Compliments

You know, it's hard to get a compliment in St Andrews. I feel Saharan-desert heat waves if ever I get one; if a professor nods approvingly at one of my comments during a tutorial, it's bliss. Last night I was talking to my best friend in Mexico, and we were discussing growing old and Piaget's theories of childhood development (as one does, "Casual", as she would say). Piaget said that in our early childhood years, we inhabit egocentric realities, in which we see ourselves as the centre of our worlds and all the things happening around us as directly affecting us. Thankfully, growing up means sticking our heads out of our diapers, and this is a very positive thing. But, as my friend and I were saying, one of the harsh realities of growing up is realising that we really are just a school of tiny fish in this big pond called Planet Earth. Things do not happen to us because we are unique and we deserve it; if we triumph, we do so because we've worked our asses off. Being singled out is indeed extraordinary.

Thus, back to my issues with compliments. University is the first place where I've gotten so few. But then again, there are also a couple compliments I wish I had never heard. Outstanding in this category was the compliment a friend of mine got last semester: a van drove past her with two guys in it, they looked at her from the rolled down window and exclaimed, "Damn! Hitting that would be like hitting the jackpot!". Class.

Likewise, last year my friend got asked, outside the Union, "Fancy a shag, hen?". Now, ignoring the content of the question for a moment, if you are going to choose an animal comparison to compliment someone, why, oh why, pick a hen?! Why pick an animal, to begin with?

Then there's the creeps from the Italian Society, who never get enough of complimenting my ass, thinking I don't speak Italian. At least there's some reward involved in this; I get to turn to them, smile, and say, "Ciao, mi chiamo Francesca, come va?". I do enjoy the looks of horror on their faces.

Thankfully, I have awesome friends, who pamper me with bucket-loads of compliments that I probably do not deserve. I am also happy to be able to say that some professors stand out for being aware of how motivational a well-deserved appraisal is to their students.

Today, though, I got called "Lovely Saint girl" when I was distributing outside the Union. Now, I don't know if this happened because the guy was running a campaign and was trying to buy my vote, but being called "lovely" as I strenously clutch copies of The Saint with my inky fingertips, hair flying in all directions, nose dripping and hands quite red, takes me straight back to stage one of childhood development. What do you think, Piaget?