Spatial relations are not my strong suit. And, unfortunately, this includes maps and directions.
When I first learned to drive, I had a hard time figuring out how to get around my teeny town. When Claire and I went to Europe for our month long sojourn, we made a perfect team: she did the maps, I did the communicating with non English speakers (unlike spatial relations, languages are a strong suit). I'm not so idiotic that I can't ever read a map, it just takes me a while. I can't be handed a map a quarter mile away from a possible exit on the freeway and be expected to get us around the traffic jam. I won't be able to do it, and it will lead to yelling and probably crying. I can do it, I just need a minute. I don't have that intuitive sense of direction or where places are in relation to one another. I can get from A to B. I can get from B to C. But I often have trouble getting from A to C without going directly through B.
But I am doubly cursed because I hate this about myself. I hate asking for directions. I hate appearing as though I don't know where I am going or how I plan to get there. So, with grad school orientation beginning next week, I knew I had to do something. I couldn't risk getting lost on my first day, thereby showing up both Late and Flustered and probably Sweaty. Even at Muhlenberg, I wasn't always sure how to get from one building to another my first year, and Ohio State can fit the entirety of Muhlenberg in its Oval alone. So I decided to do a Trial Run.
In addition to finding my way around campus, I also needed to learn to navigate the bus system. The public bus is free with my "Buck-I-D"--parking on campus is not so free. But how long is the ride? What stop do I get off? Do they announce the stops, or do I have to pay close attention? There is a bus stop very close to my apartment, so I consulted COTA's online schedule, but my stop wasn't listed! Wha? In a near panic, I called the nice lady at Customer Service and she told me that the #18 would be there at :01 after the hour. I couldn't imagine that the bus was running precisely on schedule, but I wasn't about to risk it.
In the intervening time, I took a quick shower, got dressed, brewed tea for my to go mug and packed a bag with a book, water, and wallet. As I stepped out of my building door, I checked my cell phone so I could time the walk to the stop. At a very leisurely pace, it took me 7 minutes, but I also didn't have to wait to cross Kenny, a pretty busy road, so I made a mental note to leave at least 10 minutes for this portion of the trip.
I was purposefully early, so I sat on the bench and waited, feeling pretty silly that I was the only one there. Much to my surprise, at 12:02, the bus arrived. I flashed the driver my red ID, and chose a seat. Google maps had said the ride would take 40 minutes, but we rounded the corner onto High Street in nearly half the time. I had overheard a conversation that we were somewhat rerouted due to Game Day--the two roads nearest the Horseshoe get closed, I assume--but nevertheless, campus was looming in the foreground. Someone pulled the little string and got off near the building most of my classes are in, so I took note but stayed on, since at the moment I was headed for the Union.
I got off at the next stop--I didn't want to overshoot the Union--and walked along the street, watching the hordes of undergrads dressed in red jerseys find the nearest bar to watch the game with their friends. Once I got inside, I walked up to the Help Desk and declared proudly "I don't want to sound like a lame-o, but...do you have a map?" The nice work study girl opened it up for me, and I turned down her request to help me find my destination. "I'll try to do it myself," I said with a not so confident smile. I found a seat and began the process of searching for the necessary buildings by name, number and location on the map's grid. Confident I had figured it out, I folded the map and walked out the back door of the Union, muttering encouraging words to myself.
About 10 minutes later, I was already lost.
Despite wanting to end up at the library (a positively gorgeous building with a beautiful view from the eleventh floor), I ended up near Mirror Lake--the once spring-fed lake on campus which you're supposed to jump into the night before the Michigan game. I had some pretty choice words to say to myself, but then I realized that it wasn't a huge deal. So what? I sat down on a pretty bench, consulted my map, corrected my mistake and continued on, this time successfully finding both the library and the building I need for my first orientation meeting.
On my walk back to catch the bus home, I was smiling. The sun was out, but it wasn't hot. I heard OSU score a touchdown, heard the pep band playing the fight song, the fans cheering. A few campus squirrels scampered about. I called my mom and left a message that she should come to visit before early December so she can see how nice it is while the weather is still pleasant. I was smiling and proud of myself.
