Friends don't let friends give a four-fingered shake.

A couple of weeks ago I spent the weekend with Scott at his residency program's callback weekend. Essentially, they invite med students they've interviewed and are considering offering residency spots to come and spend the weekend hanging out, meeting more residents and faculty than they could squeeze into the interview and try to get a better idea of who will be a good fit for the program. The first night I met a female applicant and her husband and both instantly moved to the bottom of my (admittedly completely irrelevant) list of desirables. Why the instant disappoval, you ask. They both had horrible handshakes. And yes, in a setting where you are surrounded by other professionals and you are trying to get a job, I'm judgy. (Also completely irrelevant here is my current lack of a job only because I am confident that if there is one part of an interview I can nail, it's the handshake.)

WTF?

A weak handshake is probably my longest-standing pet peeve. I remember judging little old ladies as a child in church during the weekly "let your neighbor know you're glad they're here" hymn when they gave me the four-fingered shake. I now realize that some of them may have had arthritis that made a real handshake painful, but others could get around just fine, so they really had no excuse. My hands are the same size as Scott's nine year old brother and yet I manage to fully grasp even the chubbiest, man-ring wearing and cigarette-stain bearing hands and give them a solid shake. (I hope you're imagining me shaking hands with a gold-chain-sporting, greasy-haired mafia boss from Jersey right now, because that is totally the mental image I was going for.) Anyway, both halves of this couple gave me the same four-fingered old-lady shake, and I was instantly annoyed by both of them for different reasons.

When I get a four-fingered handshake from a man, I'm a little insulted. The feminazi in me silently flares up and I think What, you think I can't handle a real handshake? Afraid of hurting a poor little girl? Would you shake a man's hand like that? Listen, pal, (I'd totally fit right in with the aforementioned mafia, btw) it's time you learn to respect women like you respect men. Now give me a real handshake or go ahead and pussyfoot it out of here.

But seriously, guys? You aren't going to break my hand if you actually grasp it to shake. This may come as a shock but most of you aren't gifted with freakish strength. If you are, (or just think you are as is more likely the case) don't be an asshole and try to crush my hand just to show off your masculinity, but also don't insult me with a half-assed handshake. It's 2011. Don't make me give you the anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-in-heels schpiel.

As much as the husband's finger-shake irritated me, the wife's irritated me more. I mean, come ooooon. You're a few months away from having M.D. after your name. You're obviously not a complete idiot and you have at least enough ambition to have survived medical school. You're a professional trying to make a solid, professional impression. I'll grant that this was a casual evening at an attending's home, but the weekend was still more or less a second interview. And I know I'm not one of the residents, but you also don't know what I do, and I could be someone you want to impress. (I'm not, but she didn't know that.)

Frankly, I'm always a little confused by women who give other women the four-fingered shake. It always ends up looking like you're giving me your hand to admire. Guess what? I'm not a 19th century suitor. You're not curtseying, I'm not bowing and I'm not going to kiss your hand. Unless you just got engaged you have no reason to show off a ring to me (I know, wrong hand) and manicures don't really do it for me. Look at the above picture. Ridiculous. If you're used to men just shaking your fingers it's one thing, but woman to woman, I just don't get it. Again, the feminazi in me silently seethes, Heard of the women's movement? Yeah, you're setting it back with that puny excuse of a handshake. Dramatic? Yes. Justified? Absolutely.

Whenever I encounter one of these sad excuses for a handshake I have to resist the urge to say, "Let's try that again. Now, don't be afraid to really grasp my hand and give it a shake this time." However, since that is never really a socially acceptable thing to do, I can only hope that at some point someone will tell the offender that they really need to work on their grasp.

Part of me fears that it's kind of like reading or riding a bike. You should have learned how to shake hands in your formative years, so if your handshake sucks at this point it's probably too late for you. I kind of hope some day I'll be one of those crotchety old ladies who won't give a damn and I'll give any young chippee with a limp grip a handshake tutorial. In the meantime, if you know someone with a less-than-impressive handshake, and you can work it into a friendly conversation, give them a few pointers. They'll thank you for it if they have to greet me with a handshake in about 40 years.

