Above all else that plagues my generation, the ambivalence between instant adulthood and prolonging adolesence seems to be more and more relevant as I am bombarded by pictures of weddings and drunken exchange parties in an endless flow of facebook reminders. It seems as though my age group is torn between the anxiety of needing answers and the lack of expectations for themselves. Either way, absent is a clear perspective on what it is we're supposed to be doing with our lives.
Where have all the grown-ups gone? Why is it that when I look at wedding photos now, everyone seems like they're playing dress-up (and for some reason all have the same hideous white prom dress parading down the isle like a Sears quinceañera ad) and the word "Divorce" looms in the background whenever I stare at the teal bridesmaid dresses for too long? And when it isn't a wedding photo, it's a dark party filled with red cups and "sexy kitten" costumes that eventually morph into mounds of empty bottles and smeared mascara. Behold my present; by not having the desire to frantically search for tule cocktail dresses and my sincere dread of wearing white in a room full of distant relatives, I am in the limbo of Growing Older.
When I played house as a child, I fantasized about arguing over bills, furiously scribbled "paperwork" while my pretend live-in boyfriend cooked dinner, and created a long-standing battle with my imaginary landlord, Ophelia. My bizarre childhood fantasies aside, I've always looked forward to being a part of that exclusive club where grown-ups talk and drink and have real problems and real accomplishments. Mostly, I've always looked forward to the life that I don't know about yet and sharing it with everyone I consider special. Pessimistic though I may be, I have so much to look forward to, it terrifies me that people my age want everything "figured out."
We learn through experience, and our suffering through life is what makes it meaningful and exciting. Without the struggle of trying to create a person out of the characteristics we've accumulated over the years, we would be very boring people, and in a lot of cases, we are. Who wants to cut their lives down to isolated stages? Birth, school, marriage, job, kids, retirement, and death are pretty grim chapters in a story repeated so many times it's faded into blank pages, leaving us to recite those lines we know so well. Maybe now that we don't need to have everything figured out by age 23, we should fill in those pages as we go along and trade in that boring fairy tale for some interesting stories.
And what about the "Neverland" mentality? College is both the prolonging of adolescence and the preparation for adulthood; holding on to one and fighting the other negates anything you might gain from the entire experience. We shouldn't cower behind the idea that drinking to blackout every night is paramount in college life, but then again I would never say no to a beer with my friends, especially on a Tuesday night. Exploring every possibility for happiness makes room for the acceptance of the rough parts of life that we need to get through in order to find it; our gradual maturation isn't the result of some cosmic alarm clock, it develops as we become ready. We need not fear the limbo of Growing Older because the best is yet to come, but we need to get to it, not the other way around.
I dread turning 30 and having to tell that little girl in the fictional apartment that she actually settled for a banker she didn't love, or that she still hasn't entered into a real career or relationship; I never want to be so afraid of life that I sell it short and disappoint my 8 year old self. Mostly I am afraid for my friends who either need answers or are desperately hiding from the responsibility of getting them; I don't want to do this whole grown-up thing alone. But then again, I know that they need me too, and being there is a part of getting older and wiser. For now, I guess I'll dress up and play guest at all those weddings and keg parties, sipping my beer and happily resting somewhere in between the time when imaginary life fades and being a grown-up finally kicks in. For now, at least.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
The Year of Living Bravely: Part 1
I thought it began with "Andrew." I thought the thrill of a secret and passionate physical relationship was the first chapter in my year of Living Bravely; I was wrong, it was only the gunshot at the starting line.
Being with Andrew was an adventure, but it was one I've experienced a good five times, and I think that's enough. What he offered was a new perspective: honesty within a hopeless relationship made me a little more hopeful for those to come after it. He, as it turns out, is just as full of shit as anyone else, but I don't begrudge him that. Every person has the right to be full of shit because we don't know anything. Acknowledging that you don't have all the answers right now is the first step to finding those answers. Which brings me to the first milestone in my Living Bravely adventure: Deconstructing the F-Word.
Last year, my service organization held a panel in which four professors (all women) discussed the implications of being a feminist within the academic world. Although I loved hearing what they had to say, the event was not completely successful; the speakers had no guidlines, no concrete issues to discuss, and the turn out was about thirty people, with a lone male sitting in the back slinking sheepishly into his seat as he came to realize this discussion didn't involve an obscenities, as advertised. And I was disappointed. I talked to a few friends and ended up having a long discussion about the panel and what it had changed about our views when I realized that we hadn't broken any new ground for others, we were already self-proclaimed feminists who didn't need any convincing.