Of course, on the bus ride home, I jumped the gun and got off one stop early. But, you know, I was close.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Sunday, September 12, 2010
The Physics of the Quest
When it first came out, I read Elizabeth Gilbert's memoir Eat Pray Love with abandon, alternating between laughing, crying and nodding in agreement with her sentiments. Although Gilbert has received quite a bit of criticism for her selfishness, her story resonated with me. After reading, I had a gravitational pull to travel to Indonesia (I have already been to Italy and despite my relatively decent yoga practice, India kind of scares me), but resisted. I realized on a logical level that her experience would not directly translate into my experience and that I would not automatically achieve inner peace by seeking out her medicine man or raising money for her healer.
Because Hollywood seems to be out of ideas, of course a studio bought the rights to make the movie, and I went with my girlfriends to see it this past week. I was a bit dubious, having heard mixed reviews about the movie based either on the fidelity to its original text or just that "it sucked." Yet, we popped our own corn, shared a $5 Diet Coke and settled into the perfect seats--not too close, not too far back, center of the row--to live vicariously through Julia Roberts. Despite my original misgivings about the casting, I thoroughly enjoyed her performance, and, me-ow, Javier Bardem could not have been sexier. Other than a few little additions to the start of the story, like inventing the persona of her agent friend who tries to talk her out of the idea, I thought it was pretty close to Gilbert's depiction of her journey as outlined in the memoir, though my friends and I did spend a bit of time whispering back and forth "wait, did that really happen?" but that is due mostly to the time-lapse between having read it and watching the movie.
Of course, Gilbert'st story rings even more true now. In these "tough economic times" I gave up a tenured teaching job at a well respected suburban high school--whose salaries are among the highest in the state--for a stipend that puts me below the poverty line for the next five years. I left a very lovely 1900 square foot townhouse with 3 bedrooms, 2.5 bathrooms, a deck, a loft, and eat-in kitchen for a 722 square foot one bedroom apartment with a stained hall carpet, noisy upstairs neighbors and so few kitchen cabinets that I had to get really, really creative with storage. I left colleagues and friends to live in a city where I know one single person--who is leaving in June. And, of course, let's not forget the swirling maelstrom of emotional shit that is my personal life. I packed my books, my KitchenAid mixer, and the cat to move to a place that is no where near as exotic as Indonesia, to live off my savings account while I bust my intellectual ass for five years to hopefully earn a Ph.D in a discipline that typically gets the "huh!" with raised eye brows response. (No one ever quite knows what to say about Literature for Children and Young Adults except "what, um, do you plan to do with that?")
My move to Ohio for graduate school is anything but sexy, unlike Gilbert's triple-I year long voyage, but at least it's mine. It makes my stomach churn knowing that peace-seeking has been turned into a media conglomerate--QVC has its own line of "EPL" inspired body lotions and scrubs. Travel agencies are taking hoards of women (and men?) on "EPL" themed excursions to meet the real Ketut, profiting not only from a very personal one-woman journey, but deluding hundreds into thinking that a flight-and-hotel package will ease their troubled minds. And, of course, I can't begin to estimate how many women have tried to replicate her journey solo, expecting to have the same inspiring results, complete with meeting their own version of Felipe. (Ok, the real Felipe is also quite sexy.) If Elizabeth Gilbert did it, why can't I?
I'm not surprised at this, of course, and it's surely increasing tourism to Indonesia, but this copy-cat mentality ignores the basic premise Gilbert tried to portray and that she came to accept by year's end:
Because Hollywood seems to be out of ideas, of course a studio bought the rights to make the movie, and I went with my girlfriends to see it this past week. I was a bit dubious, having heard mixed reviews about the movie based either on the fidelity to its original text or just that "it sucked." Yet, we popped our own corn, shared a $5 Diet Coke and settled into the perfect seats--not too close, not too far back, center of the row--to live vicariously through Julia Roberts. Despite my original misgivings about the casting, I thoroughly enjoyed her performance, and, me-ow, Javier Bardem could not have been sexier. Other than a few little additions to the start of the story, like inventing the persona of her agent friend who tries to talk her out of the idea, I thought it was pretty close to Gilbert's depiction of her journey as outlined in the memoir, though my friends and I did spend a bit of time whispering back and forth "wait, did that really happen?" but that is due mostly to the time-lapse between having read it and watching the movie.
