Beauty: The Unjumbling

I’m getting closer to figuring out what it is about the concept of beauty in our society that has captivated my attention so intensely. I think I’m getting closer to unjumbling the plate of spaghetti that comprises my thoughts and neurosis on the subject.

My problem with beauty is that we use it as a general measure of value when it is not. It is not a general measure of value, it is a very specific measure of value that is only accurate when used in specific situations. This isn’t a new idea– it is the reason why it is appropriate to measure beauty in beauty competitions but inappropriate to use beauty to measure the value of a college applicant or a potential hire.

Although we as a society know this on paper, the use of beauty as a general measure of value is so natural to us that we continue to act in ways that betray our purported evolved thinking. It is natural to us because, although we think we know better, we have thousands of years of bad habits working against us.

The people that suffer the most at the hands of these inherited bad habits are women. Women inherited these bad habits from their ancestral fathers and they then pass them down to their own daughters, creating a cycle that is now almost a part of our DNA. Almost. That is why I think it’s important to bring it up and bring attention to it. We can’t continue to act like this is Prometheus, allowing these bad habits to poison our water and use us to engender awful monsters. We can shed some light on our harmful attitudes and mend them before we allow irreparable harm.

Here is something that happened to me today that serves as a perfect example of the problems I’m perceiving around me.

At work we are creating videos to introduce our brand to the world. The person who is in charge of representing our brand in these videos is an extremely beautiful and exotic woman in her mid 2o’s. Because she has a heavy accent when she speaks English, it was decided that she would only appear in the Spanish versions I would appear in the English ones. A conversation occurred today in which she was described as gorgeous by a co-worker. Conscious that I was in the room, the speaker quickly amended her statement to include me by saying “not that Ximena isn’t gorgeous, too.”

1. You’re gorgeous, too!

Why am I gorgeous too? Why is this a relevant comment to make? I’ll tell you why. Because if the speaker hadn’t hurried to sing my praises too then I would’ve been hurt. I would’ve sat there thinking to myself “Wait a minute, why is she the only gorgeous one? Are they saying that I’m not gorgeous too?” My self-esteem would’ve taken a hit because I am always self-conscious, insecure about my looks and competitive when it comes to other women. If I’m not told that I’m just as beautiful I will take it personally because being considered beautiful is important to me.

False.

Pampering one another with platitudes is a female specialty. Gently coddling one another’s self-esteem and petting each other’s vanities is always the response du-jour. From an early age the attitudes of other women teach us to expect this kind of attention until we think we need it. Eventually, we do need it because we never learned to create the strength within ourselves that makes the reassurances of others superfluous.

2. Fake compliments

Honestly, I don’t know how to take compliments because I’ve always perceived them as problematic. Growing up, beauty was a really big deal to my father’s side of the family. All of my aunts and my grandmother had nose jobs, all of them were obsessed with being thin, all of them were jealous and competitive and materialistic. When I was little, I always had the sense that my grandmother wanted me to be as gracious and as pleasing as Shirley Temple. As I got older, she always told me I could be a model. Later, I sensed that she discriminated against my sister because her skin is a tad darker than mine and has an unkempt style. “Ay, que linda!” “Ay, que bella!” were phrases constantly thrown around my grandmother’s house. It always made me uncomfortable and a little nauseous.

Needless to say, I grew up uncomfortable with that kind of attention. In general, I prefer to fly below the radar. When I do get a compliment, I want it to be as spontaneous and sincere as possible. And I want it to come from a relevant source– my boyfriend, for example, if he feels truly inspired to give one. Not from a colleague who is only saying it because she feels she has to. Which leads me to my third problem.

3. Work

I don’t want to sound like a fuddy-duddy stick in the mud, but issues like this are why the Human Resources department was invented. Well, not totally, but you know what I mean. And I don’t say that because of this one singular incident– this kind of stuff happens at my office all the time. It is an interesting dynamic that has created our environment: a big part of our company is comprised of good-looking young women. They are all more than capable and incredibly intelligent, so it’s great to be surrounded by them. However, we have unwittingly created a culture that highlights beauty in a way I have never seen at any other place I’ve worked. It comes up in emails and at meetings and on phone calls. We display our most beautiful member in videos and pictures on social media. Unfortunately, that means that the rest of us get the distinct pleasure of getting plenty of “you’re gorgeous too” comments. It would be a nightmare if it weren’t for the fact that I am like a pig in mud analyzing and over-analyzing all of it.