Who did we think we were?

That's what I asked when I sent my college roommate and still dear friend several pictures I dug up from our younger days. She had asked for photos to use in a slideshow in her upcoming wedding and I finally sat down a couple of weeks ago to go through old pictures so I could scan and send some to her that pre-date the advent of digital cameras. Most of them date back to 2001-2002, our freshman year at OU. As I looked through boxes of photos, I was struck by how young everyone looked and I couldn't help but laugh at our always-ready-for-party-pics poses.

The day we moved into the dorm.

I miss those girls. I miss them running up and down the dorm hall in preparation for a night out. I miss them getting biscuits and gravy from the student union and eating it in line outside the stadium at 4 a.m. so they could get good seats for the big game. I miss them riding around in the Explorer, rap music blaring and congratulating themselves on how bad-ass they were for nailing the entire song. I miss their anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better ambition, their sometimes overinflated but always unflappable confidence and their conviction that one day soon they would reach "the top." Those girls had everything going for them. They were young, cute, smart and fearless. I was dead-set on being a hotshot attorney, crusading for women and children and giving a voice to those without one. She was med school bound, with the goal of being a top cardiac surgeon and having a major impact on the world of medicine. They had big dreams and all the tools they thought they needed to make those dreams reality.

The night we ended up at the infamous Forum, or
the church-converted-to-a-nightclub-that-lasted-about-a-year.

But for all the book smarts God saw fit to gift them with and all the street smarts they were acquiring for themselves, they were missing a vital piece of information: You can't plan Life. When you try, it will shake your hand and tell you good game after it's beat you in a close race -- at best. At worst it'll roundhouse kick you in the teeth, spill your Dr. Pepper, steal your Coach bag, max out your credit cards, ram your car into a stop sign and then drop it off in your driveway with f*ck you keyed into it. Of course, being either hopelessly optimistic or a glutton for punishment, you'll throw yourself back into the milieu , bruised and broke, but hopefully not broken, and you'll start planning your next trip around the sun.

We made the most of the snow day we had that year.

I'd guess that about 90% of our plans didn't quite pan out, or at least not the way we thought they would. I could argue and say to Life, "Ha. You thought you changed all my plans, but here I am, married and a lawyer, just like I said. Sure I don't have three kids, but I have three dogs, which are much better than kids because they don't talk back, they don't touch all your nice stuff with their sticky little fingers and you can leave them unattended for a whole day." But the next week I feel my biological clock ticking and some kind of maternal instinct fighting for air, whereas the week before I was convinced that I never want the smelly, noisy, sticky little things. And let's face it, the road to (and through) law school was a bit bumpy, and right now the road to that hotshot career I envisioned has all but washed out. I'm sure Life is smugly gloating at my continued attempts to make plans and control their outcomes. The girl in those pictures would have flipped off her intangible nemesis and marched her headstrong self straight into the flood. The woman I am now stops and says, "Ok, I get it, I'll find another road."

I like to think that my mom is right when she says everything happens for a reason, and so there's a reason for all the dumbshit or hurtful stuff I've done just like there's a reason for all the smart, good or nice things I've done. But I also think it's bullshit when people say that they wouldn't have done things differently if given the chance. If the girl in these pictures would have been able to look ahead and see where she'd be in nine years, I'd hope she'd have been smart enough to do a lot of things differently. But that doesn't mean I'm not ok where I am, and it also doesn't mean that I think I'd be any happier -- I'd likely just have a different set of regrets and a different set of problems.

Proud of almost having finished our freshman year at OU
without getting alcohol poisoning or roofied.

While my friend and I have both been able to mark some things off the long list of things we set out to accomplish, we haven't quite conquered the world the way we thought we would. We aren't movers and shakers, travelling the world, making heads roll and hearts melt. We're living our relatively quiet lives, caught up in building our lives as part of a couple, planning weddings, juggling family holidays, fitting in girls' night and watching football with friends, all the while slowly carving out our niches, which by now probably appear to be series of unconnected tunnels that lead nowhere. However, if my mom is right, all those tunnels will join up eventually and we'll have had fun exploring them all along the way.