Of course, Gilbert'st story rings even more true now. In these "tough economic times" I gave up a tenured teaching job at a well respected suburban high school--whose salaries are among the highest in the state--for a stipend that puts me below the poverty line for the next five years. I left a very lovely 1900 square foot townhouse with 3 bedrooms, 2.5 bathrooms, a deck, a loft, and eat-in kitchen for a 722 square foot one bedroom apartment with a stained hall carpet, noisy upstairs neighbors and so few kitchen cabinets that I had to get really, really creative with storage. I left colleagues and friends to live in a city where I know one single person--who is leaving in June. And, of course, let's not forget the swirling maelstrom of emotional shit that is my personal life. I packed my books, my KitchenAid mixer, and the cat to move to a place that is no where near as exotic as Indonesia, to live off my savings account while I bust my intellectual ass for five years to hopefully earn a Ph.D in a discipline that typically gets the "huh!" with raised eye brows response. (No one ever quite knows what to say about Literature for Children and Young Adults except "what, um, do you plan to do with that?")
My move to Ohio for graduate school is anything but sexy, unlike Gilbert's triple-I year long voyage, but at least it's mine. It makes my stomach churn knowing that peace-seeking has been turned into a media conglomerate--QVC has its own line of "EPL" inspired body lotions and scrubs. Travel agencies are taking hoards of women (and men?) on "EPL" themed excursions to meet the real Ketut, profiting not only from a very personal one-woman journey, but deluding hundreds into thinking that a flight-and-hotel package will ease their troubled minds. And, of course, I can't begin to estimate how many women have tried to replicate her journey solo, expecting to have the same inspiring results, complete with meeting their own version of Felipe. (Ok, the real Felipe is also quite sexy.) If Elizabeth Gilbert did it, why can't I?
I'm not surprised at this, of course, and it's surely increasing tourism to Indonesia, but this copy-cat mentality ignores the basic premise Gilbert tried to portray and that she came to accept by year's end:
“…I’ve come to believe that there exists in the universe something I call “The Physics of The Quest” – a force of nature governed by laws as real as the laws gravity or momentum. And the rule of Quest Physics maybe goes like this: “If you are brave enough to leave behind everything familiar and comforting (which can be anything from your house to your bitter old resentments) and set out on a truth-seeking journey (either externally or internally), and if you are truly willing to regard everything that happens to you on that journey as a clue, and if you accept everyone you meet along the way as a teacher, and if you are prepared – most of all – to face (and forgive) some very difficult realities about yourself….then truth will not be withheld from you.” Or so I’ve come to believe.”
Gelato, ashrams and biking through Bali are not going to solve your problems. A sexy Brazilian man is not waiting at the dock for everyone woman who leaves behind her comfortable suburban life. We don't all have publishing houses funding our travels (yet). But we can all shed the familiar, seek out clues from the Universe, and forgive ourselves in order to grow as humans.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Cold-Can Activated Bull$&@!
I am getting sick of beer commercials.
Now, to be fair: I am not the target audience for these products (or ESPN, the channel I tend to see them on most frequently). I am also an unapologetic feminist who can often make the jump onto her soapbox too quickly. And I also recognize that these commercials are working, since I remember them and am reacting to their content. Grr, advertising.
Take this one:
They seem to be a couple that has been together a while (she treats the words "why do you love me?" pretty casually, suggesting the "L" word is part of their vernacular) and says without hesitation at the end that this bumbling beer-loving idiot is her "soulmate" (before putting on a grumpy hurt-feelings face). And yet he can only respond with her hair and her teeth?