So I pondered. For months. This morning, I read an article about Michelle Obama and the perceptions of black women in America, Aunt Jemima stereotypes and all. I started thinking about the ideology of Women of Color feminism, and just couldn't take the silence around campus anymore. I started planning. And emailing. And waiting.
So for now, I'm just checking my email obsessively, hoping for any response from the 20 professors I contacted. I finally feel like I'm practicing what I preach, and I can't wait to see what happens. Stay tuned.
Being with Andrew was an adventure, but it was one I've experienced a good five times, and I think that's enough. What he offered was a new perspective: honesty within a hopeless relationship made me a little more hopeful for those to come after it. He, as it turns out, is just as full of shit as anyone else, but I don't begrudge him that. Every person has the right to be full of shit because we don't know anything. Acknowledging that you don't have all the answers right now is the first step to finding those answers. Which brings me to the first milestone in my Living Bravely adventure: Deconstructing the F-Word.
Last year, my service organization held a panel in which four professors (all women) discussed the implications of being a feminist within the academic world. Although I loved hearing what they had to say, the event was not completely successful; the speakers had no guidlines, no concrete issues to discuss, and the turn out was about thirty people, with a lone male sitting in the back slinking sheepishly into his seat as he came to realize this discussion didn't involve an obscenities, as advertised. And I was disappointed. I talked to a few friends and ended up having a long discussion about the panel and what it had changed about our views when I realized that we hadn't broken any new ground for others, we were already self-proclaimed feminists who didn't need any convincing.
So I pondered. For months. This morning, I read an article about Michelle Obama and the perceptions of black women in America, Aunt Jemima stereotypes and all. I started thinking about the ideology of Women of Color feminism, and just couldn't take the silence around campus anymore. I started planning. And emailing. And waiting.
So for now, I'm just checking my email obsessively, hoping for any response from the 20 professors I contacted. I finally feel like I'm practicing what I preach, and I can't wait to see what happens. Stay tuned.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Things I'm Over, and I Think You Are, Too
Facebook "Gangsta Face" Pictures: I get it. You're a fun-loving, chill person who is-- might I add-- HILARIOUS. That sideways "Peace" sign and those pursed lips tell everyone that you're not afraid to be silly and that you don't take yourself too seriously. Really? Because it sort of seems like you've stolen this (not that funny to begin with) idea from EVERYONE else on Facebook, which, in effect, has diluted that meager bit of originality you were striving for. But surely, this does not apply to you; after all, you wear a bandana head scarf.
BANDANA HEAD SCARFS: Unless your name is Axel or you're the frontman of a band with a name like "Acid Love" or "Karcass," you have no reason nor right to lay claim to this trend. The bandana is strictly reserved for hard working mechanics (which you're probably not) and aging glamrockers who are despereate to hide their botched hairplugs. So knock it off.
TEXTING HIPSTERS: You're at a small venue (Knitting Factory or the like) to watch a band so unknown you even YOU don't know who they are (this is probably more true than my humor is intending to be) and you're dressed to the nines in a straw fedora and deep v-neck, maybe even wearing denim rompers and keds. So what could possibly stimulate the Hipster brain's pleasure centers any more than this virtual heaven? Being so indifferent to the scene that you text your other hipster friends throughout the entire show that you paid a whole $12 to get into. Not to worry, that ticket stub is totes making its way onto your bulletin board so that when people see it and ask about the show, you can proudly say, "it was so whatevs; everybody listens to them now, totally overrated." Congrats, hipster scum, you win again.
There are infinitely more items to add to this list, but for now, I am le tired.
BANDANA HEAD SCARFS: Unless your name is Axel or you're the frontman of a band with a name like "Acid Love" or "Karcass," you have no reason nor right to lay claim to this trend. The bandana is strictly reserved for hard working mechanics (which you're probably not) and aging glamrockers who are despereate to hide their botched hairplugs. So knock it off.
TEXTING HIPSTERS: You're at a small venue (Knitting Factory or the like) to watch a band so unknown you even YOU don't know who they are (this is probably more true than my humor is intending to be) and you're dressed to the nines in a straw fedora and deep v-neck, maybe even wearing denim rompers and keds. So what could possibly stimulate the Hipster brain's pleasure centers any more than this virtual heaven? Being so indifferent to the scene that you text your other hipster friends throughout the entire show that you paid a whole $12 to get into. Not to worry, that ticket stub is totes making its way onto your bulletin board so that when people see it and ask about the show, you can proudly say, "it was so whatevs; everybody listens to them now, totally overrated." Congrats, hipster scum, you win again.