Disregarding my intellectual stake in the matter, the truth is that there is a reason the modern work environment has evolved to uphold strict policies on what is proper and what is not. There is a reason we have separated business and pleasure. There is a reason business suits and dress codes are a thing. It is because it is important to create an environment where the job can get done with as little human messiness as possible. All employees should feel comfortable and confident that they will get the correct kind of attention in an office. Unless you’re a modeling agency, creating a culture that heightens the value of beauty is not conducive to an overall sense of confidence and comfort.

4. Sexism

You can bet your last dollar on the fact that if we were all men, no one would ever utter the phrase “you’re gorgeous, too.”

When we first started working on the video in question and we were trying to find the correct lighting and background, I expressed dissatisfaction with how I looked in the first take. What I meant was that the lighting looked pretty bad and we were going to have to find other options. However, a different co-worker jumped in to reassure me that my face is beautiful and that I’m beautiful in the video. Without even having seen the footage.

If we had both been men I guarantee that the response would’ve been different. Maybe I would’ve been asked what was wrong with the take, or they would’ve asked to see it, or maybe I would’ve gotten a shrug. The co-worker that responded this way was female, which takes me back to my first problem. But the sexist attitude remains in the fact that beauty is only considered a measure of value and directly related to self-worth when it comes to women. In this instance it’s worse because it shows how women apply sexist attitudes to other women under the guise of support and camaraderie.

Feminism or the Egg?

Lately I’ve been asking myself this question over and over: what came first, the feminism or the problem?

Clearly, I don’t mean that feminism is creating problems rather than addressing or tackling them. Clearly, as a woman, I am well acquainted with the problems my gender encounters and has encountered for as long as women have existed. Feminism arose out of the need to educate ourselves, empower one another and fight for our rights as human beings after centuries of unfair treatment.

What I mean is, does feminism teach me to see problems where previously I saw none? Am I smarter because of feminism, or am I just more defensive? What am I truly learning the more I read about feminist issues and concerns?

I recently read a post that addressed the problems concerning men complimenting women on their looks. This post led me down a rabbit hole of similar posts that tackled various aspects of the same problem. It couldn’t have come at a more poignant time in my life. A couple of weeks ago I was walking down the street in downtown Austin when a man began to walk beside me. He proceeded to compliment me– “You look great,” he said– and insisted on establishing an exchange between us. When I refused to acknowledge him or make eye contact he said to me “I’m not going to abuse you.” My response was to finally make eye contact with him (because I was perplexed and couldn’t look away any longer) and give him a weak smile. That encounter still bugs me and my reaction disgusts me. But it was an awkward situation and I felt pressured to react. Hence, discussing the problems surrounding men– strangers, specifically– complimenting women is particularly relevant to me at this time.

Sure enough, another example of this problem surfaced last week. A co-worker of mine was telling me and one of our male co-workers how a stranger approached her to talk about her shoes. She has a habit of wearing extravagant high-heels, and this man decided not only to address her choice of shoe, but to tell her that she was good-looking no matter what kind of shoes she chose to wear. She related this story to us with a tone of amusement. My male co-worker responded by telling her that her shoes are the first thing people notice about her. My response was to shake my head in disapproval.

Where exactly does my disapproval come from? Inherently, I do not like encounters with strange men. Additionally, I do not want attention from strange men, even if it comes in the form of a “compliment.” I do not want to know what a strange man thinks of how I look, and I do not care for an exchange in which it is clear he has judged me and he is informing me of the verdict. That is something I feel no matter what article I have or have not read. However, posts like the one I mentioned go way beyond your inherent reaction. They add so much more to it, they put it in such a large context with such wit and fervor that what starts as a natural dislike turns into vehement disgust. Now I absolutely hate and am absolutely against the concept of unsolicited compliments from strange men in all cases instead of simply finding it off-putting in most cases. I now find it violating instead of just eye-roll worthy. My co-worker clearly hasn’t read the same things I have, and now I feel like letting her know that she should never be amused by such an encounter. She should hate it and react like a viper next time it happens.

