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Now, it’s time for some honesty. When I see a person enter a room, there are a variety of responses. I’ve never, ever had my pulse quicken when someone with a hot, sexy brain walks in. It’s true. I’m much more likely to eyeball a guy’s lats or a gal’s handbag than check out their brain.

There’s a classmate of mine who used to have a science-y job of some sort. She mentioned that it’s a common Mythbusters-style myth that every time you learn something, a new wrinkle forms on your brain. I’d like to see Jamie and Adam test that one…

Anyway. Brain wrinkles are called sulcussulci in plural. Now, I’ve spent at least a dozen dermatologist appointments and a few prescription dollars on anti-wrinkle creams over the past couple years.   So you can imagine i’m instinctively resistant to this cultivate-new-wrinkles thing.

But, here at Darden, there’s this focus on brains. Apparently, wrinkles are a good thing. For the past few years, my brain has been somewhat like my physique. Decently fit under a cuddly layer of padding, able to maneuver quickly or lift things when necessary, but not even close to a wow-9%-body-fat-hotbody. Think of it this way – my brain’s not in bikini shape. Yet.

My brain, currently.

My brain, currently.

So I’m starting to understand that being here is supposed to transform my brain into the gray-matter equivalent of Dara Torres – a crazy enviable athletic physique honed from YEARS, YEARS and MORE YEARS of diet and crazy ridiculous elite workout regimens. I’ve got 2 years. So this will be, hopefully, my brain on (and after) Darden. I can just hear them now… “Wow, will ya look at the brain on her! Hey baby, nice sulci!”

My brain on Darden.

My brain on Darden.

Rounding out anatomy for this week is the dread foot problem. Mysterious and worsening foot pain (and a lot of scolding from BFF Joyce) sent me to the doctor this week after a week of Igor-like dragging my painfully swollen foot back and forth to school. Doc sent me to UVA hospital for x-rays, gave me crutches and instructions to stay off foot 90% of the time (highly unrealistic given my current lifestyle) and a note for a handicapped parking permit.  Yes, I cried. At the hospital, the x-ray technician did a medium-hard sell on setting me up with his eligible son but didn’t see a fracture. (“He’s verrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry handsome. He’d like you!” What is it with me and getting set up, anyway?) So, hopefully, it’s tendonitis or something less problematic, and quicker to heal. In the meantime, I’m that girl parking in the handicapped spot who you think doesn’t have an issue.  In lieu of crutches, i’ve placed a Facebook plea to borrow anyone’s magic carpet for ease of transport, b/c that’s all i can think of. No heckling, please, it really does hurt! To pass the time, i’ll be here doing crunches – both mental and physical.

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