Beautiful Acne

One cannot help but apprecaite the thoughtfullness of the English graduate programs to time their rejection letters to come in a succession of little waves, each one incrementally adding upon the joy brought by its predecessors. I have surmised that in their great solicitude, the chairs of these departments make a master schedule of mailings, so as to prevent one great deluge of letters from reaching me at once, thereby overwhelming me with the complete rapture such an inundation would doubtless engender. My nine, oh yes, 9--count them (as I have, several times over), nine--consecutive rejections thus far are:

UCLA (Feb 12)
Cornell (Feb 16)
Princeton (Feb 23)
Yale (Feb 23)
Stanford (Feb 25)
Berkeley (Feb 27)
Columbia (March 1)
Chicago (March 3)
USCB (March 9)

This most recent letter was particularly heartening, since it was my "backup" school. I am not good enough to be a UC Santa Barbara Gaucho, which I suppose is just as well, because the gauchos were not noted for their literary acumen.

It was thus in this fine state of mind that I began SAT class this morning to find a new student. A new, very handsome student. A new, young, very handsome student. A new, young, very handsome, Korean student. "Oh the inhumanity of it all!" shrieked the voice in my head, as I smiled politely and said, "Hi. What's your name? Nice to meet you. I'm Mr. Hayashi." Aside from his being Korean (and, based on his presense in the class, his want of verbal dexterity) I was quite jealous of him. "I am nine times rejected, aging, and ugly," the voice moaned. "Yes," rejoined my optimistic spirit, "but at least you're not Korean." This silver lining provided some measure of solice.

One feature that added to his youthful aesthetic (besides the full head of straight, black hair declaring his juvenescence) was his sanguine cheeks, not overly bright to indicate rosacea or signal embarrassment, but just enough to add a vigorous glow to his slightly tanned complexion.

I began passing out vocabulary quizzes, and as I handed the new student his copy...is his rosy glow is pixelated? I realized that the scarlet color added to his cheeks was composed of divers miniature pimples. It was the way Monet might have rendered an adolescent blush: tiny dots carefully placed to produce the illusion of a sustained, continuous hue from far way.

Perhaps a rational person in a less fraught state of mind would have been grateful not to have acne that caused a reddened complexion, but rather than propitiate my unreasoning jealousy, this newfound knowledge actually increased it. "A sanguine glow from afar, and up close, the little pimples don't even look bad. He's like a walking Impressionist painting! Living art! OH THE HUMANITY!" The effect, was, in fact, rather charming.

This was more than could be born on the shoulders of one so recently smitten by the cold, merciless graduate programs; I needed some comfort food. My instinct for solace notwithstanding, I knew I shouldn't overindulge in real comfort food. The aesthetic inadaquacy brought on by this unknowing student translated into concern for the health of my (aging) body, and the unsightly possibility of a burgeoning waist--for, as we all know, comfort = calories. The least offending food that would bring some measure of consulation was Sundubu Chigae, or Korean tofu soup. [Editor's note: there is a great Korean tofu house on Artesia and Norwalk, within walking distance of Pam's! They have free, all-you-can-eat soft-serve frozen yogurt (chocolate and vanilla) for dessert.]

As I ingested my sundubu, I was filled with ambivalence. On one hand, I was very grateful for such a delicious--and healthful--meal; on the other, I felt entirely pathetic for: (a) being the type of person who turns to food to make himself feel better; (b) having been rejected from all the grad schools thus far; (c) not having a better coping mechanism; (d) allowing my vanity to prevent my eating something deep fried and lathered in butter.

Fortunately, the tofu house is close to Pam's, so I walked right over for some real, human sympathy after my meal. After dropping off Daniel at his home, the conversation went something like this:

P: Do you wanna come sit up in front?
J: No, that's ok; you can chauffeur me.
P: Ok, Ms. Daisy!
J: I guess that makes you Morgan Freeman...
P: I was just gonna say that!
J: Well, I guess that makes me Jessica Tandy...except she's old. And a woman. And dead. And I'm none of those things!
P: ...and you'll never have a chance to be one of them.
J: Right. Let's hope I'm never old. Hahaha! I'll have to remember to blog about this.