There are infinitely more items to add to this list, but for now, I am le tired.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Regarding Independence Day
There are far too few days of the year that I actually look forward to. Christmas used to be my number one; Santa and I had an understanding that as long as I didn't kill, rape, or pillage, I was to receive at least a few Barbies and a couple new sweaters. However, as I got older, I quickly realized something; I have far too high of expectations for my mother's taste in clothes (although, there is something to be said about Jackie Blatter's love of matching outfits and her inclination to buy them for me...I just luurve that Jackie Blatter). Easter used to be fun; new dress, See's candies, and money hidden in eggs. Sure, I didn't know the connection between Christ rising from the dead and a giant rabbit that hides colored eggs around my house, but hell, I was too far into my diabetic coma from my easter basket to really give a shit.
Mostly, holidays have revolved around eating too much and sitting around while we watch the kids play and enjoy themselves far more than all of us adults on the couch wondering if its too rude to unbutton our pants in order to exhale. But the 4th of July...
My friend asked me last night (after noticing my inability to talk about the 4th without the most sincere of smiles) why I loved this holiday so much, and I really had to think about it. So much so that I felt inclined to write about it.
4th of July carries a lot of symbols: hot dogs, watermelons, swimming pools, and the granddaddy of all celebratory expressions, fireworks. Its one of the few holidays that most people actually understand what they're celebrating, and in a way its the single day of the year when we stop being pissed off about high gas prices, a violently fluctuating economy, and all the little reasons why we hate our country and are just at peace with the fact that we have the inalienable right to hate our country. Normally, I'm the first person to roll my eyes at the thought of finding a new Dwight Eisenhower when retired Republicans moon over the thought of a military general leading our country back to prosperity (don't get me wrong, I do like Ike), but on 4th of July, I can't help but feel a little smug about wearing a red,white, and blue sundress.
The 4th is the last piece of American romanticism we have. I find something profoundly beautiful about the way a barbecue lights up my dad's face, the feeling of running around in a Little Mermaid bathing suit until falling asleep on a lawn chair, and the way no matter how many times you've seen a firework go off in the sky, every person becomes hypnotized by that red and white glow in a dark blue sky. The warmth of the summer heat mixed with the Pina Colada song being played in a constant loop is something that will never be matched for me, and for all our bitching and complaining about capitalist consumerism and political corruption, it's pretty great to be home. Those 15 minutes of watching a distant fireworks show are enough to make everyone stand still, and for the briefest of moments, we're innocent again.
I also have a serious love of hotdogs, so it just be that...but I'll be damned if I don't look forward to those fireworks.
Mostly, holidays have revolved around eating too much and sitting around while we watch the kids play and enjoy themselves far more than all of us adults on the couch wondering if its too rude to unbutton our pants in order to exhale. But the 4th of July...
My friend asked me last night (after noticing my inability to talk about the 4th without the most sincere of smiles) why I loved this holiday so much, and I really had to think about it. So much so that I felt inclined to write about it.
4th of July carries a lot of symbols: hot dogs, watermelons, swimming pools, and the granddaddy of all celebratory expressions, fireworks. Its one of the few holidays that most people actually understand what they're celebrating, and in a way its the single day of the year when we stop being pissed off about high gas prices, a violently fluctuating economy, and all the little reasons why we hate our country and are just at peace with the fact that we have the inalienable right to hate our country. Normally, I'm the first person to roll my eyes at the thought of finding a new Dwight Eisenhower when retired Republicans moon over the thought of a military general leading our country back to prosperity (don't get me wrong, I do like Ike), but on 4th of July, I can't help but feel a little smug about wearing a red,white, and blue sundress.
The 4th is the last piece of American romanticism we have. I find something profoundly beautiful about the way a barbecue lights up my dad's face, the feeling of running around in a Little Mermaid bathing suit until falling asleep on a lawn chair, and the way no matter how many times you've seen a firework go off in the sky, every person becomes hypnotized by that red and white glow in a dark blue sky. The warmth of the summer heat mixed with the Pina Colada song being played in a constant loop is something that will never be matched for me, and for all our bitching and complaining about capitalist consumerism and political corruption, it's pretty great to be home. Those 15 minutes of watching a distant fireworks show are enough to make everyone stand still, and for the briefest of moments, we're innocent again.
I also have a serious love of hotdogs, so it just be that...but I'll be damned if I don't look forward to those fireworks.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
For Sale to the Highest Bidder
I've been thinking about aquiring some property.
The real estate market has gone to shit, the stock market is holding its nose and cannon-balling down the mother fucking charts, and beanie babies just haven't appreciated the way we'd all hoped they would back in 1996. So I took stock of my personal possessions: my romantic shares.
