As a teacher, I use an assortment of tools, including the ever-popular test.  Akin to the dentist’s pick, the exam is a useful device: it can probe the weaknesses in a student’s understanding, establish areas of strength, and— to some extent— provide motivation.  Don’t want the pain of a little metal poker sticking you in a dental soft spot?  Brush and floss.  Don’t want the pain of a vocabulary quiz jabbing at your lexicographical cavity?  Study and read.

So tests are useful.

Recently, though, I was reminded of a second type of assessment pain, dimly remembered from my student days, an anxiety that grows in the interstice between the completion of the test and the announcement of results, like mold in the grout between tub tiles.  After the multiple choice ordeal or hand-cramping essay, we wait, aware of the possibilities, truths that are buried in the exam results; yet we are dependent on the grader and his ability to cram grading into his life, to see if we passed or failed or earned marks somewhere in between.

When I was a student, I dreamed of a time without tests.  Adulthood, I reasoned, doesn’t require me to put pencil to paper, doesn’t require me to remember and regurgitate facts, doesn’t demand that I draft that essay by the following day for a major grade.  Now that I’m in the land of adults, of course, I realize that the tests have moved beyond pencil and paper, for the most part.  And the grades are hazier.  No clear-cut 93% on my essay.  Just a self-judgment, followed by a few words from readers.

Sometimes, though, we do take tests that promise clear results.

Several times in this blog, I’ve written about my decade-old argument with cancer.  I haven’t mentioned my bout with the same malady a year ago, mostly because the experience felt too raw.  And now, it may have returned for a third time.  I am waiting for another set of results: several weeks ago, one of the markers in my blood was elevated, so I repeated the test.  I could have cancer again.  Maybe.  Or maybe not.

I’d like to think that the waiting gets easier.  Now that I’ve moved beyond pencil and paper, I should also move beyond the mold of anxiety.

I can’t though.  Like my students, I am hoping and fearing the results.  I am waiting.

Robin Follet lives, writes, and cartoons in North Carolina.

I spent this past week in the mountains of western North Carolina, completing a teaching seminar.  When I wasn’t working, I was wandering outside.  The first few days, replete with lots of sunshine and twittering birds, won accolades from my compatriots.  My favorite time, though, was midweek, when the rain appeared.

The soft mist that morning transitioned into a harder downpour in the afternoon, one that beckoned for a walk.  So I donned my jacket, walked along the berm, and stepped onto the short trail.  I hiked the steep path, watching for the roots slippery with rain, shortening my stride on the steep sides of the hill.  Not too long, this path was nonetheless more than I’ve seen in several months.  It traced a squiggle, up and down the bowl-side of the hills.  White and purple wildflowers were just starting to push through.  The trees, their branches blurred with possibility of new growth, crossed their stark fingers overhead, but I could still see the far side of the valley, torn swatches of clouds hovering over clefts in the hills.

The short, short hike echoed other trips I’ve taken: challenging runs along trails, where I commanded myself to push one foot ahead, one foot ahead, one foot ahead; hand-in-hand strolls with my wife, where we laughed and talked so much that we lost our way; excursions of wonder and tears with my daughters where we balanced fascination with flora and fauna against the limitations of young legs.  So even though I finished the hike in fifteen minutes, I was actually walking a multiplicity of trails, experiencing an accordion collection of days.

By stepping on the trail, I stepped outside my immediate life.  Sometimes, we all need a little distance.

Robin Follet lives, writes, and cartoons in North Carolina.

I’m sitting outside my favorite coffee shop and it is just starting to look like spring here in Kansas City.  The weather conveniently cooperated for my spring break, which is a pleasant surprise after months of bone-chilling weather.

I thought my break would be filled with fun activities I can never do while in school, like reading books, practicing banjo, and working out at “normal” hours (instead of 5am which is the only time I can fit in with my medical school schedule).  So far I have just been a lump on a log, sitting in various places doing practically “nothing,” which is far from my dreams of being productive and hitting the gym.

Admittedly, I have not been that good at getting up in time to work out in the mornings the past few weeks.  I like to blame it on medical school and not my motivation.

But the ugly truth is, I just have not been motivated.

It is such a funny thing, motivation to work out.  I am always amazed at how something that makes me feel energized and beautiful is so easy to walk away from.  If I found a guy that did that for me, I would never let him go.  No seriously,  I would chain him to the bed.