Circa October 2010. We still know how to rock it,
we just call it a night earlier.

It was good to be reminded of the girls we used to be. It made me appreciate who we've become and all the unexpected turns our lives have taken in order to make us comfortable with being women that our 18-year-old selves would have scoffed at. But it was also good to remember the I-can-be-anything-and-do-anything attitude we had back then. And I still think we'll both reach "the top." The mountain may be a little smaller and closer to home, but that's fine because we'll be able to recognize a lot more of the people and places that make up the view.

Graduation Recap

Bre, I'd totally hire you.

It's been almost a whole month since I officially went from unemployed law student to unemployed law grad and with all the subsequent commotion, I am just now getting around to uploading those pics to my computer, and I thought I'd share some highlights from the day:

1. Commencement Speaker WIN - Secretary of Energy Steven Chu. In a surprisingly entertaining and sincere speech, Secretary Chu advised all Wash U grads to "do something that matters." That was after he likened himself to the corpse at an Irish wake, i.e. the only thing between us and the party.

2. People Watching WIN - While waiting for the processional to end at the university-wide ceremony, we were afforded a great people-watching opportunity. Reagan found a guy with an awesome pompadour, and we decided that the Secret Service was there with Secretary Chu. Also, while waiting to leave the first ceremony, a poor WULAW staffer, stuck waiting with our banner, had clearly had enough of the festivities.







3. Undergrad WIN - At least I assume it was an undergrad scheme to bring in a giant inflatable penis, blow it up and send it flying through the graduate section toward the end of the university-wide ceremony.

4. Commencement Speaker FAIL - Strobe Talbott, President of the Brookings Institute. We all had much higher expectations for this speaker than for Secretary Chu, but our confidence was misplaced. The speech was more appropriate for a political rally, making many in the audience, regardless of political standing, a little uncomfortable. I was trying to hang on, thinking the president of one of the nation's oldest think tanks would eventually have something to say worth hearing, but as soon as the words "nuclear proliferation" escaped, I became much more interested in trying to find people I knew in the crowd and calculating how long my poor feet could hold out, which brings me to...

5. Cute Shoe FAIL - So I had these super cute strappy snakeskin, 3.5" heels that I wore. Big mistake. While they gave me a bit of much needed height, my hubby informed me that I was still one of the shortest grads. He said he found my spot in the processional for looking for the dip towards the end of the alphabet. (In my defense, I was surrounded by about a dozen guys on either side, so I could have been a normal-sized person and still been shorter than those around me.) Also, in the process of crossing campus for the first ceremony, I tripped and bit it, hard. I actually have a graduation scar on my anklebone. The shoes came off as soon asI got to my seat on the quad, and stayed off until I had to process in for the law ceremony. They are now in their box in a packing box, probably never to be unpacked again.

6. Voice of the Class WIN - Becky's "Part of Denmark" story was cleverly analogized to our class and she left me feeling good about choosing Wash U, largely due to the many fabulous folks I have been lucky enough to meet while here.

Just one of those fabulous folks, my old rooomie!

7. Gathering FAIL - Due to the general chaos of the day, and the large number of people I was toting around after the ceremony, I was unable to find any friends post-J.D.-conferment for party pics. Dang. But I did end up with some great ones before the whole shindig got underway. Plus, our 7 a.m. mimosa toast on top of the parking garage was hard to beat.

8. Regalia WIN - Despite my last post, I have to say we all look pretty sharp in our robes and tams. And the hoods definitely add to our general overall scholarli-ness. Way to spring for the high-quality stuff, Wash U. If we get nothing else from our degree, we looked pretty damn sharp on the day you gave it to us.

At least we look official.

9. Diploma...WTF - So I get my diploma, get back to my seat to read over it, and realize I can't. Read it, that is. Because it's in Latin. Even the name of the school. And the name of the state. I'm pretty sure there isn't a real Latin word for Washington, much less Missouri. It looks like the fake diploma that comes with the diploma frames you find at Wal-Mart. I did get a nice, classy frame for it, with Wash U School of Law in gold on the matte, and I hope that quells any doubts people might have about the legitimacy of my degree if they see my diploma.

