It’s 9 o’clock at night, I’m eating a grilled cheese sandwich off of a paper towel and drinking lukewarm San Pellegrino straight from the bottle. As an appetizer, I housed a stale glazed donut and washed it down with a swig of V8 Splash, you know, so that I can get an 1/8 of a serving of vegetables without even chewing. I’m the epitome of class. I’m what they call: “working class” chic.
Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself. I need the word “chic” to be used when describing my current state of life. Because otherwise I’d call it “hot mess with dark circles.” Or "painfully pale and breaking out, despite departure from adolescence."
And I have no one but myself to blame for this madness—I’m the one who says yes to everything. I’m the one who brilliantly decided NOW was the time to go back to school. And work a full time job (that’s really like two full time jobs glued together and pretending to be one). I’m the one who joins committees for a living. And volunteers constantly. You know, in my head it seems so logical. And before all the meetings and events start, I always think I'll have so much free time. Then bam! I find myself sneaking cheese danishes out of morning meetings to ensure that I have something to eat for lunch, readjusting my spanx in the middle of parking lots (because I don't care who sees me anymore), and running perpetually 20 minutes late to life (okay, maybe 30). I live on coffee, which translates to 24-7 coffee breath (and asking everyone, even strangers, for gum). I have tote bags that could hold toddlers. Like seriously. And a hell of a tough right shoulder (from hauling my entire office around in said tote bag).
It's G-L-A-M-O-R-OUS.
I have these memories of tagging along with my dad to all of his committees and meetings and boards (I come by this lifestyle naturally, you know), thinking to myself how much fun it all was. Everyone seemed so pleasant and it seemed like such a fun way to spend time—hanging out around a big table (like a dinner party!) with all your best friends. I thought meetings were awesome. And that everyone around these tables actually liked each other (I guess I couldn't smell bullshit when I was a kid). And some of these meetings even had snacks. Which was an ultimate plus for someone like me who lives for snack food (mmm, cheese & crackers). Oh how important meetings made me feel when I was eighteen and got to—say something! Or better yet, provide a HANDOUT!
And, oh, how my feelings have changed. I mean, the meetings aren't so bad, but I'm starting to wonder how anything ever gets done. These meetings pretty much require that we take work home so that we can do the work we should have done at our desk (but got stuck in meetings). It's a tough life in the big city.
Yesterday was my 27th birthday. It seems that not so long ago I was navigating how to diplomatically accept the Barbie I didn’t really want from the person I really, really didn’t want to come to my birthday party while my dad played happy birthday on the accordion. Back then, it was okay to ask everyone to make you the center of attention—it was expected, even. But once you hit –oh, say twenty or twenty-five?—it suddenly becomes a bit unsavory to expect everything and everyone to bend to your every whim on your birthday.
Plus, I can’t ever find the option on my time card that gives me paid leave on my birthday…without getting what the French call “le let go”. So, alas, I’ve accepted my role as an adult (bitterly) and feel that I did the right thing yesterday: I worked a full eight-hour day. And then I went to class for five hours. And wrote a paper. And studied for an exam. And have been feeling mighty sorry for myself ever since.
I spent the morning with some of my favorite kids under ten. Even though we were busy doing important things like taking the MSA (the wretched Maryland state exams that these poor kids spend the whole year preparing for and only a few miserable hours taking), I still had a nice chance to chat with them while we waited for it all to start. We talked about football, Monique and the Oscars, chocolate chip cookies and cats—just the kind of conversation everyone should have before 9 am with kids who still think an opportunity to play "7-Up" is the bomb-diggity (and who would roll their eyes to hear me say "bomb-diggity").
In the middle of our talk about cats and dogs I had one of those Billy Madison moments where I wanted to shake their faces and warn them about the perils of adulthood; to hold fast to the joy and lightness of childhood. And to enjoy the shit out of their next birthday party. But, people get arrested for shaking kids faces these days, so I guess they’ll just have to figure it out for themselves.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Giving up rationality for Lent
Today it has snowed all day in Georgia, South Carolina, and North Carolina. I swear on all things holy if that wind even thinks about moving North, I’ll pitch a real, live, honest Johnson hissy-fit. Is the world ending? Like, seriously. A show called Jersey Shore was the most popular thing on television this year and it’s snowed a record amount in the American South and Mid-Atlantic. Two catastrophic earthquakes have literally devastated entire chunks of the world, the United States Supreme Court said it was a-okay for lobbyists, i.e. corporations, to support presidential campaigns (so the makers of Viagra could be electing our next president), and Britney Spears is blond again. I’m just not quite sure what to do with myself in this big, bad world of ours.