Is that true, though? Is that kind of thing absolutely unacceptable, hands down? And where do we draw the line? My current workplace offers a plethora of situations that trigger the Fem Police in me more often than other places where I have worked. But is that because I am better educated than I was before? Or am I just more defensive and cynical? Compliments for females in my workplace abound. My female co-workers are constantly complimented on their looks and disposition. “Sweet” and “beautiful” are words that are constantly thrown around– in the direction of one co-worker specifically, but then to the rest of us by association. The more it happens, the more I wish it would stop happening. But should I get that stick out of my ass and just enjoy it or should I continue to hold my lonely post as apparently the most cynical and joyless person at the company? What am I gaining (and sacrificing) by insisting on holding up the banner of feminism and propriety when everyone else fails to see the problem?

This morning a mechanic came to my workplace to replace the windshield on my car. When I came out to the car, he evidently was not expecting a not-so-shabby young woman in a hip young outfit (if I must say so myself) to come to greet him. He stammered, smiled at me, shook my hand and told me I had a beautiful name. From then on out, he would switch his demeanor between professional and slightly playful when addressing my questions and concerns. He smiled at me a little too much. Of course, if I had been a man, he would’ve remained professional and I seriously doubt he would’ve attempted to use “cute” humor. So what am I expected to feel in that situation? In order to uphold feminist ideals, should I always be disgusted and offended? I mean– I was a little grossed out and wanted it to be over with as soon as possible. I definitely found the encounter to be eye-roll worthy. But is that enough?

I am weary of any stance or philosophy that can be summed up by the bumper-sticker rationale of “if you’re not outraged, you haven’t been paying attention.” That is the goal post that guides me when examining any ideology– not just feminism. I don’t want to be outraged all the time. I don’t want to to be so indignant that I forget that we are all just dumb human beings. I don’t want to be so disgusted that I forget to have empathy for people and start blaming individuals for problems they inherited from society at large. However, I don’t want to be so lenient that I contribute to social ignorance and perpetuate habits that damage and marginalize others. I want to be educated but I would also like to continue wearing my “Ignorance is Bliss” t-shirt (I don’t have any such t-shirt). I want to learn more about feminist issues and be a proactive member of society but not at the expense of my mental peace and ability to relate to my fellow humans– men and women alike.

The Power of the Beautiful

A couple of years ago I bought a book titled The Marshall Plan for Novel Writing by Evan Marshall. I’ve attempted to use it several times since I purchased it, but I’ve never been able to get past the first chapter. All of the guidelines it mentions are very practical– it makes sense to me the way a recipe makes sense when you’re attempting to cook something. Marshall’s ingredients for book writing are straightforward and laid out very plainly. However, I don’t want to write a book that is just as easy to make as chocolate chip cookies. I don’t want to write something that is that easily palatable or that agreeable.

With or without the help of books like The Marshall Plan for Novel Writing, my problem remains the same. I just can’t think of any narrative or story that has a middle or an end. I can think of a million beginnings. I have written a million beginnings. But then I run out of things to say. My characters begin out of breath, on the verge of some great scheme, their lives about to explode into a million pieces. I can see their faces and I can sense their anxiety. Pretty soon, however, we all become impatient. Where is this going? My characters turn to look at me with faces full of criticism. That’s it? And I shrug. Yeah, that’s it.

During my latest attempt to learn something from Marshall’s book, I encountered my problem all over again. I took some notes, tried to follow the rules, but ended up closing the book after the first chapter just like countless times before. I just don’t have anything to say, I thought to myself. That’s not true, however. Marshall’s book talks about finding a genre that feels right. As it turns out, I have plenty to say, and since starting this blog I’ve realized that I can’t shut up. Writing in the form of personal narrative gives me license to speak in a tone that is comfortable to me. So maybe that is my genre.

Away from the eyes of my critical characters, I’ve found that I can write about whatever I want. And the more I think about this, the more one topic keeps churning and turning in my head like clothes in a washing machine.

The power of the beautiful.

I want to make something of that. I would like to write a narrative in which I analyze and discuss the power of devastating beauty and the effects it has on the beautiful themselves and the people who surround them. I would like to sit down with the beautiful people I know and pick their brains. I would like to write about the things I’ve seen and heard from the rest of us who surround amazingly beautiful people. It’s a topic that has always fascinated me. Devastatingly beautiful people live in a world of their own, and I want to write all about it.

