Could we be devolving?

Yesterday I walked through an exhibit on evolution at a museum in Austin, and it got me thinking about human evolution. Over time, humans have evolved to have more useful characteristics due to natural selection. Our legs have become longer because those with longer legs could more easily catch food and escape predators, making them more likely to survive and reproduce. Our brains are larger than our ancestors because intelligence also made us more likely to survive and thrive.

Natural selection occurs in nature, but we don't live in nature any more. We live in a superficial world of our own creation where the likelihood of survival and reproduction isn't dependent on having superior genetic traits. People who might have died young due to disease or predisposition to illness live long lives thanks to our knowledge of health and medicine. Could this result in genetic predisposition to disease and illness being proliferated to the next generation? Isn't this the opposite of natural selection: devolution?

I frequently notice behavior in our society that leads me to believe that our culture is changing for the worse, not the better. The population seems to be getting more lazy. People don't appear to care about anything the way they used to. Even in my industry, it seems like innovation is pretty stagnant these days. What we consider innovative would have been considered incremental a generation ago.

Americans used to be idealistic and motivated to pursue their dreams, whatever those may have been. These days, it seems like most people are satisfied with the status quo, or their "dream" is to sit around watching reality television. For a long time now, I've assumed this shift is occurring for cultural reasons. Previous generations established traditions and policies with the intent of giving my generation a better life, but they really just enabled my generation to be lazy, to the detriment of us all.

After walking through that evolution exhibit, I started to wonder whether this shift toward laziness and apathy isn't a result of more than just cultural influences. What if we're actually devolving into dumber, more inept versions of our ancestors due to lack of natural selection? If this is true, we should be diligent to make sure we are progressing as a culture since nature isn't going to do us any favors.

If I could send a message to my generation, it would be this: I don't care what you do, but please do something to make the world a better place. Find something you care about, and take action to influence it for the better. We may be helpless against nature, but we can control the traditions and policies that we establish for the next generation. Let's make sure that the legacy we leave behind is one that makes our future, chimp-like descendants proud. 

I can't believe how hard it is to find a psychiatrist

Ok, I should rephrase that. I can't believe how hard it is to find a psychiatrist who meets my standards.

Over the past two weeks, I've had several bad panic attacks. I've had panic attacks before. I got my first one in 6th grade, so I'm no stranger to them. However, I've had a really enjoyable two year hiatus. I've been doing a great job of managing my anxiety for the past two years, but it's been steadily rising for a few months now. I didn't realize just how bad it had gotten until the panic attacks started. Anxiety is a sneaky bastard.

Upon further reflection, I realized that in a typical day, I am committed to about 28 hours worth of activities. I make it work by doing things like working through lunch, skipping a couple hours of sleep, making phone calls while I'm out running, and eating cereal for dinner. It has actually been working, and I've taken great pride in this. Note that when I say that it is "working," I mean I've barely managed to stay alive.

The reality is that I've been burning the candle at both ends. I'm tired. I'm agitated. When the smallest unexpected thing happens, I can't handle it. I just didn't plan time for it in my schedule, and I can't afford any set backs. Unexpected things always happen (especially at my job), so the pile of commitments just keeps on growing. I feel like I'm drowning, so I'm in constant fight or flight mode. I prefer fight to flight, so I'm a real pleasure to be around. Considering all this, it's no surprise that I started having panic attacks again. I don't really have time in my busy schedule to hang out on the floor hyperventilating, so the time has come (once again) for me to enlist the help of a professional.

When I went to the Cigna website, I just assumed there would be dozens of mental health professionals of the highest caliber waiting to solve my problems. My primary requirement was that they were in my health insurance network because I don't need the extra stress of burning $100 bills. Once I started perusing the list, I realized my requirements were actually more numerous.

First and foremost, I refuse to consider any doctor in Vancouver. I don't think any explanation is required there.

From there, it starts to get a little fuzzy. I don't like one doctor's name. I feel like I can't trust someone with a name like "Magna Doodlepants" to help me. That wasn't actually it, but I assure you that it was equally stupid.

