trading

I am not ashamed to admit I order the Thai peanut tofu at Goosebeary’s. Sure, foodtruck food is sketchy; they use the same “special sauce” on everything, but it’s $3.50 and I’m not a picky eater. Clutching my white Styrofoam box and plastic fork, I did my quick grad-student-walk to the Biocafé tables and plopped down next to my labmate Robbie, careful not to spill any sauce over the sides of the Styrofoam.

“Whatcha got in there?” I asked, peering nosily into his plastic grocery bag.

“Salad, manicotti, chocolate chip cookies, and homemade cheesecake Megan made last night,” he replied, as he assembled his Tupperware nicely in the order of execution. My mouth watering, I felt transported back to the third grade, when I’d regularly barter my extra tater tots for one of Brooke Rosenbaum’s pizza Lunchables.

I offered to trade my tofu for Robbie’s wife. He declined and handed me a cookie, which I thought was pretty fair and not wholly unexpected, especially as tofu << tater tots.

Married grad students have it made. It’s not just the better lunches. They’ve got two incomes and cleaner apartments. Maybe even a car, for those trips to see the fam on special occasions. Granted, you won’t be spotting them at Underbar on Friday nights, but that’s because they’re participating in the glorious regular sex privileged upon newlyweds. Glorious, hot, condomless sex—without the three $12 drink minimum required to bag a girl at Gypsy Bar. And there would be no STDs or hangovers the next morning, allowing the married grad student to maintain both superior hygiene and a diligent work schedule that starts before 10 AM.

But aside from these superficial differences, they exude a general aura of…composure. Of poise. Maybe it’s the inherent maturity that comes with marital responsibility, but my gut says there’s something else. While other grad students exist in a constant mode of restrained panic, the married appear to be somewhat immune to the perpetual undercurrents of stress at MIT. More self-assured, their emotional well-being seems less bound to the rollercoaster progress of their theses. Perhaps this emotional stability is just a result of having a steady supporter cheering in their corner. Or maybe to them, graduate research feels more akin to a real-life job, a source of income—instead of a personal investment upon which our egos and self-fulfillment rely. Those three letters attached to our names translate to a certain identity that defines us—something that once won, can never be taken away. I wonder if ‘Mrs.’ renders the same, or at least a competitive, effect.

Committing to the love of your life undoubtedly puts things in perspective and reorganizes your priorities. The Western blot can be left for tomorrow when dinner with the future mother of your child is waiting. Too many of us choose lab at the end of the day, giving up sleep, concerts, wine with the girls, spring break (the WOO HOO! kind), and movies with old friends. Later, we say. After oral exams or quals, after we finish writing up that paper. We make these little trades every day. There is a pervading sense of putting our lives on hold for 5+ years. Sacrificing now for a better future: a quicker, stronger debut into the “real world”. Are we losing the battle to maintain balance and sanity? The married aren’t. Whether they realize it or not, they’ve developed a foolproof strategy for achieving this. While the rest of us are essentially waiting to begin adulthood, they have already reached out and grabbed life by the horns—even if in a most ordinary and conventional way.

But alas, here I sit: single, possibly losing the battle. Hung over on a Sunday, wallet light from last night’s activities. Nursing my headache with a Bloody Mary at brunch, and consequently, getting a late start in lab of course. I look around. Then again, so will Matt. And Alex. And Nina. With my fork, I spear a home-fried potato chunk marinating in grease off Nina’s plate. If love is all about timing, then I suppose our synchronous tardiness makes us soulmates. Watching my comrades chatter and laugh, I decisively shove the fork into my mouth. I am unwilling to trade this potato, this moment. Besides, my husband would have to eat some pretty shitty homemade cheesecake.