Check that box!

It is a little act. A swoop of the pen. But for me, it was causing so much anxiety last week. The "box" in my case is a tiny square on the my Dissertation Advisory Committee (DAC) form that sits next to this sentence:

Student may begin writing dissertation: [] Yes [] No

Last Thursday, my committee of nerdy middle aged men checked the box next to "Yes." It was like a huge weight had been lifted off of me. It meant I was actually graduate. I went out for beers with the lab. I went out for drinks with A. I left obnoxious voice mails on a number of phones, like the one I left on ET#2's phone that was simply me yelling into the phone.

By Saturday, the euphoria disappeared. It was time to go back to work. It was time to get a job. It was time to actually start writing my dissertation.

I missed my Monday post. Maybe I missed because I was working on a fellowship application, but probably not. I got an email from TT, asking me if I was okay. He worries when I do not post regularly. I thought about it. At first, I thought it was just too busy, but that was not it at all. I felt tapped out. I had no stories to tell. Wasn't the box checking supposed to change my life? I think I thought it meant that my degree was now going to be automatically conferred and George Clooney in a tux would be at my doorstep with a bouquet of tiger lilies. How ridiculous that I could not enjoy my good news for more than two days.

I left the lab early, yesterday. I needed to go for a little walk to clear my head, to find stories. I walked down Brookline Ave. towards Brookline Village. I wanted to go to the Korean grocery store so I could buy some of that aloe juice that Mamacita fed us at New Year's Eve.

Along the way I ran into a homeless man that was stuck in a snow bank. I stopped traffic on right lane of Riverway so he could get up. He grabbed my two hand and I pulled. Once he got up, he darted across the street risking life and limb.

At the Korean grocery store, I was harassed by some Germans who wanted to know what everything was. "What is this?" "Dried fish." "What is this?" "Dried cuttlefish." "What is this?" "Dried squid." "What is this?" Okay it was starting to become unentertaining. The crazy woman running the cash register was attempting to speak Korean to someone who was clearly not Korean. I tried to explain to her that he did not understand her. She insisted he did. Then in the hubub she short changed me 10 dollars. Something I did not realize until I was two-thirds home. Sigh.

I left the store with my aloe juice in my backpack and walked up Harvard Ave. I stopped by the window of Bottega Fiorentina. I examined the Tuesday night specials. As I was debating if I wanted the pork tenderloin or the penne with tomato clam sauce, a man with a ruddy face tapped me on the shoulder. I jumped into my defensive position, until he said, "You like Italian food. This place is fantastic." He said all of this with a heavy Italian accent. "I am serious very very good." I had no idea how to respond. I ended up not getting any food.

When I got home, I saw my roommate and told him all that happened on my walk. I had much to tell him. I even tolerated his girlish giggle he mentioned box checking because he thinks it sounds dirty.

I was ready to post. I even thought about how I was going to wrap the idea of box checking with primary voting, but it was a little too much. What I could do was tell how a small gesture, a swoop of the pen, sent me through a rollercoaster of emotions only to end where I started.