I don't like the next lady because she doesn't seem very solutions focused. I don't need to pay someone just to listen to me. My friends do that for free as long as I give them wine and cookies.

I don't like the next lady because she has only been practicing in this country for a couple of years, and I feel like she won't understand the cultural influences that are contributing to my anxiety.

I Google the next doctor, find a picture of her, and I'm convinced she's missing an eye. She isn't wearing an eye patch, but one of her eyes is clearly fake. I know I would just stare at it and wonder if she lost it in a knife fight instead of focusing on my shit.

The next lady is 80 years old. I can't deal with old people smell. You can't get it out of your clothes.

The next lady looks PERFECT, but specializes in pediatric psychology. Why is she showing up in my search? Clearly just to taunt me with what I can't have.

This literally goes on until I reach the end of the list, and it finally dawns on me that I know exactly what I'm looking for: Me, but a psychiatrist. Who would better understand ME than someone who is like ME: a Portland-dwelling woman under the age of 80 with a normal name who solves problems and isn't missing any body parts. I'll be damned, but she doesn't exist, so I called to make appointments with three doctors who almost met that criteria.

I'm convinced that this is going to be a terrific disaster, but I guess I don't really have much of a choice. Wish me luck.

My Anxious Life: Part 1.

I’ve always been very private about my anxiety, but I’ve come to realize that I’m just a little different from most people, and there is nothing wrong with that. In fact, my anxiety has provided me with the motivation and drive that has made me so successful and happy in life. However, my life would have been considerably easier if the anxiety had been diagnosed earlier.

I know my parents feel guilty for not recognizing my anxiety when I was a kid. They recognized early on that I was very smart, and they did their best to encourage my intellectual development. They knew I was different, but they figured the anxiety-driven behaviors were just side effects of high intellect. I actually think that might be true to some extent. Everyone I know who has been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder is extremely intelligent, so maybe there is a correlation.

I wish I could have explained my anxiety to my parents when I first became aware of it at the age of three. However, even an intelligent child usually doesn’t have the self-awareness or real world perspective to recognize what the hell is going on when they have anxiety.

“Mom. Dad. Certain shit has come to light, and I think I would benefit from seeing a psychiatrist.”

I wish it would have been that way, but it wasn’t, and I don’t blame my parents for not understanding something they had probably never had any experience with. I plan to write a series of blogs about my experiences with anxiety. Maybe you’ll recognize some of these behaviors in the children or adults in your life and be able to help them identify the source and seek some help. Maybe you’ll just become more aware of generalized anxiety disorder, a condition that affects millions of Americans. It’s also possible that you’ll just find the stories entertaining, and that’s ok too.

My earliest memories of having anxiety are from my first year of pre-school. It was blanket anxiety stemming from the fact that the other 3 year olds stressed me the fuck out. They couldn’t sit still. They were loud. They were unpredictable. Sometimes they threw tantrums. They slept during nap time, which was probably the only thing they did that didn’t scare me. I would lie awake quietly during nap time, savoring the silence and wondering when I would be allowed to “wake up” and read.

I told my parents that I didn’t like school because I didn’t like the other kids. A discussion immediately ensued between the two of them about my socialization (or perhaps lack thereof) with other kids my age. I didn’t know exactly what was going on, but I could tell that they were troubled by the situation. Soon thereafter, I had a couple of play dates with other kids my age. These play dates were slightly less stressful than school since there was only one crazy kid there, but they really weren’t enjoyable for me. I immediately learned to refrain from complaining about school.

Since there wasn’t any help coming to save me from the anxiety I felt as school, I had to figure out some way to alleviate the anxiety. I would bite the inside of my mouth because that seemed to take my mind off of the situation. I could focus on my throbbing, bloody lip instead of the kid who was running around screaming “POOP!!!” Unfortunately, that didn’t always work. Sometimes there were several kids running around screaming, and on those days I needed a more powerful antidote. I started biting my hands and arms whenever I went to the bathroom. I didn’t bite them very hard, just hard enough to distract myself. The marks went away within minutes, and I felt considerably better.