It’s a starting point. I’m just happy to have an idea that fascinates me. Especially one that liberates me from having to make something up that promises to captivate everyone. I don’t want to captivate anyone– I just want to satisfy my own curiosity and test the numerous theories I’ve been storing in my head.

We Were Kind of a Big Deal

When I was growing up, the biggest compliment my dad’s side of the family could give something was to say that it was “como en los Estados.” Just like in the States, they would say. That big, bright, American pie in the sky. The way that phrase would roll off their tongues– it was almost as if they could taste the vast stretches of highways and the pizza from shopping mall food courts.

When I moved back to Nicaragua with my parents in the 90’s, American luxury goods were not extremely easy to come by. And by “luxury goods” I mean things like chocolate bars, CD’s, movies on VHS, books, Campbell’s soup. In order to get access to these things, you needed to have access to high-class shopping venues or have relatives who would come to Nicaragua bringing American wares with them. But what this really meant is that you needed to have money and class. You had to have the money and the class to know what you were missing and to know how to appreciate it when you got it.

Money and class were irresistible to my dad’s side of the family. And why not? In our small town of León they had come to be known as a wealthy and classy family. Even after the country went through its political turmoil and my family found themselves with diminished wealth and status, they continued to be enamored with maintaining a high-class lifestyle if only for appearances sake. My grandmother owned so many Louis Vuitton purses that I grew up assuming it was a style favored by old ladies and not an item of haute couture. My aunts smeared themselves in crimson Chanel lipstick and my uncles favored only the best cars. My female cousins were decked in jewelry at all times and their mother would carefully chaperone how they looked every time they left the house.

My mom’s side of the family was equal in (diminishing) wealth and status, but they were less concerned with expressing it. I was never decked in jewelry because my mom rarely wore it herself. I never saw my mom’s family make a big deal about material things. Certainly, they must have been aware of their privilege and happy with their comfortable lives, but it was all very natural. They lacked the anxiety and pettiness my father’s family seemed to exude.

The older I got, the more problematic this became for me. On the one hand, I didn’t want to be anything like my father’s family. I was slightly embarrassed of them for being so transparently superficial. But on the other hand, I liked nice things. I didn’t want my mother to dress me and force me to wear jewelry, but I did like jewelry and wanted more of it. I didn’t want to play the who-has-more game that my dad’s side of the family seemed to be experts at, but I did want to have more and was dissatisfied because I knew I wouldn’t get it. The older I got and the more aware I became of what I did and didn’t have, the more frustrated I became because I knew I wasn’t living up to the social standards around me. All of a sudden, I wanted to be como en los Estados. I wanted that ultimate gold stamp of social approval.

Well, you can’t get any closer to being como en los Estados than actually living en los Estados. I killed two birds with one stone in moving here: I got away from the social pressures of high-class Nicaraguan society and I increased my chances of attaining everything one needs in order to live a luxurious life. Independently, of course. I am slowly but surely building my own standards of satisfaction that have nothing to do with what my dad’s family would want for me.

Or does it?

The jewel-encased cousin I mentioned earlier lives in los Estados as well and recently took to Facebook to brag about her husband’s new car and her new ridiculously expensive shoes. Oh how our grandmother would be proud. Reading her status, I felt a cold, familiar grip in my heart. That pang of not wanting anything to do with our family’s dumb obsession with wealth and also the desire to be able to afford everything in the whole wide world and be fabulously haute couture myself. I can feel myself become petty and…is it possible that I am jealous? Here we are, the new fruits of a generation with all the world in front of us and we bring with us the habits and traditions of the old. I want to run away and never hear como en los Estados again, but I also want to stay and fight and prove that I don’t have to be como anything at all.

Like a Pro

My mom used to tell me that the problem with me having studied literature in college was that I became a critic instead of a writer.

She’s right. As an English major my job was to read a million books in order to analyze, criticize and deconstruct everything. My job was to read the greatest writers to ever walk the earth and digest the way in which they perfected their craft. I was to drown in other people’s genius. That can be the kiss of death for an aspiring writer. I went from having poems published in a newspaper in Nicaragua to winning second place in a poetry contest at the University of Texas at Austin to never writing again. I just couldn’t do it anymore– I couldn’t offend the art of writing with my shoddy attempts at genius. I couldn’t possibly join the ranks of Hemingway and Gogol and Dostoyevsky and Steinbeck so I just… stopped.

