I sometimes wonder about the futility of my job.  Even worse, the futility of my work.  I used to be excited by it.  Very early on I was even convinced that it may be important.  Those feelings have faded and I have had to find other outlets for my…passions.  Training other scientists is currently at the top of the list.  Educating students comes second at the moment, but I’m not sure how long that will last.  I don’t believe I’m a great teacher, and even if I were, the number of students worth teaching is declining year by year.  But that may change.  I haven’t done my utmost to change it myself, and I doubt that my involvement will have a huge impact, but sometimes these things can happen on their own.

Third on my list is contributing to science in the large.  I know that I am a good reviewer, perhaps not the best, but thorough and honest.  I understand my field and know the literature well, I work hard to understand the papers I review, even the crappy ones.  I do some other proofreading and various other scientific tasks.  All in all I feel good about this and I believe that I’m playing my small part in helping science move forward.  It is only a very small part, and not indispensible in any way, but it pleases me.

Meaning is a function of time.  Over a period of years my contributions — whatever they may amount to — may amount to something.  Perhaps.  Over a period of decades the probability goes down to almost zero.  Over a period of centuries it goes down all the way to zero.  On this last timescale, very few people’s work have meaning.  The only thing left is enjoyment.  At least I still have that.  For the moment.

My BMI tonight was 30.7.