Then there was a day I can clearly remember when about 10 kids shit their pants. Someone must have put laxatives in the apple sauce. The whole place smelled like the inside of a port-a-potty. The kids who shit their pants were crying. The kids who didn’t shit their pants were crying on account of the smell, and who could blame them? I couldn’t take all that noise and shit stench, so I bit the hell out of my arms during the next bathroom trip. I bit them too hard. The marks didn’t go away.

The teachers didn’t notice, but my parents did.

Mom says: “WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR ARMS!?”

I think: Uh-oh. She’s mad. This isn’t good.

Mom says: “JENNIFER, I ASKED YOU A QUESTION.”

I think: I don’t want to lie, but I can’t tell the truth.

Mom says: “ANSWER ME, JENNIFER. WHAT HAPPENED?”

I say: “Someone bit me.” True, but a lie by omission of key details.

Mom says: “WHAT!? WHO?”

I think: Shit. ShitShitShit. Think fast.

Mom says: “PLEASE ANSWER ME.”

I say: “Michelle.”

Michelle was the biggest bully in the pre-school, and was always inflicting injuries on the other kids. I didn’t want to lie. I really didn’t. I’ve always hated lying, but somehow, I knew that the truth would fuck me over way more than the guilt of the lie in this situation. I still feel bad about the lie to this day.

Michelle obviously denied everything, but they didn’t believe her because she was such a horrible kid. The truth is, she didn’t get into much trouble. They just told her that she couldn’t keep beating up on the other kids, which I’m pretty sure was already part of the regular bi-weekly lecture she was getting for socking kids in the stomach. I never hurt myself again because I couldn’t bear the thought of telling another lie, or worse yet, getting caught in the truth.

How much do clothes cost in the Matrix?

Grandma's Boy is a hilarious movie. If you haven't seen it, you probably should. There's this character in the movie named JP who wears a full length black leather trench coat everywhere. At one point, there is a great exchange where the main character ends up saying, "Wow JP, that's a great outfit. How much do clothes cost in the Matrix?" I tried on this dress at Nordstrom today, and I can now inform you all that clothes cost $355 in the Matrix. I love Theory, but wow. Just wow.

Nordstrom is carrying this brand called "Milly" now that I'm not really familiar with, but their stuff is really intriguing. They have some really hot stuff, like these leather pants and this sweater. I might actually order the sweater. I would have a harder time justifying a leather pants purchase, but I still love them. However, Milly also had some stuff that I just didn't "get", like this horrible dress (1985 prom reject) and this skirt. I can kind of see what they were going for with the skirt, but the reality is that it would only look good on about two people on earth, and they're both skeletons. Either way, I like the designers for taking risks and being interesting.

I was super disappointed that Nordstrom only had about 10 swimsuits available in the store. I understand that it's the end of fall, but where is all the resort stuff? Come on! I guess I'll just wear a swimsuit from last year and hope nobody at the resort in Mexico notices. If they do, I don't know what I'll do. I'll just die of embarrassment, I guess.

I love fall and winter in the shoe department because the smell of leather is absolutely intoxicating. Despite being completely inappropriate for the season, I'm very drawn to these. I know they would be a violation of one of my fundamental shoe rules (Jimmy Choo for open toe pumps, Prada for closed toe pumps), but perhaps I would make an exception for these. On the other hand, I should probably buy a new refrigerator instead. Our ice maker is broken, and Mario keeps hitting it with a rolling pin to keep it from making this loud, annoying grumbling noise.

You might be driving me crazy

I'm exhausted this week. You probably aren't driving me crazy, but you might be if you...

... said something was impossible when we both know you just didn't want to do it.

... did something you agreed not to do, and then acted surprised that I was upset about it. When I said "Please don't do X any more", I meant ever.

... aren't listening. I have better things to do than talk to you if you're not going to listen.

