Vindications

Professional:
I drum my fingers on the lab bench, waiting impatiently for the numbers on my timer to slip down below the five minute mark. Close enough, right? I peek into the drawer like a kid sneaking a hand into the cookie jar. Technically the reaction occuring in the wells of my test plate shouldn't be exposed to light yet. But it's an enzymatic reaction; it should be leveled off by now--nothing should really be happening. I anxiously try to pre-evaluate my success. Row A: good. Row B: good... Row D? Damn it, that well shouldn't be so dark. Days like these--when I cannot for the life of me obtain decent replicate values for an assay--remind me why I changed my login password to 'blowme.'
The necessary addition of sulfuric acid to stop the reaction in the wells further sours my mood, as I lament the change from aqua to assaultingly bright yellow. I don't bother hiding my defeated stomps on the way to the spectrophotometer. John raises a quizzical look, but I offer no explanation for my crabby mocking of the machine's bip...bip...bip as it reads my plate. Where did I go wrong?
Barbara bustles in at the sound of another timer. "Oh!" she exclaims from across the lab. Her giggle of excitement catches me off guard. "Stephanie, this plate is perfect! Look at the replicates for your standard." I survey the comparison plate I had been testing with a mix of exasperation and relief; all my mismatched replicate values stemmed from a bad batch of plates.

Personal:
The squeaky hinge of a lawn chair to my left draws me up from the depths of my reverie. I refuse to open my eyes. You've got to be kidding me. Over a mile hike toward the desolate outcroppings of sun-scorched cliff line--the solitude-seeking portion of my frontal lobe staging valiant attempts to reason against the screeching protests of my raw blisters--and yet this irritating presence still managed to fumble into my peripheral. Curiosity gets the best of me. Lifting my head in the weight of this heat feels impossible, but I manage to elevate my vision a few inches, just enough to inspect the stretch of sand to my left. The mild looking couple and drooling toddler, complete with sunhat and retro baby-chic shades, seem harmless.
Gravity plops my face back into the musky threading of my beach towel. As my thoughts log their daily complaint at the lack of escape from all these cookie cutter houses, with their shoebox backyards and ceaseless freeway noise, the ocean's waves lap at my subconscious. Shielding my eyes from the late morning rays, I turn my head to watch the water gurgle up the shore. Four years of living here and still the vastness hypnotizes me. A wild thrill chases up my spine knowing I can tip toe to the edge and all that civilization crushing in behind me just stops. Nevermind my complaints. I send a quiet smile out to the endless horizon; I remember why I'm here.