Or this one:
The couple is enjoying a lovely evening out, laughing and talking. She decides this is the most opportune moment to tell him how she feels about him--clearly she should work on her timing, but that's another story--finds it cute that he's having trouble saying it back, then is able to order his beer with the sought-after L word. He compliments her appearance at the end, instead, and she merely gives him an "are you serious?" face.
The list could go on. The Coors Light "cold activated can" one where the beautiful black woman has gone to great lengths to create a romantic setting, complete with sexy lingerie, and when asked if her partner "likes what he sees" he goes gaga over the cans in the fridge. The new Miller Lite one where we watch a series of images suggesting that a couple is in love, that the guy has "found The One" and instead of it being his gorgeous girlfriend, it's the new Vortex bottle. The one in which the girlfriend has come up with a series of inane questions regarding who her boyfriend would save from a cliff's edge--Buster, his bulldog, and his own mother lose out--but he'd save his beer instead of her. (This says nothing of the light beer commercials in which the male subject is told to "man up" or "not get his panties in a bunch" as if caring about your caloric content is worthy of having your heterosexuality challenged.)
So ha ha, we're all supposed to sit and watch these ads during the breaks during SportsCenter or College Game Day and laugh and say "oh, how cute. Men love their beer more than their romantic partners!" and giggle and then go get a case of the new and improved can/bottle or gasp! the new quasi keg-for-your-fridge. Or, of course, get up off the couch and go get one from the fridge having already fallen victim to their nefarious marketing ploys. (Seriously--how many ridiculous ways can they improve beer? Crappy beer at that?)
Seriously?
They reinforce the stereotypes that men cannot (nor should not) be able to express their emotions, and that it's acceptable when they don't or can't. Only the girl in the "me or Buster?" example gets up and leaves him at the table (after which of course he mocks her to said dog). They also portray women as being emotionally needy ("tell me why you love me!" "Would you save me over your dog from a cliff?"), though why wanting or needing the occasional moment of romantic affirmation is hardly something to feel ashamed about. In addition to being insulting to women, it's insulting to men. These commercials make them look stupid--really? You didn't notice the strewn rose petals and candles?--mean, and uncaring.
As my friends will attest, I have a "thing" for frat brothers, guys' guys who wear baseball hats, watch sports, and play beer pong with their friends. I have a generalized crush on the target audience for these infuriating commercials. If the Ad Men for MillerBuschCoorsHeineken are to be taken at face value, then I should expect nothing more from this sub sector of the male population than for them to be emotionally stunted. I think it's sad and pathetic and that both women and men should expect more.
Now, to be fair: I am not the target audience for these products (or ESPN, the channel I tend to see them on most frequently). I am also an unapologetic feminist who can often make the jump onto her soapbox too quickly. And I also recognize that these commercials are working, since I remember them and am reacting to their content. Grr, advertising.
Take this one:
They seem to be a couple that has been together a while (she treats the words "why do you love me?" pretty casually, suggesting the "L" word is part of their vernacular) and says without hesitation at the end that this bumbling beer-loving idiot is her "soulmate" (before putting on a grumpy hurt-feelings face). And yet he can only respond with her hair and her teeth?
Or this one:
The couple is enjoying a lovely evening out, laughing and talking. She decides this is the most opportune moment to tell him how she feels about him--clearly she should work on her timing, but that's another story--finds it cute that he's having trouble saying it back, then is able to order his beer with the sought-after L word. He compliments her appearance at the end, instead, and she merely gives him an "are you serious?" face.
The list could go on. The Coors Light "cold activated can" one where the beautiful black woman has gone to great lengths to create a romantic setting, complete with sexy lingerie, and when asked if her partner "likes what he sees" he goes gaga over the cans in the fridge. The new Miller Lite one where we watch a series of images suggesting that a couple is in love, that the guy has "found The One" and instead of it being his gorgeous girlfriend, it's the new Vortex bottle. The one in which the girlfriend has come up with a series of inane questions regarding who her boyfriend would save from a cliff's edge--Buster, his bulldog, and his own mother lose out--but he'd save his beer instead of her. (This says nothing of the light beer commercials in which the male subject is told to "man up" or "not get his panties in a bunch" as if caring about your caloric content is worthy of having your heterosexuality challenged.)
