Just a Little Complex

Wow. I really don't even know how to start this one off. Make sure you aren't operating any heavy equipment before reading this. So you have an idea where this is going, we'll start off with a ...

Question:

What do Russians REALLY think of the idea of an American willfully choosing to live in Russia?

Answer:

Yes, those really are electrodes monitoring my brain functions, not some kind of Soviet era hair curlers.

So why? Well the short answer is because I wanted to finally get my Russian driver's license, but that doesn't really get to it. Almost nobody ever has to do that, though you do have to pass a very brief psychological evaluation test, which basically involves an hour of standing in a few different lines in a poorly lit, stuffy corridor, dealing with the unannounced lunch breaks. Everyone who manages to wait their turn without a nervous breakdown has but to answer a few simple questions like, “No, I don't have any close relatives with serious mental disorders.” then count a bunch of dots without using their fingers, then off they go, paper in hand bearing the rubbery stamped seal of authority saying they've successfully passed through yet another layer of red tape ala Rus.

So what's with me? Not sure how I could have messed that one up. I mean, I even managed to suppress an urge to share a really cool dream i had the other night, cool for so many reasons, magnificently random ones at that, like... A) I WAS none other than Tim Allen; B) I was a scientist and C) I was fighting off an intense Zombie invasion back at my parents Judy Circle house -- How awesome is that?! There were even zombie dogs even though Celestia's book says it's impossible. Anyway, and as interested as I was in a free professional interpretation, I suppressed the urge figuring it unlikely that she would even know who Tim Allen was.

But of course she noticed I didn't have a Russian Passport, so she inquired as to my origins. “American?” as she eyed me suspiciously. “And you moved to... Russia? ... Four years now? ... And you're not planning to move back yet? ... hmmmm...” I didn't think much of it, because it's a pretty routine reaction that I get, especially from the generation that's say, from 35 to 45 years old now, which she fit into. But I slowly grasped the gravity of those few utterances when, instead of pounding fresh ink on a pretty piece of paper, she scribbled some illegible writing onto two separate scraps, each representing the location and nature of my further testing. I was without words, but instead of protesting, perhaps for fear of the mob banging through the door (zombie dreams, you know), I escaped and sought out my next destination.

The first was conveniently located on the same cozy premises. It was, however only the scheduling room of the real doctor. Booked for two weeks? you've gotta be kidding me. Then I was told, that if I needed it more urgently, and I wasn't opposed to waiting around, maybe the doctor would have some free time today, and I was given the cabinet number. Well, there were two shrinks, and nobody there. Really booked, eh? Hopefully it wouldn't take long, and I could still be out in time for my 3:00 pupil. I still lacked even the remotest of conceptions as to what analysis I was supposed to undergo, but after This new psychologist deciphered the scribbles, she looked at me very understandingly. The air of concentrated delicacy with which I was treated began making me feel a bit uneasy.

“Lets start with these.” And she retrieved a picture album-type book with different black and white sketches on them. It took me a second to process the four clear drawings on the first page out of sheer shock: a rose, a dandelion, a tulip, a cat. “Which one of these,” pointing to each in turn “does not belong?” I looked up at her in astonishment, like are you for real?, which she must have interpreted as me being snapped away by some type of hellish kindergarten flashback from childhood, confirming her worst fears.

“umm... well I guess those are all ... like ... flowers, so ... the cat because it's an animal.”

“Good job!”

That bit of positive reinforcement really gave me the boost I needed, let me tell you, which I really needed because she kept supplying me with page after page. By the time I was about to say that the soccer ball differed from the figure skater because the former suffered from an oedipal complex, whereas the latter from penis envy, I was relieved from the pictures. But I guess my results weren't convincing enough, because the next test was along the same lines, just without the pictures, which were apparently too tricky for me.

“How are the sun and the moon the same?”

Are you freaking kidding me? I thought now terse rapid-fire answers would resolve the matter: “Both celestial bodies. Both visible from earth. Both give light.”

“Now how are they different?” “Moon is Earth's satellite, Sun is star of our solar system. (blah, blah, blah.)”

But they kept coming! What was she trying to learn by each successive question that wasn't clearly evident by the previous? What sick manner of people are these? Then there were some memory exercises, number scanning, etc. I finally got to thinking it was about over, and just in time to make my lesson... and then... The computer.

You see, there are some questions, that not even the most seasoned of professionals can ask another adult with a strait face. That is what the computer is for! 400 questions, in the form of agree/disagree, including but not limited to:

I think my father is a good man.

I feel like I have evil spirits in my head.

I don't steal as much as other people do even when nobody is watching.

I suffer from constipation at least once a month.

I feel that it's ok for women to act as openly about sex as men do.

I can feel the presence of other people following me.

I think that my body is about as good as most everyone else's.

I suffer from diarrhea, at least once a month.

I enjoy looking at the figure of my same gender.

My father is worthy of my love.

I cough up blood, and vomit uncontrollably less than at least once a month.

I am satisfied with my sex life.

And of course this is all in Russian, and I'm getting pretty burnt out. I had, after all, spent their lunch break cramming for my theoretical driver's test, which is about like reading the ingredients on a Flavor Blasted 14 cheesish Dorito's wrapper, so I was losing speed to the tricky wording so I didn't accidentally say that I was coughing up blood uncontrollably, less than once a month, or wait wasn't that vomiting uncontrollably, but then it was not at the same time, so does that count? In any event, although my speed was waning, I couldn't help but grin ear to ear as I trudged my way through these ridiculous questions. I was also beginning to think, that maybe I really was crazy after all. I mean who am I to say? I really need to see the answers to this. Maybe it's one of those things where you think it's really simple, but it's only because you're unable to put the dots together and see the real questions. This is the place I feel... happy. So much attention. Such fun games. Forget work. I'll stay here forever.

Right about then, I was interrupted by the Doctor. I had made it through about 150 questions. She told me I could leave for ten minutes, get some fresh air. Then she deleted my file. The audacity! What rejection. I didn't know how to react. And then the nerve to make me come back in another 10 minutes. Maybe she was offended, that I'd been deceiving her from the start, leading her to believe that I really was in such dire need of her attention. It must get lonely having not enough really psychos to treat. In any event, after the break which turned out to be a very convenient time to tell my pupil our lesson was cancelled, I returned I was fed back to the first doctor who then directed me to go get the other analysis, in a different hospital. This was the cool one, the EEG from the other picture. Here are the results.

I guess it wasn't too bad, but of course I had to pay around 20 extra bucks for it, and due to the time it cost my next lesson as well, but I wasn't about to not get this day finished once and for all. Then I went back to the psycho chick, got my pretty papers. Left. No more papers, only Kevin! Free at last!