Washingtoniana? Missouriensi?

All in all, a memorable day. Thanks to friends and family, a great few days leading up to and following it. But mostly, I'm just glad I don't have to go to summer school.

Stop the car, I want out.

One of my favorite cards from Ashley has a quote from Grey's Anatomy, "We're adults. When did that happen? And how do we make it stop?" I want it to stop. Right now actually.

I now know just how profound my parents were when they said (repeatedly) something to the effect of, "Don't be in a hurry to grow up. Enjoy this time, because one day you'll look back and realize how great it was and how easy you had it." And man, I had it easy. Good friends across the street and down the block. Lunch money, movie money, gas money. Harmless crushes that left you giddy and giggly with friends. Breaking up accomplished simply by not returning a boy's calls. The feeling that we could be anyone, do anything and end up anywhere in the world because we were that fabulous and our opportunities were that plentiful. Confidence that all would work itself out in time if we just sat back and enjoyed the ride, preferably in a hot little coupe.

My dream car, just for funsies.

Then someone started tapping the brakes. Now friends are in difference states, the Bank of Mom and Dad is drying up, crushes equal complications, break-ups involve deciding who gets the house and who gets the kids and being anyone, doing anything and going anywhere actually requires quite a bit of cooperation from the rest of the world. Sometimes momentum is the only thing that propels us forward.

How much does the car need to slow down before we get out? Am I the one driving? If I am and I jump out, where does that leave anyone who might be riding along with me? But then again, shouldn't we all be driving ourselves around by now? Would I even want anyone in the passenger seat? I mean, sometimes I like to pretend I'm a rock star when I'm driving and I don't know if I want anyone pointing out my obvious lack of rock star talent.

Ironically, I have traded in my real-life coupe for an SUV, which should have more room for any potential passengers who want to tag along wherever it is I might be going. But I kinda like having all the extra room and I'm not sure how crowded I'm willing to let it get in there. I also don't know if there's anyone who could put up with my complete lack of a sense of direction without wanting to take over at the wheel, and my control-freak self actually enjoys driving. I also hate asking for directions.

I guess I should listen to my inner compass, because even when it leads me down an unfamiliar highway, I always find something that makes the detour worth it. Then again, maybe that's why God created GPS. Or maybe I need to trade in my Escape for a gondola...

Mid-Semester Blues.

It's that time of year again. Fall break is a fond memory, the hectic holidays are looming, classes have settled into a predictable pattern (except for one class which seems to morph into an ever-more frustrating monster twice a week) and all I want to do is stay home and sleep.

Instead, here I sit, probably catching swine flu on the Metro, headed to work, which I would love if classes didn't get in the way, throwing myself a pity party.

But these aren't just any mid-semester blues, friends. No, this year they find me in a very existential mood, wondering what exactly I think I'm doing with my life and if perhaps I should be doing something else. Blame it on the economy and my resultant joblessness, blame it on the fact that my law school career is drawing to an end and I find little to comfort my anxiety that this has been the most expensive mistake I have ever made, blame it on my knack for deciding that I want to be one thing when I grow up only to change my mind as soon as the end of one part of my journey draws near, just please, help me find something to blame!

I suppose that I would feel this way even if I had an amazing job lined up for after graduation. There's a little voice inside that pipes up whenever I get too far down one path to turn back, and it always has the same thing to say: Ugh. How boring. I can't believe this is what you have settled on. After all the big plans we made, after all the big things everyone expected of you. What a waste. And my response: But I don't know what else to do. This seemed like such a good idea. I thought I'd love this, be excited about it, look forward to getting out there in the real world. I thought I could be amazing at this. The voice: Heh. So what if you are amazing at this? What difference does it make? Who cares? Are you going to look forward to getting up in the morning for this? Me: Probably not, but I just don't know where I'm supposed to go from here...

