the underwear drawer

petty

We weren't planning on some Big Night Out earlier in the day, but yesterday evening turned out to be some sort of gigantic med school reunion. Though, to be more precise, it was a third year rotation group reunion--preferable, since those are the only people I like from med school anyway. We met up with Dave for dinner down on Irving Place (I ordered a "thai pizza" which came all rolled up in tube-form like a burrito--why not call it a "thai burrito" then?) and then took the subway up to the Upper West to have drinks with Guillem and Heath'n'Sheryl, who were in town for the weekend. It was fun to catch up, and I got some anesthesia lowdown from Sheryl, which served the dual purpose of making me both excited about my switch, and very, very nervous.

Joe's been on call next weekend, I'm on call next weekend, and we're splitting call Thanksgiving weekend (on different days), so we're basically like two ships passing in the night for the entire month of November. Which sucks, but who knows, maybe it's good for the marriage, since we never have a chance to get on each other's nerves. Or to see each other at all, in fact. We have a sham marriage, like Liza and David!

Speaking of schadenfreude (how's that for a segue), Joe and I were having this discussion in the cab on the way home last night. I don't know how to topic came up, but we were talking about thoughts that were normal, but not necessarily very nice to have. My example of such a feeling was taking some sort of dark glee in comparing yourself against the new girlfriend of an ex-, and noting that you are more attractive than she. Or more intelligent. Or have bigger boobs. (This last sentiment I have personally never experienced, unless I was comparing myself to a preteen boy or something.) This nasty little measuring-up has nothing to do with wanting to date your ex- again, or hating the new girl, or whatever. It barely has anything to do with you and your life, but it crosses your mind anyway. It's petty, but it happens. And my point was that it was pretty normal to have those thoughts. (Or course, the converse of this would be that if your ex- started dating some six-foot tall witty Brazilian supermodel-slash-astrophycisist, you might pout for a while.)

Joe, on the other hand, feels that this kind of petty rumination is ABnormal, and that he would never think such things, and my god, what was wrong with girls anyway? That in fact, the only thing that would come to his mind upon meeting the new boyfriend of an ex- and finding them to be dull or fat or pimply is that maybe it maybe it would mean that he (Joe) was ugly, because "people tend to set a pattern of dating people on the same attractiveness level." Which, aside from making no sense at all, is just a TOTAL LIE, because you cannot tell me that if Joe and I had broken up and I started dating, say, Michael Ian Black, that Joe would not be thinking:

1.) That guy is scrawny.
2.) And weird.
3.) And I have bigger pecs anyway.
4.) I win. In your face, Michael Ian Black! (Commence mental football touchdown dance.)

After some more discussion, Joe conceded somewhat to the above. But you could still tell he thought he'd be above all such pettiness. Which only proves two things. One: that men can be even worse women, because even if they're equally petty, they won't admit it. And two: Michael Ian Black is funny.

Currently reading: "Bridget Jones's Diary," as sort of mind junk food before I start work again tomorrow morning. I though Renee Zellwegger looked sorta cute in the first movie, but all the ads of her in the sequel look terrible, like they never let her wash her hair or something. What gives? Just because she had to gain weight for the role doesn't mean that she has to look like a total slob.