In which Jobs, Careers, Ambitions, Vocations and Things Done because they Seem Vaguely Like A Good Idea At The Time are largely indistinguishable.

Tomorrow is the day of my big interview for Post-Grad Medicine. Holy Cow! To begin, though, a caveat: A great many people are given interviews, and only a few of them get in. The people who do get in tend to be highly motivated as well as pretty smart, and generally are people who actually, oh, I dunno, studied for their GAMSAT for more than one afternoon. In short, a day tripper like me very probably won’t get in. So while I appreciate the sentiment, let’s take all the “oh, you’re smart enough! You’re sure to get in!” stuff as read, shall we? Because everyone’s friends must say that to them, and let’s face it, most of them are wrong.

Hey, that reads pretty arrogantly, huh? Sorry guys, it’s just that everyone says the same lovely thing, and it’s a bit pressure-y. The flipside of “you’re clever, of course you’ll get in!” is, in essence “you didn’t get in? You mustn’t be so clever after all, oh well.” Or it is if you’re morosely overanalyzing the fact that you didn’t get in and now have to become a plumber or a geologist. Although obviously I really appreciate the sentiment, so thanks.

But here’s the thing, right: What if they ask “why do you want to be a doctor?”? Other questions I figure I can handle as they arise, but this one they might reasonably expect me to know the answer to. But here’s the problem: I don’t. I have no idea.

I know I do really want to do it, but I guess the reasons are all too pragmatic and blunt or too romantic and silly. So, actually, yes, I would like to “help people”, but that’s an answer I bet they’ve heard 8 million times that day. Also, I’d be lying if I said that the fact that doctorin’ tends to be passably lucrative hadn’t crossed my mind. Plus, it seems really interesting. Lastly, there seems to be a sort of inevitable inertia towards a medical career in my life. Both my parents are doctors, and I’ve worked in doctors’ surgeries basically forever. It’s all I know, other than those jobs picture books listed when I was three. (So my other options are “fire fighter”, “police officer”, “school teacher” and “builder”, I guess?) (Man, I guess policing would be pretty cool. I do look good in blue, and everyone digs chicks in uniform. Plus, I could rise through the ranks and end up a general, or whatever the police equivalent is, surely?)

Which isn’t, on the whole, an unreasonable complex of reasons (the medicine stuff, the the police blather). It’s not awfully snappy, though, is it? It doesn’t scream “This girl has it all together, and has thought this through”, so much as “vague, mercenary, clichéd, apathetic” (and easily distracted).

Essentially, then, this is my plan: hope no-one asks that. Which seems fair enough, really, since surely everyone will have a well-articulated version of “I just want to help people, y’know?” written on the back of their hand. Which is frankly silly. If helping people was your only motivation, you’d do nursing. Or one of those other unappreciated jobs which makes people’s live genuinely better. You wouldn’t be doing the comparatively glamourous degree and ending up doing cosmetic surgery in Mosman. In fact, most jobs could be described as “helping people”. If no-one thought that what you were doing was helpful, no-one would pay you to do it.

Also, people keep telling me that it’s a “vocation” or a “calling”. Especially people like florists or newsagents or miscellaneous people who presumably have no better idea than I have. What is that? What does it even mean? Like some people are born with birthmarks in the shape of stethoscopes, and that’s how you can tell, or something.

Aaargh, too complicated. In less stressful and excitably overthought news, I totally bought the Fountains of Wayne album with Stacy’s Mom on it for $10 today. Yessss… (She’s got it goin’ on!) Plus, I had a really fantastic morning, and surely, surely I’ll get better soon, and not be sick any more, which is nice to look forward to.