A Penchant for the Melodramatic

Yesterday, my fellow HHMI interns and I took a tour of several biotech companies in Huntsville, Alabama. One of the PR representatives at Operon hailed originally from Aberdeen, Scotland, a large coastal city to the northeast of Glasgow. I mentioned my impending trip abroad and jokingly asked her for any advice. Bad idea.

"Oh, you're going to Glasgow?" she replied. "You do know that's the Alabama of Scotland, eh?"

Gee thanks, lady. That's exactly what I needed to hear.


As an aside, one of my roommates from high school is getting married today. While I wish the happy couple all the success in the world, I'm not sure whether to laugh or cry.

You see, I had always thought the notion of a ticking biological clock was a silly one. Then mine started counting down. Loudly. And, for all my efforts, I can't seem to turn the damned thing off. (Mom, before you go apoplectic, rest assured that I have no plans on bringing home a bundle of joy anytime soon.) I'm just at that age where I have to start weighing my future options. Ideally, I'll hold off on having a family until I'm not only finished with my education, but also firmly established in my chosen field (which remains largely unchosen).

Regardless of my career path, I'm facing at least another five years of graduate study, placing me squarely in my late twenties before I even enter the professional job market. As a generational comparison, my parents had been employed for four years, married for two, and were about to welcome me into the world by this point in their lives. It would seem I'm a little behind schedule. Now, thanks to my biology background, I know better than the average American woman that my ovaries will not shrivel up and die the second I turn thirty. However, that doesn't change the fact that ladies are groomed to believe that spinsterhood begins at thirty-five, and that those of us unlucky enough to remain single by that point have only animal hoarding, trips to the mailbox, and becoming prominent figures of childhood lore to look forward to.

Despite the irrationality of this belief--to mention nothing of its falsity--it's a pervasive one. Which is why every wedding announcement sent to me elicits visions of being the blue-haired eremite who strikes fear into the hearts of neighborhood children as she mumbles incoherently to herself on her daily shuffle to a predictably and perpetually empty mailbox. The only thing scarier than the fact that I have actually constructed the aforementioned scenario is that I'm worried about this crap at twenty-one. (Melodrama for the win!)

These thoughts serve to highlight the importance of this upcoming trip. After all, when I'm holed up in my ramshackle cottage, eating expired sauerkraut from the can, I'll have only the memories of my youth to keep me company. Well, those and my cats.