Passion seems to be lacking. Not in me, I'm passionate about lots of things, Scott, my friends and family, my crazy misfit dogs, reproductive rights, the fact that Mr. Pibb is NOT the same as Dr. Pepper, I could go on and on. Yet I find myself searching for passion in my career choices. I think I can find it, I'm just not sure how. I mean, let's be honest, if I had my choice, I'd totally be a Gwen Stefani-esque rock star, and parlay that into so many other things, such as a shoe line, opening up a center for "troubled" teen girls where they could get advice on everything fron birth control to fashion (because when you know you look good, you feel sooo much better about yourself!) and a no-kill shelter for animals. But since God has not seen fit to bless me in the vocal department, there must be another way to get where I want to be. While I feel I've exhausted my supply of doors, I'm still looking for that open window. If anyone happens across it, prop it open so I don't miss it.

Looking forward, but not to looking back.

Lately I have been thinking about my ten year high school reunion. But Liz, you think, you have two more years until that somewhat depressing milestone. Why are you thinking about that now, instead of, oh, I don't know, finding a job? Believe me, I am thinking about finding a job, a sad train of thought that leads me to other equally depressing subjects. Plus, I just turned 27 (so close to 30 it hurts) and I went to Scott's ten year reunion with him in July...let's just say there are many reasons. However, I must admit, the main reason is Facebook.


Yes, that wonderful website that keeps us all abreast of what friends and non-friends alike are doing. I must admit, there are many people whose friend requests I have accepted in hopes that I would look at where they are now and feel better about where I am. (Be honest with yourself, you've done the same thing.) Anyway, I recently received a friend request from a high school classmate that I wasn't too fond of "back in the day." No specific incident to refer to, I just didn't really like the girl, thought she was a hateful bitch, that sort of thing. I heard rumors back in college that she had a nervous breakdown and dropped out, and to tell the truth, I didn't feel that bad for her. So when I saw the friend request, morbid curiosity forced me to accept.

Of course, being in class at the time, I immediately engaged in some classic Facebook-stalking activity, checking out her profile, looking at all of her pictures, the whole shebang. She is married with kids, it doesn't look like she ever finished college and I don't know that she has a job. Scoping out her pictures, I flattered myself that the last eight years have been much kinder to me than they have to her in the looks department, but I suppose I should make allowances for her baby-making and rugrat-chasing activities.


So what's the point? The point is, dear reader, that this all got me thinking about what that impending reunion will be like. Who will be fat? Who will look like they've been rode hard and put up wet? Will the girls and guys who walked around like their shit didn't stink be stuck in our hometown with three kids and dead-end jobs? Will people who didn't much like one another act like they were BFF once-upon-a-time?


I know my BFF and I have had big plans ever since we graduated good ol' Chucky Page to show up looking smokin' hot, all educated and with great jobs. However, life has since knocked us on our asses, laughed and said, what the hell were you thinking? Don't get me wrong, we're not complete losers, I just know that neither of us are anywhere near where we pictured we would be at this point in life, and being planners and control-freaks, it's been hard to swallow. It's hard not to look at my own Facebook page and think, how do I measure up?

And that brings on a whole new set of issues: Well, I'm in school now, but what about a job? Do I even want to be a lawyer anymore? What the hell else could I do that wouldn't make me feel like a waste of all that potential I had in high school? How much time do I have to fit back into my high school jeans size?


But really, isn't the big question why the hell do I care? I mean, come on, I don't communicate with most of these people, I don't even want to communicate with most of them. I hope everyone I was friends with is happy and doing well and screw the rest. Yet I look forward to this reunion that is nearly two years away with a certain degree of anxiety, wondering what all these people who knew me before I was a jaded law student, back when I was an optimistic cheerleader/drama geek who thought she had the world at her fingertips, will think of the person I am now. I fear that I won't meet their expectations. And I fear that in not meeting the expectations of my youth (good lord, that makes me sound old) I will have failed at something, although I'm not quite sure just what that something is.


I realize this is all a bit self-indulgent, and perhaps sounds as though I'm unhappy or dissatisfied with my life. That's not really the case. I have a husband I love and who adores me, friends I know I can count on for anything and who can count on me, wonderful parents and in-laws who never cease to support me and three dogs who always act thrilled to see me when I get home, even if I have only been gone twenty minutes. Law school sucks, but I am certainly not alone in those sentiments, and I am enjoying my internship right now. And while I have pretty much come to accept the fact that I probably won't have a firm job, or really any job as a lawyer, when I graduate, I have started considering what I am truly passionate about, which isn't a bad thing.