Really, this all started with a Facebook wall post. An innocent "how are you?" sparked a quaint "I can't wait to see you," and ignited an extended network of frantically whispering women, whom I imagine running through halls with the breakneck pace of everyone on an Aaron Sorkin drama. I was flirting with someone *gasp!* ... Someone who "belonged" to someone else. So what does this mean? Under the assumption that by claiming a crush first you have first priority, I was in the wrong here. But is it a crime?
The culture of young women who feel like the star in their own personal romantic comedy is steadily growing, and the young men who would be able to fill the shoes of Prince Charming (or, to be frank, Prince of Unrealistic Expectations and Inevitably Excruciating Break-Up) are about as easy to procure as a solid gold statue of Steve Gutenberg that dispenses tampons and $100 bills. So, naturally, the stars of the RomCom feel entitled to the man they believe to be their next adventure, and stake a claim as soon as a mildly perverse and semi-feasible fantasy pops into their heads. In turn, the star's friends step aside in unison and remain fiercely loyal to her...at least she expects them to. Usually, she doesn't realize that they are in fact starring in their own love affairs, and right now that forbidden fruit seems strangely appealing...
The fact of the matter is that we don't own anyone. Liking someone first doesn't mean they like you, kissing a guy three months ago doesn't reserve him for the rest of the year, and telling your friends about your pure-hearted (albeit superficial) crush doesn't exactly earn you the right to register at Tiffany's for a silver gravy boat. Staking a claim means jack shit in the realm of relationships and it's about time we begin taking real action. Although the culture of actually DATING is on the serious decline (a topic for another time), its time to be bold and redefine what being assertive means. Being honest and speaking up to a love interest can cut straight to the point (none of this texting/facebook/he-said-you-were-cute nonsense) and either start or end something much more efficiently than sitting back and waiting for romance to fall in your lap (yes, that was a joke, and sure, you can laugh at its juvenile appeal).
So my ruling (as ranking officer in the Organization for Overanalytical Women) on this matter is that a claim means nothing without action; when you like someone it takes more than wishful thinking to become a part of his or her life. Once action has been taken (and actively pursued), the supporting characters in the Romantic Comedy shall step aside until it's their turn to take the spotlight and have a heart-wrenching soliloquy about what love means to them. Although the plot is surely more complicated and has a long sordid history (there is no more originality, just compounding complexity), we have no hold over people the way we do over our (rapidly deprecating) assets, and by understanding that fact you come to admire the twists and turns of humanity in all of its bitter, painful, unrequited glory.
Now, back to flirting with my mortgage broker...
The real estate market has gone to shit, the stock market is holding its nose and cannon-balling down the mother fucking charts, and beanie babies just haven't appreciated the way we'd all hoped they would back in 1996. So I took stock of my personal possessions: my romantic shares.
Really, this all started with a Facebook wall post. An innocent "how are you?" sparked a quaint "I can't wait to see you," and ignited an extended network of frantically whispering women, whom I imagine running through halls with the breakneck pace of everyone on an Aaron Sorkin drama. I was flirting with someone *gasp!* ... Someone who "belonged" to someone else. So what does this mean? Under the assumption that by claiming a crush first you have first priority, I was in the wrong here. But is it a crime?
The culture of young women who feel like the star in their own personal romantic comedy is steadily growing, and the young men who would be able to fill the shoes of Prince Charming (or, to be frank, Prince of Unrealistic Expectations and Inevitably Excruciating Break-Up) are about as easy to procure as a solid gold statue of Steve Gutenberg that dispenses tampons and $100 bills. So, naturally, the stars of the RomCom feel entitled to the man they believe to be their next adventure, and stake a claim as soon as a mildly perverse and semi-feasible fantasy pops into their heads. In turn, the star's friends step aside in unison and remain fiercely loyal to her...at least she expects them to. Usually, she doesn't realize that they are in fact starring in their own love affairs, and right now that forbidden fruit seems strangely appealing...
The fact of the matter is that we don't own anyone. Liking someone first doesn't mean they like you, kissing a guy three months ago doesn't reserve him for the rest of the year, and telling your friends about your pure-hearted (albeit superficial) crush doesn't exactly earn you the right to register at Tiffany's for a silver gravy boat. Staking a claim means jack shit in the realm of relationships and it's about time we begin taking real action. Although the culture of actually DATING is on the serious decline (a topic for another time), its time to be bold and redefine what being assertive means. Being honest and speaking up to a love interest can cut straight to the point (none of this texting/facebook/he-said-you-were-cute nonsense) and either start or end something much more efficiently than sitting back and waiting for romance to fall in your lap (yes, that was a joke, and sure, you can laugh at its juvenile appeal).
