So What Now?

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.

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.

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.

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.