So why worry about what a group of people who knew me ten years ago and who I likely won't see again until our twenty year reunion think? I honestly don't know. I just know that occasionally I think about it. Then I think about all the decisions that got me here, and about how just one or two different choices could have put me somewhere else entirely. And then I tell myself what my mom always tells me when I am frustrated with how things are going: everything happens for a reason. Don't we all just wish we knew what the reasons are?

Then again, grown-ups these days...

A friend and I were sitting in the library at the law school, chatting about very important things, such as my upcoming phone interview and the male tendency to try to problem-solve when you really just need a good listener. We were up on the fifth floor, and for those of you unfamiliar with our law library, we were in the spot where sofas and chairs go to die. You know the spot, lots of old, comfy sofas and chairs, broken in by years of law student napping, right outside a row of faculty offices where there is always commotion of the odd law school variety.

So there we are, each in a great big chair, our laptops and books out so we at lease look like studying is our primary purpose for being there, but clearly enjoying conversation of the non-law variety, and a girl sits down on one of the nearby sofas. (It should be noted here that I use the term "girl" loosely. This female was clearly in her thirties, possibly her forties, and yes, I believe her age is relevant considering what transpired.) As we sat there chatting, admittedly perhaps louder, at times, than is normally acceptable for library conversation, she would occasionally heave a huge sigh and glare over at us. This continued for probably about half an hour while we chatted about, as I mentioned above, very important things.

Finally, said "girl" slams her book shut, hurls it onto the sofa, yanks up her bag, flings it onto her back and stomps off, muttering something about talking and a f*&$ing coffee shop. She stomps down the corridor of faculty offices, throwing murderous glares our way, and saying something about annoying girls. During this entire display, my friend and I managed to shut our traps and watch in awe as the hissy fit unfolded. Poor girl, if she's known all she had to do to get us to shut us was throw a tantrum she probably would have done so much sooner.

So what is my point in telling this story? Well, there are a few:

1. I would like to point out, in defense of my friend and I (and in case there happen to be any readers thinking that we were failing to observe proper library etiquette) that the area we were sitting in is known to be a non-silent, for lack of a better term, study area. As I mentioned, there are many faculty offices, along with their assistants' offices, and faculty and students are constantly wandering through the area, talking and calling to one another. There actually used to be a sign there, before they remodeled the library, warning students not to expect silence there. Maybe I should make a new one...

2. As mentioned above, this "girl" was really more of a middle-aged woman. Judging by the sheer impressiveness of her hissy, perhaps she has spent too much time around a middle-school daughter. It was great, books slamming, things thrown, eyes rolling, huge disgusted sighs. I don't know if I was that good at the height of my intolerable teen-ager years. The woman should win an award. That being said, my friend and I were both left wondering why she didn't try the more adult route, as one may assume befits a professional student. A simple, "Hey, would you guys mind keeping it down just a little, I'm trying to get some reading done," would have worked wonders. I mean, I'd like to think we aren't total bitches. Sure, I could have said, in my best Mean-Girls-impression tone, "Ummm, if you have a problem with us, you can go to a study carrel or a table. We were here first." But I probably wouldn't have. We're all adults, let's act like it and leave the passive-agressive eye-rolling and muttering under our breath the the fourteen-year-olds.

3. This girl wasn't a 3L. If she's a 2L, she should have figured out by now that in that particular area of the library people are going to talk. If you need silence, go to the reading room, or to another part of the library where comfy furniture doesn't abound. Everyone knows overstuffed furniture invites not only napping but casual conversation. On the other hand, if she's a 1L, then perhaps she should seriously reconsider law school. This was only the first full week of classes. If you are already that stressed out about two people (who, might I remind you, were sitting there talking long before you sat your grumpy ass down) cutting into your silence, it's going to be a loooong three years. Law school is bad enough without stressing yourself out over stupid things like two annoying chatty cathys in the library. Learn to pick your battles, honey, because you will find yourself engaged in worse than that.