So my ruling (as ranking officer in the Organization for Overanalytical Women) on this matter is that a claim means nothing without action; when you like someone it takes more than wishful thinking to become a part of his or her life. Once action has been taken (and actively pursued), the supporting characters in the Romantic Comedy shall step aside until it's their turn to take the spotlight and have a heart-wrenching soliloquy about what love means to them. Although the plot is surely more complicated and has a long sordid history (there is no more originality, just compounding complexity), we have no hold over people the way we do over our (rapidly deprecating) assets, and by understanding that fact you come to admire the twists and turns of humanity in all of its bitter, painful, unrequited glory.
Now, back to flirting with my mortgage broker...
Friday, June 13, 2008
Boys Boys Everywhere, But Not a Man to Keep
Chapter 5 of the "Trial Offer" Chronicles has officially begun and will be coming to a close soon. This one has been quite perfect, actually; he has broken the mold of other potential buyers but intevitably the sale will not go through, as predicted. The man himself is sweet, affectionate, intelligent, and sexy to the point of ridiculousness, but yet again I align myself with someone carrying about seven carry-ons of girlfriend baggage. Unfortunate.
But it got me thinking: can we practice for heartbreak? Does my track record of being the
"trial offer" (Test her out for 30 days with satisfaction guraranteed or your money back, and they always want their money back) prepare me for the inevitable "you're fantastic, I just can't be with anyone right now"? I used to think I was just slowly dying inside, each month-long relationship extinguishing any hope I had for the male sex and increasing my self-reliance for all emotional matters. I thought that by being more self-reliant I was more apt to appreciate myself and create an aura of confidence and peace, as opposed to coming off bitter and off-putting (which he assures me I'm not. haha.) and that the rest would come naturally. Of course, all that came with it were the men who read my independence as a get-out-of-jail free card and an excuse to hook up without any intention of committment. Which I happily accepted.
So when I was lying in bed with this man, (we'll call him Andrew) and he expressed worry about my being "attached" which he just couldn't be at this point (due to a long term relationship that ended less than a month ago...I know, I did this to myself, I got it) I stopped hearing him and just started hearing a looping track of everything I had heard before.
--Sidenote: what the FUCK is it with men assuming all women are attached to them? Why is it that everything needs to mean committment and marriage and devotion when really we enjoy sex and attention just as much as they do? I resent the assumption that just because I like being with someone I am now "attached," especially as it carries a connotation of clinginess at best and obsession at worst. Word to the wise man: don't assume ANYTHING about her. Ask her what you want to know; she WANTS to talk about it.
Back on track. I stopped hearing him and just felt the fuzziness of the familiar hit me like a bug on a windshield; messy, but kept at a safe distance. I was prepared for this, wasn't I? I knew this was coming, I knew everything he would say weeks before he said it. What I couldn't figure out was this: have I become hopeless or just more realistic about the inevitable end of relationships in my life? That is to say, have I just been practicing for years in order to protect myself from heartbreak or am I really just incapable of trusting someone enough to let them break my heart? After building walls for so long, I should be a goddamn emotional contractor; I could build the fucking Taj Mahal of romantic barriers. Andrew is wonderful, the timing is off, and I am seeking out something that I know will end in a matter of weeks, if even that long.
But then again, its an adventure. Until now my life was dominated by a stale pain left over from someone I barely knew and the illusion of crushes that I created simply to have something to be excited about. Now I actually get excited thinking about Andrew, but am strangely at peace with the idea of walking away from our little romantic liason. He has been a breath of fresh air from the shit storm that is my love life, and even if there is no long-term future with him, it has been pretty worth it just to have someone look at me and say, for once, "my god, you're beautiful."
Maybe I just need the adventure and the excitement, which can only last a short while. Maybe instead of feeling DOOMED about my short-term love affairs, I should appreciate them for the rush I get from the compressed passion bursting out of a relationship working on a time limit. Eventually, I'll sing a different tune and find someone who shares my love for Paul Newman, coffee at 9:00pm, my addiction to kissing, and become my permanent partner for games of Trivial Pursuit. Until then, I guess my heart has been training for a long time, and Andrew is giving it a good workout. When I can rest my head, I'll probably start to worry, but until then I think I'm pretty prepared for my own misadventures.
Oh Crash, you do make speeches.
