The Truth about Me

I am going to let you in on a secret. A big secret. A classified, top-level clearance that only you--the few, the proud, the readers of my blog--will know.

Unless you know me personally, in which case you might already suspect.

But here it is: I'm not truly a cynic. I'm actually a cock-eyed optimist (insert the one-eyed joke of your choice in these parentheses here, because really, with a descriptor like "cock-eyed," it's almost too easy, yes?) who dresses in cynic's clothing. You see, the cynics are never disappointed.

And since all of my disappointments are due to unmet expectations, wouldn't the disappointments of a cynical person be sort of an ironic thing? Because, you know, things turned out better than they expected?

Anyway, part of what has led me to this conclusion: this semester has been one of the most grueling experiences of my life. Rewarding, certainly. Fun, even. But more mentally, physically, spiritually, and emotionally challenging than any other time in my entire life.

I exaggerate not.

My first semester of graduate school has introduced me to a host of new ideas. A host of ways of approaching those ideas. A heckuva lot of new people I found intriguing. And these are all good things, these are all expectations that were met.

The unmet expectation: that I knew what I signed up for, what I was getting into. I thought I knew. But there is, simply, no way to know until you arrive at this point. The funny thing about my experience this semester is this: I was warned. And I let that warning slip out of my head.

While I was enmeshed in the process of completing applications at this time last year, Petra and I were having frequent e-mail exchanges. At that time, Petra was wrapping up her first semester of graduate school, and she was a fount of helpfulness and wisdom when it came to both my applications and what the practical experience was like. (In short, what she was experiencing at that moment.)

She felt out-classed. Overwhelmed. Exhausted. All of the emotions I'm feeling now, but I somehow managed to dismiss that series of e-mails between the time I read them and the time I received my acceptance letter. As soon as I received the acceptance, the rose-colored glasses were firmly secured back in their place.

The great irony is this: over the past couple of weeks, I found myself telling a couple of friends that nobody had told me what I signed up for. And then, in the course of trying to find a particular e-mail, I came across Petra's e-mails and re-read them for a second time and realized: someone had, indeed, warned me about this. Vehemently.

She never said it wouldn't be worth it, and she also stated an absolute certainty that I could manage the load. But she told me exactly what my experience would be like.

And yet the cock-eyed optimist in me found a way to overtake the pragmatic advice I'd digested (and if I never thanked you, Petra, for those e-mails . . . now, more than then, I am grateful to know you cared enough to tell me exactly how it would be without sugar-coating it) and turn my vision of graduate school into a sparkly, friendly, happy environment.

So the next time I seem terribly cynical, call me on it. Because the optimism isn't nearly as buried as it probably should be.