Cut it, ya match it

It's the week of The Match. Monday is the scramble - the day fourth year med students find out if they have matched into some residency program. And if not, they spend that day faxing resumes and letters of recommendations to programs with open spots, just praying for a job of any sort. Then, Thursday is the MATCH, when students find out where they are spending residency.

I've been stressing out about this Thursday more than anything. Because not knowing where Martin's going seems more stressful than knowing he's going to a location so competitive I won't be able to follow him in a year. I know, it doesn't make all that much sense. But the unknown is always scarier!

Anyways, Martin is kind of a superstar. President of the class, founder of this or that club, good grades, good scores, awesome boyfriend. I've never worried about him matching at a top program, much less not matching at all. However, Martin worries. And whenever Martin has voiced fears about the match, I've always rolled my eyes. I mean, seriously, it's like Johnny Depp worrying that he won't be a good actor playing the Mad Hatter, even though it's just a crazier nonsensical version of the Willy Wonka character he's already pulled off. Or Steve Jobs worrying that he won't make a ton of money off of gadgets merely by putting an "i" in front of everything - iPod, iPhone, iTouch, iMac, iHome, iPad. Or me not finishing a tub of ice cream in one sitting.

It's now Sunday - the day before the Scramble - and Martin bought me a huge tub of ice cream because of my especially black cloud of an obgyn call.

MARTIN
[earnestly]
I need you to tell me that I'm not going to scramble tomorrow. AND DON'T ROLL YOUR EYES WHEN YOU TELL ME.

ME
[just as earnestly as him]
You're not going to scramble. Seriously. Why would you even think that?

MARTIN
But what if it's a FUBAR?!

ME
What the heck is a FUBAR?!

MARTIN
Fucked up beyond all repair.

ME
Hahaha! [seriously] Martin, you are NOT a FUBAR. Not even close. I saw a woman with fourth degree lacerations today...when we went to assess her cervix, we pulled out fingers contaminated with poop. That's a FUBAR.

Martin
[going back to his work]
Hahaha! That is FUBAR!

ME
Hey! I'm not finished!

MARTIN
But I feel better now! I am reassured!

ME
Let me finish! Look at me! You are not a poo-filled vagina!

He really isn't. Still, I will keep everything crossed for him that he doesn't have a FUBAR and have to scramble tomorrow. Even if I will roll my eyes while doing so. While eating my giant tub of ice cream all in one sitting.