And yes, I also acknowledge that it is probably really, really uncouth to reference Haiti, Chile, the U.S. Supreme Court, and Britney Spears in the same sentence. But, need I remind you, friends, the world appears to be headed to hell in a bobsled (perhaps driven by a German or a Canadian?).
And I’ve decided to perhaps try really, really hard to stop being surprised by these things—regardless of how insanely difficult this will be. I jokingly gave up punctuality for Lent (because I seriously run on Africa time these days…and before you go and get your panties in a wad about this statement, spend a few weeks anywhere in Africa and you’ll get it), but perhaps I should have given up logic. Or rationality. Or my usual Lenten sacrifice: NASCAR. (Unrelated, but funny). Sorry, Mike.
Maybe I should work on not being shocked anymore when I get my mid-afternoon New York Times email updates (which, thank you, NYTimes, provides me with endless anxiety and nausea every afternoon) that inform me of some unbelievable decision that has been made by a politician or a state legislature somewhere in the great U.S. of A. I guess I should stop being surprised when I wake up to horrible news on my BBC newsfeed. I mean pardon my bleeding liberal heart, but maybe I should stop losing sleep over bad social policy and failed reform efforts. Because where does my rage get me? What use does it do me to chew the inside of my cheek till it’s raw and neurotically flick my foot up and down like it’s a broken wind-up monkey?
Maybe I see some “unsubscribes” in my future. But what if everyone cared? What if we all voted. And informed ourselves before we voted. What if we parented our children like responsible human beings. What if we taught our daughters about self-respect and our sons about dignity? What if everyone read the newspaper everyday and allowed themselves the mental capacity to get excited, or better yet, outraged—like full out, red-in-the-face, mad about things. Maybe we could be a better generation of people. Maybe we could stop blaming everyone but ourselves for our bad economy, our sinking school systems, and our serious “communication” errors.
I took a “how millennial are you” quiz the other day and was proud to see I wasn’t one. I mean I was like 10 points short of one, but 10 critical points they were. For starters, I still read the newspaper. Two of them, actually. I read them online, but they get read nonetheless. And yes, I mix my Washington Post and New York Times up with a little splash of USWeekly (for flavor), and I think it’s the perfect balance. I can’t really try and understand health care reform without first understanding why Kate Gosselin got hair extensions, now can I? And I make no money, but I still believe in philanthropy. And the importance of giving back. Which is why I spend 80% of my free time doing things I don’t have to do.
It’s not that I’m ashamed to be a child of the 1980’s, and that I don’t fully appreciate where we are as an iphone, on demand, fiber optic society. I wouldn’t work in higher education if I had something against the charm and flavor of the millennial. I just want, for myself, to be better than what society has claimed as “acceptable” from us. The whole world has given our generation credit for getting Obama elected and from where I sit, I think we’ve sat on thumbs during his first year, hemming and hawing over the things he isn’t doing right and the things he hasn’t gotten to work on yet. Maybe we should think a little bit about what we can also do when we aren’t in an election year. Maybe we should revisit what “civic responsibility” looks like. The Sarah Silverman get-off-your-ass-and-vote video worked, but now I need her to do a new one. Get off your ass and doing something useful.
While I write this little rant of mine, Atticus Finch is in the background talking to Scout about racism, tolerance and letting people be themselves. It couldn’t be a better backdrop to my current state of mind. At least I know some things will never change. To Kill a Mockingbird will always be the same beautiful story (even though I really did think it was called Tequila Mockingbird for at least a month before I actually was handed the book and read the title for myself, thank you middle school English teacher with a borderline-absurd southern accent). Atticus Finch will always be the unfailing southern gentleman, a steadfast reminder of morality, democracy, and civic responsibility (I mean, he shoots the rabid dog. C’mon!?). At least I know when Bravo has really pushed its limits of the newest Real Housewives series (that I will inevitably watch in a marathon, avoiding my homework), AMC will be there for me, keeping it real. It’s like knowing cake will always be good and bourbon will always be better.