... asked me the same question repeatedly. I heard your question the first time, and I answered it. I'm not going to change my response just because you asked again 10 seconds later. Please leave me alone.

... acted like a crazed maniac when I tried to do something nice for you. If I buy you a cup of coffee, it's because I want to and I can afford to. You don't have to make a huge deal out of it and then sneak $2 into my purse when I'm not looking.

... are talking and don't really have anything to say. Why should I suffer just because you're uncomfortable with silence?

... are making a ton of noise while I'm trying to work. My work requires concentration. Shut up.

... came to work sick. It's not a big deal for us to work from home. Get your sick germs out of here.

... insisted that the dancing on 'Dancing with the Stars' is good. I respect dancers for their dedication, athleticism, and artistic talent. To say that some D-list celebrity is a legitimate dancer is just insulting to real dancers.

... took something of mine without asking and didn't return it. I bought that because I needed it.

... said you were going to do something, and didn't do it. Why did you even commit to it in the first place?

... said you were going to do something, and then did a shitty job on it. I would have rather done it myself.

... did something that resulted in me having to spend a bunch of money. I don't like it when my own stupidity costs me money; I definitely don't want to have to pay for other peoples' stupidity.

... acted like your lack of planning constituted an emergency on my part. If you didn't plan ahead, you're the one with the problem.

You don't have to be a genius to change the world

I got my Mensa test results over the weekend, and was shocked to discover that I qualified for membership. I can only assume that my tests got mixed up with the lady next to me who completed every section early while I was struggling to fill in the last bubbles as time was being called. I was equally shocked to see that they provided my actual scores, which was totally unexpected based on what they told me before. If you're equipped with your raw test scores and a high school level education in mathematics, the Mensa website provides all the information you need to determine your IQ. I did this and determined that my IQ is 152.55, which I'll gladly round up to 153.

Upon calculating this, I immediately wondered what the hell that number meant. I enlisted some help from Google and discovered that there isn't a whole lot of agreement out there on what that number means. Some people say that you're a "genius" if your IQ is over 140, while some say the cut-off is 145, and others say it is 160. I'm apt to go with the 160 since I'm positive that I'm not a genius. I also decided that the term "genius" is probably kind of worthless. There is such a huge difference in intelligence between someone with an IQ of 160 vs. 170, but they are both considered to be in the genius range.

Google turned up some pages with estimated IQ's of some famously smart people, which is complete bullshit if you ask me. If someone had asked Mozart what the opposite of a tree was, he probably would have been smart enough to stand up and walk out of the room. I'm not even convinced that the tests I took accurately assessed my IQ. To try to apply those tests to someone who is dead seems like a complete waste of time.

While perusing the list of famously smart people and their supposed IQ's, I realized that what these people really had in common wasn't a high IQ. What they actually had in common was that they accomplished incredible feats in their fields and made a profound impact on the world. Statistically speaking, about 1 in every 11,000 people has an IQ over 160, which means that there are over 600,000 "geniuses" living in the world today. However, there were only 20 or 30 people on these lists of famously smart people whose IQ's were estimated. Being a genius definitely isn't what made those people special.

Despite my allegedly high IQ, I don't think any of my intellectual pursuits have made much of an impact on anyone. I'd be shocked if anyone has even looked at my hierarchical model for predicting delay variability in digital circuits due to process variation. I haven't even been able to invent a low cost eco-friendly toilet paper that doesn't leave any debris behind after a single swipe. At least I'm trying.

The things I've done that have made the biggest impact on the world aren't intellectual pursuits at all. The impactful pursuits have all been pursuits of love, kindness, and compassion. Those are things that anyone can do, regardless of a meaningless IQ score. If everyone set aside one hour every week to help someone in need, we would see a big change in the world. What can you do for someone else this week?

