I just finished my second final paper for the quarter (true to form: four days early and three pages over the limit), so today’s post will be footloose and thesis-free. A few recent thoughts..
In keeping with last month’s post, in which I mentioned my ongoing love affair with The New York Times… It’s getting personal. In the past week, the most popular articles have included pieces about happily married couples who sleep in separate bedrooms (or, like my parents, a bedroom and a repossessed den), the trials and tribulations of teaching middle school, and the rising popularity of parentally-purchased real-estate (if my dad does, in fact, decide to buy a townhouse at the old Hyatt Rickeys, I can guarantee we won’t be attending a therapist together). I don’t know whether it’s reassuring to know that my family and I and what I once thought were our idiosyncrasies are in such good company, or whether it’s too close or comfort. Perhaps it’s time for the ultimatum: if and when they write an article about trying to make it as a 24 year old writer, they better interview me - otherwise, it just might be time to take a break (blame it on typical female jealousy).
If I wasn’t soo exhausted, I would craft a brilliant transition relating women and dating to the prevalence of make-up on Stanford campus, but I used up all segue-related energy connecting The House of Mirth and “The Imported Bridegroom.” Long before my good (male) friend classified me as “the girl next door,” I was well aware that I was hardly a fashionista. I like my jeans and flip-flops (though my shin splints don’t). But I am beginning to wonder about the women of Stanford campus. I’m not just talking about the other women in my all-female PhD class (taught by a strapping - married - male professor with a British accent), who wear skirts and heels and generally professional attire. I’m talking about the kids (yes, nineteen years of life still qualifies as childhood) in my undergrad seminar, who sport eyeliner, mascara, and intensely plucked eyebrows atop their flip-flops and Stanford sweatshirts. As someone who only recently finished the grey eyeshadow I bought for prom FRESHMAN year of HIGH SCHOOL (as far as I’m concerned, only dairy products and medication have true expiration dates), my first reaction - “Are you serious?” - was accompanied by the sudden fear that perhaps I was just oblivious to what my female peers were doing back in the day. Was I the only one who thought make-up was just a part of the frat party uniform, alongside those black jeans (and/or tight jeans) and black boots?