Shit on Shingles
Readers be warned: if you want to continue associating with me and remain blissfully unaware of any personal medical problems I might have, just go ahead and skip this post. I won’t be offended, in fact I’ll be kind of relieved. Nothing of concern to you, unless you haven’t had the chicken pox yet. (And if you haven’t, boy are you missing out! I’d be happy to take care of that for ya).
So a slight itch on my back last Friday turned into this brilliant scarlet rash by the time Saturday rolled around, and come Sunday, it had spread around to the front of my chest. Web fueled paranoia convinced me that my torso would fall off.
Calm as always, Elijah mentioned that it looked more like a case of the shingles. I consulted Web MD and the symptoms seemed to match. I figured there wasn’t much to do until I could get in to see a doctor on Monday, so I just waited and shoved my zombiesque fears into the back of my mind while I worked on my personal statement for law school. Now those of you who may be reading this who are familiar with the law school applications process are probably thinking that this point is pretty late in the game to start applying, and you’re right. Many of my perfectly punctual peers have already received their acceptance and rejection letters for the 2010-2011 cycle. And I started this entire process last June, when I took the LSAT, so it’s not as though I didn’t have plenty of time. My references got their recommendation letters in by the end of November. The only thing I had left to accomplish was a personal statement.
That’s right, a personal statement. Not a research paper, which would require fact checking. The task literally entails writing about myself, which I have done on this stupid blog for six going on seven years already. I mean, how goddamn hard could that possibly be? It’s not like the poor guy who actually has to read the stack of personal statements will call a James Frey on me if I made up an anecdote (ha, who am I kidding, nobody reads these. They probably just shred most of them after glancing at the LSAT scores).
But here’s the catch – apart from blogging, I have not written a single thing since graduating from college in 2006. Every single time I have tried to keep up with my writing, start a new story, even edit and develop ones I’ve already written – this little rowdy Greek chorus in my head pops up, jeering and heckling my every word. And that chorus trotted out in full force, at maximum volume, whenever I worked on my personal statement. “YOU SUCK! Why would any law school take you?” “Oh, now you’re trying to brag about how you’re a good writer? Yeah, that’s a real good tactic.” “You’re applying way too late anyways to get into anywhere good. Maybe you should look into clown school.” “Ha, try bridge-jumping school. You’ll probably fail at that too!” What a valuable, helpful resource to retain in one’s head. (Hey brain scientists: which part do these jerks inhabit? Maybe I could just accidentally fall and hit my head there).
Chorus or not, I am just no good at boasty writing. Most people aren’t, actually, judging from examples of successful personal statements. I guess if you have a 4.0 and a near perfect LSAT, you could turn in an elephant doodled in shit on a bar napkin, and still get a free ride anywhere you like. My stats are good but not quite shit-elephant good so I struggled onwards, the little chorus shouting epithets and filling my head with self-loathing. To make matters worse, I was increasingly distracted by the rash on my back, which stung constantly by this point. I removed my bra, thinking maybe that the strap was chafing my skin. Eventually I just took some ibuprofen and some allergy medicine and went to bed, failing again. Well, I’d have till midnight the next day.
Monday I tried calling the doctor – no answer, so I decided to show up at the doctor’s office, which was full of sick people bearing masks. To a hypochondriac, nothing is more terrifying than being in proximal distance of masked sickies. Tried to set a proper appointment, and the only one that was available was during my work hours, so I just decided to come back after work and try my luck then. I ended up having to wait over two and a half hours to have a doctor take once quick glance at me and confirm that yes indeedy, I did have shingles. (Texted the boyfriend to inform of my lengthy socialist wait for health care). Apparently shingles is a resurgence of the dormant chicken pox virus, which lurks silently in your nerves for years, until a moment of high stress triggers an ambush to knife you while you’re already down. Gee thanks, chicken pox. Asshole. I didn’t get out of the doctor’s office and the drugstore to pick up my prescription until about 9:45 – just a couple of hours to refine a personal statement, which should be plenty of time, right?
My mind shuffled through the tasks I had left to do, a paragraph or two that I’d either need to cut or expand, when – OF COURSE! – blue and red lights danced in my rearview mirror. “Miss, are you aware that you ran that stop sign?” asked the officer. Stop sign. Yes, I remembered that stop sign – a notorious spot for police bored and with nothing to do, the one between the gas stations at the top of 9th and Iowa. One I usually am smart enough to circumvent by electing to drive a few feet further to turn at the lighted intersection, but this time I didn’t. “I did?” “Yep. Gonna have to write you a ticket for that.”
Whether I stopped or not – that is something that is kind of subjective, right? I mean, I’m pretty sure I sssstttttoopppppped. So maybe the officer wanted to see more staccato, less legato. Whatever. $132?! Okay, that is ridiculous. Maybe I could get that fine reduced in court, according to rumored anecdotes from friends of friends who had done the same. By the time I was done being stopped!, I now had an hour and a half to get everything done. Still doable.
There are few things more depressing than still finding yourself at work at 10:00 at night, but since my laptop is still out of commission, I had few other options. Thankfully my helpful sister was online to provide 1) sanity and 2) a fresh perspective, and I managed to cobble together something halfway decent, if not ideal. Even with her help, it took another hour to get it to the point where it was presentable. Countdown one hour. Since everything is submitted online, this part should be a breeze.
WRONG again. I guess the LSAC servers were overloaded with lots of procrastinating dummies like me, trying to upload their personal statements and resumes at the same time. I’d apply to a school, Firefox would implode, I’d have to start it up again and crash it right back into the wall. Eventually I managed to eke in four applications to schools, when I noticed that the timestamp on the LSAC submission was going by Eastern time. Foiled again! I was a day too late and I didn’t even realize it.
I limped back to my car, defeated, my flesh burning and my head in a daze. I still kept it together, barely, right until the moment I got home and my roommate James asked me the innocuous question: “So, how was your night?”
For no justifiable reason at all, I just burst into tears. Poor James helped me open my beer and fled to the safety of his room. He’s a good roommate.
Epilogue to this long-ass post: I have provisionally decided that I probably won’t be going to law school in this next cycle, but at the very least I have everything ready and prepared for the next one. I’m probably not psychological ready for it, for one thing. A number of law school veterans have come out of the woodwork to warn me of the travails ahead (thanks Sara 
), and if just the application process itself is enough to bring down some arcane old-timey disease on me, I shudder to think of what medical horrors await me during my first year of law school.
Another reason to wait a year: Eli’s bizarre eye troubles are happily resolved, we’re still young and unfettered. Maybe it’s time to pack our bags and head east.