But anyways. I now see this as a trend in my life. Most recently, it has happened to me as a comedian. The more comedy I participate in and the more professional comedians I get to know, the more I am becoming a comedy critic. Furthermore, because I consider comedy to be an exalted form of communicating, I am becoming a critic of communication in general.

Take sketch comedy, for example. When we get together to read and vote on scripts, we are looking for the key factors that make an excellent sketch. We look for jokes that hit hard and fast, we look for smart language and innovative twists. We demand that ideas be presented in a concise manner and have no qualms in trimming the fat wherever we find it. We don’t want to present sketches that rely on too much exposition or jokes that are too in love with themselves. We want to get in, make people laugh, and get out.

Comedians are the most unforgiving critics because they spend their life mining language for true gems that they can craft into jokes. They hack and hack and hack away at an idea until it is just a morsel of hilarious truth. In a 10-minute stand-up set, there’s no time for meandering ideas and half-chewed cud. In a 5-minute sketch, there’s no time for rambling dialogues.

I have taken these principles of communication and become a pretty ruthless critic in all areas of my life. At work, I get impatient when ideas and tasks are presented in a way that I consider lazy or amateurish. When a co-worker is talking to me I analyze the way they communicate and think to myself is that really the best way to get your point across? When I get an email I sit there and think of 10 ways I could have written the same email but better. I want everyone to get in, get the job done, and get out.

While it’s great to strive for perfect communication skills, perfection as a concept itself is problematic. First of all, perfection is impossible. Second, you’ve got to lighten up. There is nothing wrong with a little wandering. If there is more than one way to skin a cat, there is more than one way to tell a story. There is more than one way to get to the point. And sometimes, there is no point, and that is ok, too.

What I tend to forget is that sometimes it’s not about the message, but the messenger. It’s frequently been the case that I meet someone new and I immediately feel like I can’t stand them because of the way they communicate. They’ll do things like finish your sentence for you or forget to listen or talk ad-nauseum about this or that. They’ll focus too much on being nice instead of saying what they really want to say. They’ll pussy foot around their point and never get to it. They don’t know how to ask for what they want. They’ll rely on too many emoticons while chatting online. All of these things drive me crazy. But it’s also been the case that after a while I get used to the way they communicate and I am able to look past that and enjoy the person for who they are.

The bigger of a critic I become, the more I have to learn to chill out and lighten up, as my mom would say. I have to remember to not lose sight of the person forrest because I’m too busy criticizing their communication trees. Besides, I’m no expert. I’m the person who stopped writing altogether because the criticism became too much to bear. I can’t also just stop communicating altogether, and become a social pariah while I’m at it, just because I’m on the quest for flawless communication.

Working On It

You wouldn’t think so, but being happy takes a lot of work.

When I say “you” I mean myself, of course. I would have never thought being happy required so much effort.

But it does. I work on it every day. And sometimes it feels like a Sisyphean task. The myth of Sisyphus being my ultimate, favorite Greek myth. The boulder I’m pushing finds itself in different positions throughout the day. Sometimes I’m at the top and I’m proud of all the work I’ve done. Sometimes I’m in the middle, and I ask myself if I’ll ever get there. Other times I’m at the very bottom of the hill and I don’t know why I even bother.

My biggest challenge is finding a way to be happy despite the trauma of painful experiences. It’s been almost two years since I made an extremely painful decision that changed the course of my life permanently. It was awful. Since then, I’ve struggled to move forward. I ask myself: how do people get out from under the heavy thumb of personal trauma? On top of my own trauma, the decision I made caused pain to a person that is very special to me. I still think about it a lot and I can’t help but feel a sense of survivor’s guilt. It was for the best, but that doesn’t seem to be much comfort to me. How long will it take until I truly believe that it will work out for the best for both of us?

Is it a good time to get a therapist? I’m working on that too.

I’m working on being grateful for what I have now, in front of me. And not just in between those moments when I want to give up and run away. I’m working on being grateful all the time. I’m putting myself on a regimen of smart quotes and music that doesn’t make me sad and eating healthy and working out more often. I’m making sure that I indulge in things I really enjoy, like spending time in my new apartment and watching tons and tons of movies. I particularly enjoy not doing anything at all. I used to feel guilty about not having more projects and not learning new things and not being more busy. But now, I don’t give a shit about that. All I want to do is feel good.