I almost forgot how much I love standardized tests

I took the Mensa admissions test today, and it was a lot like dealing with Uncle Rico from Napoleon Dynamite. You think your life is pretty sweet, but then Uncle Rico shows up and throws a raw steak at your face while you're riding your bike. You may wonder why I chose to spend two hours of my Saturday (before noon no less) having an intellectual steak thrown at my face just for the opportunity to join an organization that appears pretty pretentious. Well, somehow I got the idea in my head that it would be interesting to meet intelligent people outside of my industry. I must be out of my mind because I have no evidence that members of Mensa are the least bit interesting. I also made the grand assumption that my IQ is in the top 2% of the US population, and that taking this test was simply a formality. Not smart.

Let's back up. Mensa is running a very special deal on testing fees this month, which they are referring to as a "two-fer". The testing fee is normally $40, but this month you can bring a friend and take the test for $20 each. I wasn't sure if it would be worth the $20 savings to make one of my friends hate me, but I did my best to recruit a partner for the "two-fer". I didn't get a single taker. You see, all of my friends are smarter than I am and know that getting up at 8 in the morning on a Saturday to take an IQ test is idiotic. Friends: 1. Jen: 0.

Ok, back to the test. I walk into the room this morning and find two people there: the proctor and a 20-something girl sitting in the front row. I approach the girl and introduce myself. I ask her if she came alone. She did. Then I ask her if she would like to be my "two-fer". She agrees. Things are going well. I already saved $20. That should count as an extra point on the test. I radiate smugness as I stroll to the front of the room to pay my $20 fee and grab a free Gatorade that is the color (and flavor) of toxic waste.

A few minutes later, the real fun begins. The proctor explains that there are actually two tests administered, and you need only score in the top 2% of the population on one of them to qualify for membership. This knowledge boosts my smug factor to dangerous levels. The first test of the day is the Mensa Admissions Test, which Mensa specially commissioned to make people feel like idiots. The test is composed of 7 sections, and each section is designed to make you feel like an imbecile in a slightly different way. Before we begin, the proctor announces that she is going to read a story that we will have to answer questions about later. It turns out to be one of the most boring stories I've ever heard, but I manage to stay awake. I probably shouldn't have had so much vodka last night.

The task in the first section is straightforward: identification of things that are opposites. Each question provides a picture of something, and you have a choice of four pictures, one of which is the opposite of the thing they showed you. The practice question shows a picture of a cowboy hat. The four choices are pictures of something like: baseball hat, top hat, folded newspaper hat, and beret. I understood perfectly well what I was expected to do, but I had no inclination as to which of those four things was the opposite of a cowboy hat. Meanwhile, the proctor is explaining the practice question and says something like, "obviously the newspaper hat is the opposite of the cowboy hat because the cowboy hat is a real hat, and the newspaper hat isn't." Ok, yes, that makes sense now that you explain it, but 'real hat' isn't the first thing that comes to mind when I see a cowboy hat. I start to sweat. The previous aura of smugness has completely evaporated. I frantically look around for a window that I can sneak out of, but there isn't one. Fuck.

The test begins. What is the opposite of a tree? What is the opposite of a diamond? What is the opposite of a battery? Good God, I can't even tell what some of these pictures are. Is that the sheep field from the Settlers of Catan game board? I start to get pissed off because I can rationalize why two of the different options for the opposite of a tree could be true. The proctor announces that we have one minute left. I'm totally screwed. I start going with my gut, with absolutely no conscious idea of why I am selecting certain answers. I think I'm just selecting the prettiest pictures. I'm filling in the last bubble when she calls time. Not good.

The next section is essentially analogies, but with pictures. I vaguely remember something like this from the SAT, and I breeze through the section fairly easily with the exception of a couple of questions where I see absolutely no conceivable relationship between the pictures given and revert to my previous strategy of selecting the picture that makes me happiest. I chug a little toxic waste Gatorade and hope that it is an intellectual stimulant.