So why can’t I get out there to work out?

The temptation of watching a movie and eating potato chips, uh hem,  I mean fat free popcorn, is just too strong to compete with putting on work out clothes and feeling like a fool on a treadmill in front of lots of strangers.  Recently, I suppose I should not kid myself, I am not watching any movies.  Rather I study for hours but that “fat free popcorn” is still there.

Studying for medical school is a good excuse not to work out, right?  Unfortunately for me, that defense doesn’t fly because I am actually a better student and learn best when I am working out regularly.

Yet another failed attempt to justify my absence from the gym.

So hopefully writing this will help me chain that motivation to the bed and never let it go.

Shannon Stevenson studies medicine and osteopathy at Kansas City University of Medicine and Biosciences.

I’m allergic to Los Angeles.  Now before my friends back east let fly with a great big,

We told you so!

I mean allergic in the runny nose/requiring massive doses of antihistamines sense, not the “can’t get a decent bagel/self-help books are not literature sense.  It would seem that while life in New York prepared me for almost everything, it did nothing to aid my survival in this land of a thousand new allergens.  It would also seem that whatever plant, spore or mold that has me in its grip is virtually impervious to Claritin, Benadryl and Zyrtec.

Taking pity on me and my itchy-watery-snifflely-congested state, some of my more “holistic” friends have suggested that I employ a netty pot to clear the gunk from my head.  For the benefit of the uninitiated the netty pot in a small ceramic vessel with a spout like a teapot that one after filling it with salt water shoves up one’s nose and pours the contents into one’s sinuses.  While all these well-intentioned Whole Foods shoppers extol the virtues of this ritual, I remain dubious.  First off I come from a seafaring people and a head full of saltwater generally means that one has fallen into the Chesapeake Bay and the end is nigh, so there are cultural influences to consider.  Second, and even more important, is that the entire enterprise sounds across the board dis-gus-ting.  Some people love an exotic remedy even without an exotic malady to accompany it.

So I think I’ll eschew this self-inflicted organic water-boarding in favor of more traditional methods (read: stronger drugs) and wait for the wind to change directions.  An event which many long time Angelinos assure me is just days away.  Until then please pardon my puffy red eyes and nasal whine and pass the Sudafed.

Bob Speck lives and writes in Los Angeles.  He has no idea why.

Since no one has written in with suggestions (shame on you all!), I’m going to offer my own Tough Broad this time.

As many of you know I am now about 33 weeks pregnant and roughly the size of a Buick, so my daily runs have turned into 3-mile strolls.  This sad state of affairs has led to my fervent daydreams about the fall, when I will (hopefully) be back in shape enough to compete in another marathon:  maybe NYC this time, or Twin Cities?

With all of the race options available, it’s hard to imagine a time when a woman didn’t have any choices at all; women make up a large percentage of the pack in almost every modern race, and there are even marathons dedicated strictly to women, such as the Nike Women’s Marathon in San Francisco (where, incidentally, you can have the slightly dubious pleasure of being awarded your own personal Tiffany’s necklace by a tuxedo-clad firefighter as you finish.  Some of us would much prefer being handed a tall, frosty beer by a member of the Village People when we finally hobble across the finish line, but perhaps we’re in the minority).

Anyway, things have progressed so far that it’s easy to forget there was a time when women were not allowed to run marathons (for various reasons, none of them having anything to do with logic) and when a woman named Kathrine Switzer decided to change that by running in— and sexually “integrating”— the revered Boston Marathon in 1967.

Her story is now the stuff of legend:  how she had to enter under the name “K. Switzer” so that nobody would realize she was female and thus stop her before she began, the malevolent looks and comments she suffered from spectators as she ran, and even the now-infamous physical attack by Jock Semple (a Boston Athletic Association official, and one of the race organizers), who was so outraged at a young woman’s temerity in besmirching his pure athletic contest with her presence that he attempted to drag her out of the street.

Katherine was ultimately able to finish what she started (due in part to the support of her then-boyfriend Tom Miller and other male runners who supported her), and her ambition and courage have led directly to greater opportunities for modern female distance runners.  So let’s hear it for K. Switzer, this week’s Tough Broad.  In her honor, ladies, register and run a marathon— she made it possible for you to do so.

Jeanine Casler lives, runs, and writes in Evanston, Illinois.