So ha ha, we're all supposed to sit and watch these ads during the breaks during SportsCenter or College Game Day and laugh and say "oh, how cute. Men love their beer more than their romantic partners!" and giggle and then go get a case of the new and improved can/bottle or gasp! the new quasi keg-for-your-fridge. Or, of course, get up off the couch and go get one from the fridge having already fallen victim to their nefarious marketing ploys. (Seriously--how many ridiculous ways can they improve beer? Crappy beer at that?)
Seriously?
They reinforce the stereotypes that men cannot (nor should not) be able to express their emotions, and that it's acceptable when they don't or can't. Only the girl in the "me or Buster?" example gets up and leaves him at the table (after which of course he mocks her to said dog). They also portray women as being emotionally needy ("tell me why you love me!" "Would you save me over your dog from a cliff?"), though why wanting or needing the occasional moment of romantic affirmation is hardly something to feel ashamed about. In addition to being insulting to women, it's insulting to men. These commercials make them look stupid--really? You didn't notice the strewn rose petals and candles?--mean, and uncaring.
As my friends will attest, I have a "thing" for frat brothers, guys' guys who wear baseball hats, watch sports, and play beer pong with their friends. I have a generalized crush on the target audience for these infuriating commercials. If the Ad Men for MillerBuschCoorsHeineken are to be taken at face value, then I should expect nothing more from this sub sector of the male population than for them to be emotionally stunted. I think it's sad and pathetic and that both women and men should expect more.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Normal is Boring
To my handful of readers:
For reasons that I will discuss in length at a later date (though, let's face it...it's kinda obvious), I have a new blog name. The title comes from my favorite quote by Arlene Storeby, and I first read it on a notecard my mother sent me during a(nother) wacky time in my life. I have sort of leaned on this concept since and it has become one of the mantras in my little world.
I think it's poignant and all too true. We all try to fit in, to be "normal." How much of our energy is dedicated to this facade? Instead, we should give up on our attempts to do this and instead relish and enjoy life as ourselves--mask free. I have fully embraced the fact that I am a "crazy person"* and it's pretty freeing. I am who I am and have stopped apologizing for it, or trying to cover it up. This does not mean I have permission to be a jerk, mean, inconsiderate, rude or belligerent in the name of "being myself." (These tend not to be traits of mine, anyway). What I mean is that I am going to come to terms with the little quirks and oddities that make up the DNA of my personality and love myself because of them, not despite them. And so should you. About me, others, strangers, yourself.
*I of course mean no disrespect to those individuals and their families living with legitimate mental illnesses. As someone who graduated with a psychology degree and who tends to root for the underserved in our world, I don't mean "crazy" to be the technical term for chemical imbalances and other mental disorders.
For reasons that I will discuss in length at a later date (though, let's face it...it's kinda obvious), I have a new blog name. The title comes from my favorite quote by Arlene Storeby, and I first read it on a notecard my mother sent me during a(nother) wacky time in my life. I have sort of leaned on this concept since and it has become one of the mantras in my little world.
I think it's poignant and all too true. We all try to fit in, to be "normal." How much of our energy is dedicated to this facade? Instead, we should give up on our attempts to do this and instead relish and enjoy life as ourselves--mask free. I have fully embraced the fact that I am a "crazy person"* and it's pretty freeing. I am who I am and have stopped apologizing for it, or trying to cover it up. This does not mean I have permission to be a jerk, mean, inconsiderate, rude or belligerent in the name of "being myself." (These tend not to be traits of mine, anyway). What I mean is that I am going to come to terms with the little quirks and oddities that make up the DNA of my personality and love myself because of them, not despite them. And so should you. About me, others, strangers, yourself.
*I of course mean no disrespect to those individuals and their families living with legitimate mental illnesses. As someone who graduated with a psychology degree and who tends to root for the underserved in our world, I don't mean "crazy" to be the technical term for chemical imbalances and other mental disorders.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)