I don't recall the order of the sections that followed, presumably because I now have test-induced PTSD. There was a section where all of the questions revolved around making a certain amount of change with a given number of coins. Are you kidding me? People use debit cards these days. I'm pretty sure most kids under the age of 12 have never even seen real coins. Nevertheless, addition is pretty easy. I was excited for the math section because that is where I felt sure that I would excel. Wrong again. You have to be a PhD in literature to comprehend some of these math problems. By the time I get to the end of reading the problem, I've already forgotten what they told me at the beginning. When she announces that we have one minute left on the math section, I still have several problems left to complete. I get through two of them and end up having to pick the answer that looks the most reasonable on the last two.

Finally, there is an oasis in the desert: antonyms. My vocabulary is pretty decent, and I finish the section with a ton of time to spare. There was only one word I didn't know, and I've already forgotten what it was because it is obviously a stupid word that nobody needs to use.

The test wraps up with a series of questions about the horribly boring story we heard at the beginning. If you were awake during the story, you can easily answer every question. I even notice a couple where they are obviously trying to trick me. Nice try. Despite a horrifying start and some embarrassments in the middle, the test ends on a high note.

The second test that was administered was called Wonderlic, and I laughed out loud at the name because I have the maturity (and probably the IQ) of an 8 year old. I had never heard of this test prior to today, but I discovered this afternoon that NFL players have to take this test to predict their career performance. I seriously doubt that knowing which of four words means the same thing as idiosyncrasy is going to help you get more yards per carry. On the other hand, maybe it wouldn't hurt to include this information in my fantasy football draft matrix next year.

The Wonderlic test is 50 questions long, includes numerous different types of questions, and you have 12 minutes to complete the test. The instructions on the front page proclaim that you will not have enough time to finish the test, and I'm immediately annoyed by how presumptuous they are. I quickly do the math and determine that you have ~15 seconds per question. That ends up being enough time to read the question and go with your instincts. That's why I was incredibly annoyed when they asked me some question about how long a family could live off a hunk of beef given a fixed consumption rate. I don't have time for long division, assholes. It took me 12 seconds just to read the question. Also, the sour feeling in my stomach induced by the discussion of a hunk of beef has left me severely mentally impaired. Perhaps this is part of their plan. It turns out that I only completed 47 of the 50 questions, but that seems close enough that I'm sure some people are able to complete all 50.

Mensa doesn't tell you your scores on these tests; they only tell you whether you scored in the top 2% since this is what is required to qualify for Mensa membership. Personally, I think this is a little bit rude. If I pay $20 to take some tests, I deserve to know what my scores were. Maybe they're trying to save my family the agony of listening to me cite my IQ out of context in future conversations:

Mario: I think we should have enchiladas for dinner.
Me: I think we should have spaghetti.
Mario: Really? I had pasta for lunch, and I'm really in the mood for Mexican food.
Me: My IQ is 140.

To be honest, it's probably for the best that they aren't going to tell me my score. If I don't qualify for membership, I'll just go ahead and assume that I was in the top 3%. I won't have to be faced with the reality of my average (or worse) IQ. I'll find out whether I managed to squeak by sometime in the next 6 weeks. For now, I'm going to relax and enjoy the rest of my weekend... without Uncle Rico.

What it’s like to start a job as a female engineer

When I tell people that I’m an electrical engineer, I typically get a reaction that is a delightful mixture of skepticism and shock. I’m not surprised by this reaction because, frankly, women aren’t all that common in my field. I also don’t really look like an engineer. I don’t want to perpetuate stereotypes about what the typical engineer looks like, but rest assured that the typical engineer is not an attractive American woman in a Kate spade dress and Jimmy Choo heels. Most engineers probably don’t even know who Kate Spade and Jimmy Choo are, and that’s perfectly all right.

While skepticism about my career from the general public doesn’t surprise me, I am quite shocked by the amount of skepticism that I’ve had to deal with at work over the years. Let me walk you through what it is like to start a new engineering job for me. I walk into the team staff meeting on my first day, eager to meet my new co-workers. With rare exceptions, I’m greeted by a room full of looks that say, “Oh, great, another diversity hire.”