But it got me thinking: can we practice for heartbreak? Does my track record of being the
"trial offer" (Test her out for 30 days with satisfaction guraranteed or your money back, and they always want their money back) prepare me for the inevitable "you're fantastic, I just can't be with anyone right now"? I used to think I was just slowly dying inside, each month-long relationship extinguishing any hope I had for the male sex and increasing my self-reliance for all emotional matters. I thought that by being more self-reliant I was more apt to appreciate myself and create an aura of confidence and peace, as opposed to coming off bitter and off-putting (which he assures me I'm not. haha.) and that the rest would come naturally. Of course, all that came with it were the men who read my independence as a get-out-of-jail free card and an excuse to hook up without any intention of committment. Which I happily accepted.
So when I was lying in bed with this man, (we'll call him Andrew) and he expressed worry about my being "attached" which he just couldn't be at this point (due to a long term relationship that ended less than a month ago...I know, I did this to myself, I got it) I stopped hearing him and just started hearing a looping track of everything I had heard before.
--Sidenote: what the FUCK is it with men assuming all women are attached to them? Why is it that everything needs to mean committment and marriage and devotion when really we enjoy sex and attention just as much as they do? I resent the assumption that just because I like being with someone I am now "attached," especially as it carries a connotation of clinginess at best and obsession at worst. Word to the wise man: don't assume ANYTHING about her. Ask her what you want to know; she WANTS to talk about it.
Back on track. I stopped hearing him and just felt the fuzziness of the familiar hit me like a bug on a windshield; messy, but kept at a safe distance. I was prepared for this, wasn't I? I knew this was coming, I knew everything he would say weeks before he said it. What I couldn't figure out was this: have I become hopeless or just more realistic about the inevitable end of relationships in my life? That is to say, have I just been practicing for years in order to protect myself from heartbreak or am I really just incapable of trusting someone enough to let them break my heart? After building walls for so long, I should be a goddamn emotional contractor; I could build the fucking Taj Mahal of romantic barriers. Andrew is wonderful, the timing is off, and I am seeking out something that I know will end in a matter of weeks, if even that long.
But then again, its an adventure. Until now my life was dominated by a stale pain left over from someone I barely knew and the illusion of crushes that I created simply to have something to be excited about. Now I actually get excited thinking about Andrew, but am strangely at peace with the idea of walking away from our little romantic liason. He has been a breath of fresh air from the shit storm that is my love life, and even if there is no long-term future with him, it has been pretty worth it just to have someone look at me and say, for once, "my god, you're beautiful."
Maybe I just need the adventure and the excitement, which can only last a short while. Maybe instead of feeling DOOMED about my short-term love affairs, I should appreciate them for the rush I get from the compressed passion bursting out of a relationship working on a time limit. Eventually, I'll sing a different tune and find someone who shares my love for Paul Newman, coffee at 9:00pm, my addiction to kissing, and become my permanent partner for games of Trivial Pursuit. Until then, I guess my heart has been training for a long time, and Andrew is giving it a good workout. When I can rest my head, I'll probably start to worry, but until then I think I'm pretty prepared for my own misadventures.
Oh Crash, you do make speeches.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
The Virgin Complex
When did you lose your virginity? I don’t mean how old you were when you had sex; I mean the exact moment when you realized you had outgrown your safety net and learned that the world isn’t divided simply into good and evil. The preconceptions we have about others are natural; we are raised to generate opinions to comfort ourselves amidst confusion, and generally use those opinions to assign personas to people we will probably never really know. We’ve all used the phrase, “that was before I knew her,” and we know that our opinions are infallible until, of course, they’re proven completely wrong. We place entirely too much importance on our primitive categorization of other people in our general knowledge of the world, convincing ourselves that everyone is good or bad, smart or stupid, happy or sad. We spend so much time dividing everyone into either/or rather than both/and categories that eventually we forget that human beings are brilliantly complex and contradictory organisms; we would much rather just call them a virgin or a whore.
This brings me to my question: when did you lose your virginity? When did you go from being a naive child with scabbed knees and popsicle-stained mouth to an adult complete with a university sweatshirt and a copy of Kafka’s The Metamorphosis tucked under your arm? Was it really the moment you slipped on a condom and got tangled up in the XL-Twin sheets? Sex is a basic part of humanity; we need it, we want it, we enjoy it, and we are scared shitless by it. Above all this, we define ourselves by it; whoever hasn’t had sex is a prude, whoever has probably has syphilis. It wouldn’t be a regular Saturday morning without a parade of smeared makeup and broken heels shamefully tip-toeing through the streets like decorated soldiers trudging back from the battleground with fresh scars. It wouldn’t be a typical morning-after without high-fiving frat boys congratulating each other on another successful display of raw testosterone with the fervor of a primate beating on his chest to shout to the rest of the animal kingdom that he totally got laid last night.