And yes, I also acknowledge that it is probably really, really uncouth to reference Haiti, Chile, the U.S. Supreme Court, and Britney Spears in the same sentence. But, need I remind you, friends, the world appears to be headed to hell in a bobsled (perhaps driven by a German or a Canadian?).
And I’ve decided to perhaps try really, really hard to stop being surprised by these things—regardless of how insanely difficult this will be. I jokingly gave up punctuality for Lent (because I seriously run on Africa time these days…and before you go and get your panties in a wad about this statement, spend a few weeks anywhere in Africa and you’ll get it), but perhaps I should have given up logic. Or rationality. Or my usual Lenten sacrifice: NASCAR. (Unrelated, but funny). Sorry, Mike.
Maybe I should work on not being shocked anymore when I get my mid-afternoon New York Times email updates (which, thank you, NYTimes, provides me with endless anxiety and nausea every afternoon) that inform me of some unbelievable decision that has been made by a politician or a state legislature somewhere in the great U.S. of A. I guess I should stop being surprised when I wake up to horrible news on my BBC newsfeed. I mean pardon my bleeding liberal heart, but maybe I should stop losing sleep over bad social policy and failed reform efforts. Because where does my rage get me? What use does it do me to chew the inside of my cheek till it’s raw and neurotically flick my foot up and down like it’s a broken wind-up monkey?
Maybe I see some “unsubscribes” in my future. But what if everyone cared? What if we all voted. And informed ourselves before we voted. What if we parented our children like responsible human beings. What if we taught our daughters about self-respect and our sons about dignity? What if everyone read the newspaper everyday and allowed themselves the mental capacity to get excited, or better yet, outraged—like full out, red-in-the-face, mad about things. Maybe we could be a better generation of people. Maybe we could stop blaming everyone but ourselves for our bad economy, our sinking school systems, and our serious “communication” errors.
I took a “how millennial are you” quiz the other day and was proud to see I wasn’t one. I mean I was like 10 points short of one, but 10 critical points they were. For starters, I still read the newspaper. Two of them, actually. I read them online, but they get read nonetheless. And yes, I mix my Washington Post and New York Times up with a little splash of USWeekly (for flavor), and I think it’s the perfect balance. I can’t really try and understand health care reform without first understanding why Kate Gosselin got hair extensions, now can I? And I make no money, but I still believe in philanthropy. And the importance of giving back. Which is why I spend 80% of my free time doing things I don’t have to do.
It’s not that I’m ashamed to be a child of the 1980’s, and that I don’t fully appreciate where we are as an iphone, on demand, fiber optic society. I wouldn’t work in higher education if I had something against the charm and flavor of the millennial. I just want, for myself, to be better than what society has claimed as “acceptable” from us. The whole world has given our generation credit for getting Obama elected and from where I sit, I think we’ve sat on thumbs during his first year, hemming and hawing over the things he isn’t doing right and the things he hasn’t gotten to work on yet. Maybe we should think a little bit about what we can also do when we aren’t in an election year. Maybe we should revisit what “civic responsibility” looks like. The Sarah Silverman get-off-your-ass-and-vote video worked, but now I need her to do a new one. Get off your ass and doing something useful.
While I write this little rant of mine, Atticus Finch is in the background talking to Scout about racism, tolerance and letting people be themselves. It couldn’t be a better backdrop to my current state of mind. At least I know some things will never change. To Kill a Mockingbird will always be the same beautiful story (even though I really did think it was called Tequila Mockingbird for at least a month before I actually was handed the book and read the title for myself, thank you middle school English teacher with a borderline-absurd southern accent). Atticus Finch will always be the unfailing southern gentleman, a steadfast reminder of morality, democracy, and civic responsibility (I mean, he shoots the rabid dog. C’mon!?). At least I know when Bravo has really pushed its limits of the newest Real Housewives series (that I will inevitably watch in a marathon, avoiding my homework), AMC will be there for me, keeping it real. It’s like knowing cake will always be good and bourbon will always be better.
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