Epiphanies: What I want to NOT be when I grow up....

I've been pondering a few different career choices and before I set out to become a part-time college student(and by this I mean VERY part-time) I want to know exactly what my major course study should be. The top three are usually: RN, Social Worker or Counseling Psychologist.

The reason I wanted to become an RN is because I wanted to eventually work in the Labor and Delivery ward and help bring babies into the world everyday. But as I observe my behavior, I see that I am ill-suited for a career that requires me to be sympathetic to physical pain.

CLUE #1---I have a high pain threshold. I only started to scream at 8 cm when giving birth to Ornery Tiger Cub and Pebbles, naturally. I kept pretty mellow before then. One of the reasons I cope so well with pain is that I actually shut down and go inside myself and deal with it there. I use my mind alot in overcoming discomfort, whether it be mental, emotional or physical. And those who don't, or care not to try...well, to put it frankly, get on my last damn nerve. And kinda make me want to call them babies. Loudly.

Take for instance the day Phil and I got our tattoos. It hurt like a bitch. It just did. And I had two impulses: a) yank my ankle away, and b) kick the tattoo artist in the face. I couldn't follow through on either impulse so I just sat there, gritted my teeth and tried to tell myself that it was just a vicious papercut. We had a very detailed tattoo artist. Oh yes...very, very detailed. A perfectionist if you will. Which is good in the long run for tattoo longevity but at the time, in the chair, it not only just hurt, it pulsated and sliced and diced.

I got mine first and then it was Phil's turn. He was so excited. This being his third tattoo he was packing a very superior attitude to my tattoo virginity. He chose a tribal band for his bicep. A beautiful one....lots of thin dark outlining and woo-eee a bunch of shading too. Just beautiful.

He was coping well until it was time to do the thin outlining on the underside of his arm. WOW....who knew Phil could turn that red, grit his teeth and close his eyes that hard? I sat there confused. I mean, didn't he know that it would be like this? Afterall, isn't he, like, *experienced* in the tattoo arts? And then it started to bug me....because I knew I could be sitting there with a severed leg and it won't matter when we get home. I realized it was going to be all about how he can't hold the baby or do the dishes or basically do *anything* because his arm was hurting from the new tattoo. My dawning realization with it's accompanying rising anger opened the gate that usually seperates (at times) what I'm thinking from actually becoming what I'm saying.

I look at my sweet husband, in all his agony, and say, "Well you chose this tattoo." Sweet. That was CLUE #2 that maybe, just maybe I shouldn't be a nurse.

CLUE #3 came last night as Phil sat at his computer chair playing his game and coughing his head off. Hack, hack, hack. Cough, cough, cough. Phlegm, phlegm, phlegm. Hack again.

I couldn't stand it. I wanted to kick him. "For the love of pete," I wanted to scream, "Shove a sock in it!!!"

My un-sensitivity isn't related to just Phil (he's just the lucky one to bear the brunt of it since he lives with me, and you know, chose to marry me), it's to anyone who coughs, whines or whatever.

Which almost makes me wonder why the hell I'm also interested in psychology and social work.