And what about “losing” your virginity? I’m quite sure most of us know exactly where it went. By saying we “lose” that part of ourselves, we confirm that we don’t have any control over our bodies, and probably have even less control over our lives. I highly doubt that there are girls crawling around searching frantically under couches for their hymens; you lose car keys and earrings, not your virginity. Instead of saying “lose,” we should just call it like it is: our first time. We don’t lose anything by moving on with our sexual development. Instead we should be aware that a feeling of loss signifies more important issues of emotional maturity or unhealthy perceptions of sexuality. By knowing that you have chosen to have sex, you understand that you and your partner are on equal footing, gaining from the experience together. Saying you “lost it” sounds more like game of monopoly with the stakes set much higher than purple dollar bills.
What about this culture of sex makes us adults? Does knowing what “Reverse-Cowgirl” is make you more likely to score well on your MCAT? The truth is that you probably gave up your virginity, your naiveté, long before or long after the first time you had sex. It is a general process of figuring out that you aren’t the only person in the world, that your decisions actually have consequences, and that you are not what your third grade self expected you to be by now. Having sex is part of that process, but it isn’t the complete culmination; by placing the entirety of your growing-up process on one event, you’ve successfully proven that you probably know nothing about yourself and have a long way to go before you actually grow up. Its quite possible (and sometimes likely) that most of us have had several sexual partners before we ever get past our virginity. In short, being ready to have sex doesn’t make you a mature person; being a mature person makes you ready to have sex, and you can choose when, where, and if you have it.
Virginity is an out-dated concept; does having been in love with someone somehow make us impure? Am I visibly scarred because I have been heartbroken? Are you a whore for falling asleep in someone’s arms? I accept that I can’t change much about other people; the best I can do is breathe in what I admire, love, despise, want, and fear, and calmly exhale, knowing that I haven’t been a virgin for ages. I find all the comfort I need in knowing that I still deserve to wear white.
This brings me to my question: when did you lose your virginity? When did you go from being a naive child with scabbed knees and popsicle-stained mouth to an adult complete with a university sweatshirt and a copy of Kafka’s The Metamorphosis tucked under your arm? Was it really the moment you slipped on a condom and got tangled up in the XL-Twin sheets? Sex is a basic part of humanity; we need it, we want it, we enjoy it, and we are scared shitless by it. Above all this, we define ourselves by it; whoever hasn’t had sex is a prude, whoever has probably has syphilis. It wouldn’t be a regular Saturday morning without a parade of smeared makeup and broken heels shamefully tip-toeing through the streets like decorated soldiers trudging back from the battleground with fresh scars. It wouldn’t be a typical morning-after without high-fiving frat boys congratulating each other on another successful display of raw testosterone with the fervor of a primate beating on his chest to shout to the rest of the animal kingdom that he totally got laid last night.
And what about “losing” your virginity? I’m quite sure most of us know exactly where it went. By saying we “lose” that part of ourselves, we confirm that we don’t have any control over our bodies, and probably have even less control over our lives. I highly doubt that there are girls crawling around searching frantically under couches for their hymens; you lose car keys and earrings, not your virginity. Instead of saying “lose,” we should just call it like it is: our first time. We don’t lose anything by moving on with our sexual development. Instead we should be aware that a feeling of loss signifies more important issues of emotional maturity or unhealthy perceptions of sexuality. By knowing that you have chosen to have sex, you understand that you and your partner are on equal footing, gaining from the experience together. Saying you “lost it” sounds more like game of monopoly with the stakes set much higher than purple dollar bills.
What about this culture of sex makes us adults? Does knowing what “Reverse-Cowgirl” is make you more likely to score well on your MCAT? The truth is that you probably gave up your virginity, your naiveté, long before or long after the first time you had sex. It is a general process of figuring out that you aren’t the only person in the world, that your decisions actually have consequences, and that you are not what your third grade self expected you to be by now. Having sex is part of that process, but it isn’t the complete culmination; by placing the entirety of your growing-up process on one event, you’ve successfully proven that you probably know nothing about yourself and have a long way to go before you actually grow up. Its quite possible (and sometimes likely) that most of us have had several sexual partners before we ever get past our virginity. In short, being ready to have sex doesn’t make you a mature person; being a mature person makes you ready to have sex, and you can choose when, where, and if you have it.
