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A couple of months ago, you may recall, I left work early and holed up at a bar to have a little pity-party for myself when I discovered that my dream post-doc fellowship was out of reach. Surprisingly enough, the intense binge of pathos did the trick, and the next day I felt pretty good about life and my future again; I had gotten all the woe-is-me out of my system in one fell swoop, and taking advantage of the bar’s free WiFi I managed to find a number of other rather interesting post-graduate opportunities that I might look forward to. The world was once again my oyster, even though I’m really not a big fan of oysters. Why anyone wants to do a shot of snot covered in hot sauce that someone found on the ground by the shore is still a mystery to me.

A few days later, however, the back of my brain finished chewing on something that it had picked up in my peripheral vision and brought it to the attention of the rest of my consciousness:

Q: Do I have to have PhD to apply for a AAAS Fellowship?
No. If you have a master’s degree in any field of engineering with a minimum of three years post-graduate professional experience you may apply for a AAAS Science & Technology Policy Fellowship.

Huh. Isn’t that interesting. I happen to have three and a half years of post-graduate professional experience and a master’s degree (it’s true, I looked it up, the dictionary says post-graduate means “relating to a course of study undertaken after completing a first degree,” and my first degree was my BSAE, damnit). Maybe I could get in on a loophole….

And then I promptly procrastinated. It took a good two or three weeks before I resolved to sit down again and tackle the AAAS application. But just to be sure I wasn’t going to waste my recommenders’ time, I wanted to verify that my interpretation of “post-graduate experience” was the same as that of the AAAS. I called their office and asked to speak with someone about fellowship requirements.

Eight minutes of back-and-forth later, the receptionist finally had a solid grip on what I was asking. (”So, you’re just now finishing your master’s degree?” No, I got my master’s three years ago, but I’m still finishing my PhD. “But do you have three years experience?” Yes, I did that before I came back to school. “And what was your degree in before that?” I had a bachelor’s in aerospace engineering. “How long did you say you worked?” Three and a half years, in the aerospace industry. “And you have a master’s in engineering?” JESUS YES, URGH.) She put me on hold for a few minutes while she went to recount the convoluted version of my rather simple professional history to someone who could actually make the call.

And then, a little voice in my head said, Oh, come on, just come back on the line and tell me no go already.

Asssphinctersezwhut?

The little voice was not at all interested in a “happy ending.” It was not saying please oh please tell me I can still get in gimme a chance c’mon please lemme apply. It wanted confirmation that that door was good and shut and there was no use trying to pry it open again lest I lose a finger or two in the process. The little negative voice got what it wanted, in the end: their take on “post-graduate” is “post-graduate-degree.” No soup for me. Hooray!

Huh? What the hell is that all about?

In my Dissertation Writers’ “No This Is Not Therapy” Group, we frequently talk about the sources of procrastination, both in the proximal (internet, TV, beer) and the psychological (parental expectations, prodigal siblings, impostor syndrome) sense, and this please-don’t-hire-me phenomenon definitely provided some good food for thought in the latter category. As we sit around the table and complain about our lives [sic], most of us say things periodically like “I just want to get out of here” and “I can’t wait till I’m finished.” But then when push comes to shove, most of us could be doing a lot more to actually achieve that goal, namely by sitting down and churning out pages and saying enough is enough with the literature review already. Obviously, we don’t want out that bad.

Is that what the little voice was? Fear of the Real World? As crappy as thinking about crack, doing math, and fighting with broken machines for $16K a year is, it’s the only life I’ve known for six years. I can sleep late when I want to, wear jeans to work, be mean to undergrads on occasion, and blog from the office without fear of being Dooced. Hell, I even have a certain amount of street cred around this lab simply by virtue of having been around longer than damn near everyone else. I know things. I’m good at stuff. And if I don’t know stuff or ain’t good at stuff, who gives a crap? It’s not like life or death hinges on my stupid freaking crack growth model; 98% of the things we do here seem to get filed away under Black Hole and never read again, and probably for good reason. This is like the Pirates of the Caribbean Disney World ride of engineering: there’s lots of things going on and some of it is kinda scary, but really, there’s nothing in those blunderbusses.

If I finish, then I actually have to, like, find a job, dress like a grown-up, show up bright and early with my face all shaved, report to people who can fire me or worse, and do things that might make a serious impact on people’s lives. Egad.

Maybe it wasn’t all that dire. Maybe it was just that I don’t like going back on Big Decisions and Resolutions. I had already had my pity-party, drank my beer, thought of a number of alternatives, and gotten over it. I woke up the next morning feeling so fresh and so clean clean, ready to move ahead with my alternate future. I had Decided it was not the end of the world, and I had Resolved to eagerly apply to a whole host of other opportunities. “You’re dead to me,” I said to the AAAS in my best jilted Jewish mother voice! I had Moved On. But no, the AAAS had to rear its ugly head again and tease me with a very slim possibility that I might could try again. Problem was, if just being told I couldn’t apply hurt bad enough to warrant a PBR-laden pity-party, why would I want to go through the even less likely to succeed application, when the rejection would surely sting far more than not even being able to apply? I’m over you, damnit, stop calling here!

It probably doesn’t help that after almost two decades of always succeeding at anything I’ve really tried to do — get straight A’s, get the part in the play, win cross-country championships, get into college, get awards, get a good job, get a great fellowship — my first taste of flat-on-your-face failure was a doozy. It wasn’t just the “thank you, we’ll keep your resume on file” form letter, it was being psychoanalyzed, poked and prodded, and then strapped in a chair in a small room and derided for two days rejection. I’m not sure I’ve really “put myself out there” for anything risky and rewarding ever since. Jesus.

Maybe I gotta find one o’ them “Yes this IS therapy” dissertation writers’ groups.