m giving up on the starvation, and taking a fresh new approach. I’ve decided to do my work in bed, turning every 2 hours to prevent the decubitus ulcers. Might not help keep the weight off, but at least I get to keep my baby-soft skin. Haha.

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Things to do with your ERAS application

Saturday, January 19th, 2008

If you’re a 2009 residency match applicant looking for a step-by-step manual on how to work with ERAS, this has absolutely nothing to do with that. Stop wasting your time and go do something more productive than reading some slightly hungover, ditzy semi-doctor’s blog.

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So I’m back in California, supposedly studying for my last exam which I scheduled for Valentine’s Day (hell yeah!). But then my cousin KG’s dear friend Aimee is getting married in a month, so a kick-ass bachelorette night out is warranted, right? =)

KG drives us down from Long Beach to San Diego, a good 2-hour road trip. When we finally get there, it’s 10pm and the girls are antsy to get out. And then, HORROR. I realize that I left my IDs and passport in LBC. Tempers flare. Haha. Idiot third world resident who keeps forgetting that carding is SOP over here. I think think think about anything I could possibly produce to prove my over-21 identity. I go online, and it hits me.

ERAS!

Oh wonderful electronic residency application service, which has my CAF (common application form), which is my resume-like thing that contains my birthday! Fingers crossed, charms in tow, I bring my 4-page CAF and my credit card to the bouncers.

Surprise surprise, after minimal questioning by the supervisor, they let me in! Mwahahaha! "Good luck with your studies" he even says!

So there goes my story, about how one ghetto Filipina kid with no picture ID manages to get into a swanky club thanks to her CAF. I would like to lay claim on that as The Most Imaginative Thing one can do with her residency application. Thank you very much. Bow.

I promise to be a responsible adult. Starting tomorrow.

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Feet Freedom

Monday, January 7th, 2008

I know this is far from the most original statement I’ve ever written, I know there have been many before me who’ve claimed that men are like shoes. But as I sit and stare at the overworked, dilapidated three pairs of boots that have seen me through this adventure, I cannot help but resuscitate this sad old simile.

Men are like shoes.

When we are out shopping, we think we want just about every pair, but we know we only need one.

Sometimes we try them on and think they fit perfectly, think they complement our feet so well, think they’ll be able to sustain our weight and crazy walking patterns. But when we take them home they end up hurting us. Wounding us, covering our feet with nasty corns and calluses, forcing us to wonder how long we can suffer through this torture.

But we hurt them too, put them through hell and high water, until they are mangled and scuffed versions of themselves, rewarding their loyalty with eventual abandonment.

So I don’t know if I really deserve good shoes. I tend to choose the wrong ones for me, the ones that are obviously more suited for someone else. And I’ve always been so afraid of going barefoot that I hop from one pair to another, with my classically myopic foresight neglecting to remind me of the endless repercussions, the inevitable discomfort, the telltale scars.

I think it’s time to kick them off and put my feet up.

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