This reaction drives me crazy. I like the concept of affirmative action, but I think that most companies struggle to find the right way to execute affirmative action. I have never worked in HR, so I honestly don’t know exactly how companies handle this. I strongly suspect that in many cases, there are corporate quotas for the hiring of minorities. This implementation of affirmative action invariably casts a shadow of doubt on every qualified minority in my field. I have personally worked with plenty of people who were under-qualified. Those people usually aren’t minorities, but occasionally they are. Nobody seems to notice the under-qualified non-minorities, but they sure do notice the under-qualified minorities. Therefore, about 95% of the people I meet at work assume up front that I am an idiot, and that’s pretty clear from the way they treat me.

I inevitably end up expending a great deal of energy to hasten the process of convincing everyone I work with that I’m not an idiot. While they would eventually figure this out in the natural process of working with me, I prefer to expedite this so I can spend less time being treated like a damn fool. Ironically, I’m smarter than most of these people. It’s ridiculous, but eventually everyone comes around and figures out that I’m smart. What happens after that is slightly less predictable.

A small percentage of people are absolutely delighted at this discovery and regard me as some kind of wonder of the world who can surely solve all of their problems. I do my best, but I’m no all-knowing oracle. Give me a break, guys.

An equally small percentage of people are pissed off when they figure out that I’m not a brain-dead moron, and proceed to treat me like shit. This includes all kinds of abusive behavior that would be considered inappropriate in most environments, but is absolutely unthinkable in a work environment. I’ve had people do everything from sabotaging my work (yes, intentionally deleting test programs that I stayed up all night to write) to physically backing me into the corner of a conference room and screaming in my face to intimidate me. I have no idea what is wrong with these people, but they obviously don’t like me ruining their stereotype of what I should be. I welcome assessments from the social scientists out there.

A vast majority of people start to treat me with respect upon realizing that I’m smart, qualified, and good at what I do, yet they continue to keep me at a distance. When I approach them on Monday morning to ask how their weekend was, they’re perfectly nice, but they keep it short. When they all get together to go out to lunch, they don’t invite me. I’m stuck eating lunch with the other attractive, American, female engineers. Oh wait, that’s usually just me, so I eat lunch alone. I’m actually a pretty nice person most of the time, so I don’t really understand this behavior. People have tried to rationalize this to me by saying that my co-workers may be a little unnerved by how different I am, but I’m really not all that different from my co-workers. We have the same educational background. I like sports. Oh, you don’t like football? Well guess what, I like video games too. You don’t like Zelda? I like action movies. What? You don’t like Indiana Jones? Really? Ok, I like beer. You don’t enjoy a nice oatmeal stout? Now I know you’re lying, because there can’t possibly be a wealth of dudes out there who don’t like sports, video games, action movies or beer. Yes, it may seem like I’m stereotyping the guys now, but I have a lot of other gender-bridging interests that I’m leaving out, so I don’t feel like I’m too far off base.

Granted, not every one of my co-workers is a dude. A few of my co-workers are Indian or Chinese women, and they’re actually much nicer to me than the dudes. However, they do have their little cliques, and they often speak their native language in their cliques. I don’t speak Hindi or Mandarin, so I’m kind of screwed. I also don’t always have a lot in common with these women, although I really admire a lot of them. Many of them are working mothers, and understandably, they want to talk about their children. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that, but I don’t have children, and I don’t really want to spend my entire lunch hour hearing about your infant’s bowel movements. Yes, I do want to hear that your kid won a spelling bee, took a first step, or scored a goal in her soccer game because that’s cool stuff. However, I don’t need to talk you to about it for an hour. I can get a good download on that stuff in 2 minutes.

So, where does this leave me? It usually leaves me in a job that I excel at and possibly find intellectually rewarding, but with very little connection to other human beings. Although I’m an introvert, I do need a little social love from time to time. Experiencing this social dilemma in every engineering job I’ve ever had is one of the things that drove me into marking (oft referred to as 'the dark side' by engineers). It certainly wasn’t the only (or primary) factor in that decision because if I had loved any of my jobs, I probably would have tolerated being treated like a leper.