I need to get over the past. I need to get over the things I used to have and the way I used to feel. I need to accept that things are different now. Things take more work. Yes, everything used to be easier. But things had to change. This is where I throw in a metaphor about metamorphosis and the painful transition from caterpillar to butterfly and how in order to make a good life omelet you have to break a ton of bad habit eggs.

Speaking of quotes, I recently came across a quote about how everyone is responsible for their own happiness. And then I read a friend’s blog entry that talked about being responsible for your own lack of change. The silver lining for me is that what I am going through now is a result of me standing up and being responsible for my own change. I stood up from the depths of wonderful, sleepy complacency and ventured out into the cold, unpredictable future. The price of my evolution was that I leave the trappings of a familiar life behind. I sacrificed my past in order to have a better future. Sometimes, the future feels like hell. But like that one quote says, if you’re going through hell, keep going.

I realize the past couple of entries have been kind of depressing. They won’t all be, though. That is what I’m counting on.

The Fuzz of the 90’s

I’ve been watching a lot of 90’s movies recently. Netflix would say I’ve been watching a lot of quirky movies featuring a “strong female lead.” Kissing Jessica Stein starring Jennifer Westfeldt, for example. And Walking and Talking, starring Catherine Keener and Anne Heche.

There is something about the 90’s I find very comforting right now. I’m enjoying the depiction of life without cell phones in everyones hands, big clunky computers no one really knew what to do with apart from using Word Perfect or Quickbooks, landlines and answering machines. I enjoy seeing spaghetti straps on everyone and hair that would be considered unkempt in our perfectionist celebrity world. I’m always nostalgic about the past, but it hasn’t been until recently that I’ve discovered the appeal of 90’s nostalgia. I used to consider it too modern an era to attract me, but now I see its charm.

Apart from being fixated with the exotica of the past, I have discovered a new factor that only just recently became relevant to me. Relationships in the lives of women in their 30’s. Not just romantic ones, but friendships as well. It’s no wonder– I’ve only been 30 for 6 months. I am new to this phase in life, this decade where, apparently, everything becomes defined and solidified. All of a sudden I have this voracious curiosity about other women in their 30’s and how they navigate the challenges of this age. I suppose I choose to examine women from the 1990’s because they have survived and surpassed their 30’s. I’m looking for proof that the women Catherine Keener and Jennifer Westfeldt portray managed to make it out alright.

Honestly, I’m a little worried about myself. Not terribly worried– and not sad worried. Just a little worried. I guess I feel a little lost. I don’t have great, fulfilling relationships with many women my age. I’ve made very wonderful, life-long friendships with women I’ve known since adolescence, but they don’t live in my vicinity. They don’t even live in the same country. And the friendships I’ve managed to make in the 12 years I’ve lived in Austin seem to wax and wane without any rhyme or reason. I think that if I were to have more stable and reliable friendships with women it would relieve the pressure from the only main constant relationship in my life, which is a romantic one.

I’m also a little bit worried because I know, without the help of these movies I’ve been watching, that it is during this decade that I will make the most important decisions of my life. This is the decade that I will think seriously about starting a family. This is the decade where I will probably own my own home. This is it– this is where I settle down. I fought long and hard against it, but now that I’ve decided to face it, the idea seems comforting. However, I think a lot about the potential mistakes that I can make and how permanent the effects of those mistakes would be. I constantly wonder if I’ve already made huge mistakes that will keep me from being truly happy. This is something I think about all the time. I feel like I have to make the final draft of my Dealbreakers list and be ruthless in weeding out the things that are unacceptable to me. I’m not 20 anymore, I can’t pretend like I don’t care. I have to care. I have to remind myself that, no matter how uncomfortable  and painful a decision may be, it is extremely important that I do not sell myself short and that I do not settle.

Or is it? Life and relationships are flawed. I already knew that without the help of these movies. If anything, these movies are a testament to the ability to manage your expectations and also expect the unexpected. You don’t always get the guy in the end. Or maybe you do. Or maybe you end up with the one you least expected to end up with. Or maybe you think you have it all figured out and then it falls apart right on top of you right before you get exactly what you need. I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m still worried. It feels like I’ll always be worried.