Virginity is an out-dated concept; does having been in love with someone somehow make us impure? Am I visibly scarred because I have been heartbroken? Are you a whore for falling asleep in someone’s arms? I accept that I can’t change much about other people; the best I can do is breathe in what I admire, love, despise, want, and fear, and calmly exhale, knowing that I haven’t been a virgin for ages. I find all the comfort I need in knowing that I still deserve to wear white.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Feminism Isn't Dead
When I moved to Los Angeles for college, I was intoxicated with my own fantasies of college life. I imagined classroom debates, philosophical discussions on a lush green lawn, an idealistic boyfriend that would volunteer for the Democratic party during the election and respect my opnions on gay rights and my love for the History Channel as well as Mel Brooks. The reality, however, turned out to be vapid questions about required reading for 100-level classes, heated arguments over what constitutes Facebook "stalking," and a string of beer-guzzling frat boys who couldn't find the clitoris with a map.
However, what breaks my heart most about college is that on a campus with a 60% female student body, "feminism" is a word that falls on ears blocked out by ipods and cell phones; we who feel most passionately about women's rights face our biggest adversaries in those we would consider to be our sisters. It kills me to know that misogyny is so strong in my generation that it spills over from men and into the untrusting women who would rather be seen as "normal" or "complacent" to their male counterparts.
Recently, an article in the Washington Post made this issue all too clear. Charlotte Allen wrote a piece entitled "Women Aren't Very Bright," which was later renamed, "Barack Obama and the Female Vote" after a tremendous response from angry and offended readers. Allen drew from outdated research and clouded, ignorant opinions as well as personal shortcomings to conclude that women, as a whole, are nothing more than a swooning mob of hormone-driven, shoe-obsessed romance-novel consumers. The furious response from readers was no small comfort, as it reminded me that our guerilla warriors are still undercover and fighting one editorial response at a time.
This whole episode prompted me to scream "Feminism isn't dead! It's just not cool anymore!" which, of course, fell on deaf ears. So my new mission has become to gather those of us still intelligent enough to refuse sunless tanner, those of us confident enough to wear spiked heels and a business suit, those of us with a sense of identity that allows us to have careers and families, and remind those who aren't that "feminism" and "equality" aren't dirty words, they're fighting words.
I want the women of my generation to remember that they wouldn't be able to go to college if it hadn't been for the feminist movement, they wouldn't be able to pursue careers if it hadn't been for those women who wouldn't take no for an answer, and they wouldn't be able to have a say in politics if it hadn't been for those "bitchy upstarts" Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton. I want the women of my generation to stop being dolls, playthings, and mannequins that curry favor with men; I want them to know that they can be women. They are beautiful, real, and phenomenal women...but they need to choose to be so.
I realize that the word commonly associated with feminism is "bitch," but you know what? Bitches get stuff done. In the mighty words of Tina Fey, bitch is the new black.
Love.
Jess
However, what breaks my heart most about college is that on a campus with a 60% female student body, "feminism" is a word that falls on ears blocked out by ipods and cell phones; we who feel most passionately about women's rights face our biggest adversaries in those we would consider to be our sisters. It kills me to know that misogyny is so strong in my generation that it spills over from men and into the untrusting women who would rather be seen as "normal" or "complacent" to their male counterparts.
Recently, an article in the Washington Post made this issue all too clear. Charlotte Allen wrote a piece entitled "Women Aren't Very Bright," which was later renamed, "Barack Obama and the Female Vote" after a tremendous response from angry and offended readers. Allen drew from outdated research and clouded, ignorant opinions as well as personal shortcomings to conclude that women, as a whole, are nothing more than a swooning mob of hormone-driven, shoe-obsessed romance-novel consumers. The furious response from readers was no small comfort, as it reminded me that our guerilla warriors are still undercover and fighting one editorial response at a time.
This whole episode prompted me to scream "Feminism isn't dead! It's just not cool anymore!" which, of course, fell on deaf ears. So my new mission has become to gather those of us still intelligent enough to refuse sunless tanner, those of us confident enough to wear spiked heels and a business suit, those of us with a sense of identity that allows us to have careers and families, and remind those who aren't that "feminism" and "equality" aren't dirty words, they're fighting words.
I want the women of my generation to remember that they wouldn't be able to go to college if it hadn't been for the feminist movement, they wouldn't be able to pursue careers if it hadn't been for those women who wouldn't take no for an answer, and they wouldn't be able to have a say in politics if it hadn't been for those "bitchy upstarts" Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton. I want the women of my generation to stop being dolls, playthings, and mannequins that curry favor with men; I want them to know that they can be women. They are beautiful, real, and phenomenal women...but they need to choose to be so.
I realize that the word commonly associated with feminism is "bitch," but you know what? Bitches get stuff done. In the mighty words of Tina Fey, bitch is the new black.
Love.
Jess
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