In any case. Some of the movies I’ve been watching were made more recently, such as Friends with Kids. That one is certainly a testament to modern friendships and relationships. That one gives me a little bit of hope because it looks like there is another option in the midst of it all. If all else fails, I can just pick a friend to knock me up and then spend the rest of my life wondering where the great love of my life went. Right? Or maybe I should go back to watching something a little more comforting like You’ve Got Mail. Yeah. That sounds pretty good to me.

Here is No Why

Last week I watched a movie in which one of the protagonists was wearing the iconic “Zero” t-shirt by the Smashing Pumpkins. It was a movie about kids currently in high school– right now, in the 00’s, or whatever it is that this era is called (I still don’t know). For these kids, presumably born in the mid 90’s,  wearing a Smashing Pumpkins shirt in high school now would be similar to me wearing a The Cure shirt back when I was in high school. These kids would be wearing it more for cred, fake nostalgia and recognition than anything else. Surely not because they are truly fans of the band, especially considering how disappointing they are now.

Well, when I saw this, I felt several things. My first reaction was a big mental scoff. Pshhh, like you could even name one of their songs. I felt indignant that these idiot kids, in this really bad movie, were wearing something they didn’t deserve to wear. Then I felt a sense of pride. If I wore that shirt, I wouldn’t be doing it for cred, fake nostalgia or recognition. I would be doing it because I was a conscious human being when Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness hit stores, I was there when the singles came out, I watched the videos when they aired on MTV, I heard the songs on the radio when they were top hits, I discussed the band with my friends, I waited patiently for someone to buy the album for me during their next trip to the U.S. I owned that shit on a cassette tape. I unfurled the album art from its packaging and lovingly learned all of the lyrics. I wrote poetry consumed by all the feelings the album inspired. When I finally got the album on a CD I played it so often and so loudly that my mother would knock on the door and tell me to turn it down.

I deserve to wear that shirt, I thought to myself. It was the first time I felt that something that is considered a nostalgic relic of the past truly belonged to me. That feeling seemed like a rite of passage. It must be what people who lived in both a pre-Pink Floyd and a post-Pink Floyd world must feel when they see kids nowadays wearing the iconic Dark Side of the Moon gear. They were conscious of a time before that band changed them, and then the first contact with that band changed them forever. Now, kids who couldn’t possibly know what it is like to go through that transformation wear emblems of other people’s pride for fun. Not that I am comparing Pink Floyd to the Smashing Pumpkins. I am comparing the experience. It is something that eventually happens to all of us, and it finally happened to me.

Not that I mind younger generations discovering old music. Where would I be if I hadn’t indulged in my step-dad’s immense CD collection? I wouldn’t wear a Dark Side of the Moon shirt because I would feel like a poser if I did. Or I would be embarrassed to be seen by someone who truly deserved to wear that shirt. I do feel like you need to earn the privilege, and I don’t think I have. However, I do  know that truly great music will always find a way to transform others, no matter how far removed they are from its origins. I don’t begrudge kids these days the opportunity to encounter that kind of enlightenment.

Soon after watching that movie, I went online and ordered myself a Smashing Pumpkins “Zero” t-shirt and I’m wearing it today. It makes me so, so happy. I used to own this shirt, but I lost it somehow. I don’t mind, however. It seems fitting that I would seek it out and make it my own once again.

Knowing it All

I have…an associate, let’s call him…with whom I don’t particularly enjoy conversing. Over the course of our relatively new acquaintanceship I have not only lost interest in discussing things with him, I straight up avoid situations in which I will have to talk to him at length. It’s not a great way to live, especially since I see this person all the time. But it just can’t be helped. For my sanity, and for the sake of all of the things I have to get done in a day, I have to reduce my interactions with him to an absolute necessary minimum.

Let me introduce you to Mr. Know-it-all. Mr. Know-it-all has an answer for everything. He has examined every situation that exists from every perspective known to man. He has been there, done that so many times that everything is just a plain, boring fact to him. There isn’t a fallacy you can present to him that he hasn’t already defeated in combat. There isn’t a speculation he hasn’t been introduced to and leveled to the ground. In every conversation he will drop it on you– bombs of wisdom. You present your argument and with a flick of his tongue he will detonate a fact with a tone so grand that it will annihilate any point you were trying to make.

The problem is that these bombs of wisdom are encased in so many assumptions and so much hubris that it’s toxic. I don’t have a problem learning new things. I do have a problem with someone assuming that I didn’t know something already and that I need to be taught. I don’t have a problem with having intellectual conversations. I do have a problem with having to put up with intellectual conversations that force you to treat logic that is clearly subjective as objective. I have a problem with having to treat every conversation like a graduate school research paper, especially when I don’t agree with the professor’s version of correct and incorrect. I’m not interested in having conversations rigged with so many logic landmines that I lose no matter in which direction I tread.

What I’m saying is that it’s exhausting. 9.5 out of 10 conversations with him are like this. No matter how innocuous I may think a topic is, he still manages to blindside me with a patronizing response. Just when I think we’re trotting along nicely, conversing civilly, he’ll come out of nowhere and negate my argument in that tone of voice.

You would think that someone like this would be a social pariah. That he would have been put in his place a long time ago. That he would live alone under a bridge eating every unsuspecting goat that came along. But no. He does very well for himself. So I ask myself, is it just me? I’ve observed him in conversations with other people, however– he does the same to them. He always has an objection to every point anyone makes. I wonder if it bothers other people the way it bothers me. There’s no way to tell. If other people have noticed they must be doing the same thing I do– uttering a Homer-esque “D’oh!” in their heads and moving on because who has the time?

Perhaps he’s the kind of person that just gets off on verbally sparring with people. Perhaps all he’s trying to do is capitalize on exchanges with people and really get into it, you know? Maybe if I indulged him and went off on every single tangent with him I’d find, at the end of that long, maddening, winding road a form of intellectual redemption. Maybe I’d find the holy grail of his silence and deference at some grand point I made. Maybe the problem is not so much him running his mouth, but the fact that I’m not willing to play along. Maybe I’m impatient with him. I don’t know– it’s possible. But I’ll be honest with you. I’m not willing to find out. I 100% guarantee that I will just continue to run for cover every time I see him come my way. I guess I’ll just never know what victory against Mr. Know-it-all feels like.

Coolest Girl Alive

It’s always interesting perusing social media and stumbling upon what seems like the coolest girl alive.

The latest version is literally a rocker chick in her late 20’s. She has impeccable style– the model in every Urban Outfitters catalog. Carefree, exuberant youth drips from her every pore. She’s the girl we all dreamed we’d turn out to be but never had the balls, or the talent, to become.

I’m sure she doesn’t have it all. I’m sure there is something annoying about her, or perhaps the reason why she looks so carefree is because she’s actually careless. Maybe she’s super irresponsible and exhausting to be around. Maybe she has awful, awful family secrets and leaves a pile of dead boyfriend bodies everywhere she goes.

But who cares. There she is, totally young, totally hot, totally in your face. It’s hard not to take it personally. Especially when you’ve hit your 30’s and you’ve finally realized the hard truth of what you are and what you will never become. If I once thought I might be in a band one day, I know now that I never will. I may have considered moving to New York on a whim some day, but now I know for sure that I won’t. Not on a whim, of course. I’d have to do the sensible thing like find a good job that offers to move me there first. I’m an adult now.

So maybe that’s what it is with these girls now. They’re shining crystal balls of promise. The longing I feel when I look at them is not so much because they’re beautiful, it’s because they’ve captured some sort of magic. Well, part of it is because they’re beautiful. It’s hard to ignore your own body image problems when confronted with fairy-like feminine ideals on a Facebook page. But more than anything else it’s the idea that someone in fact became the person you dreamed you’d somehow end up being. There can only be one Coolest Girl Alive, and it’s not you.

At least that’s how it feels, picture after picture. After a while it gets tiring looking at some stranger’s photos. You begin to feel like a creeper. What am I doing checking her out like this anyways? Who gives a shit who this girl is. She may as well not exist. And just like that, with a click of a mouse button, you close the door on the coolest girl alive and break the spell. It’s of no consequence what life she leads, out there, on subway trains and seedy bars. It doesn’t matter how young she is and how old I feel. One day she’ll be my age and she’ll come across her own version of the coolest girl alive and the cycle will stretch on like that, forever, across a million wistful strangers.