Happy Day-Makers

I know I'm a major slacker on my blogging. I don't even want to talk about it.  Moving on ...

I've discovered lately that my day improves dramatically with the attention to a few very simple elements.  Elements that are, shockingly, in my control.  Now that I'm a working woman and all that, the monotony of days, despite the fact that I'm overwhelmingly busy 95% of the time, can make my week just completely unfun. And that makes no sense because I spend the majority of my time/week/life in the office. Sad, really ...

It's very self-help-guru-like, I know. I think I was inadvertently inspired by the O Magazine I flipped through last weekend. I'm becoming more aware of what gives me an extra boost when the day is more boring than watching CSPAN (sorry, DC), or more stressful than awaiting a metro train when the digital predictor lists no incoming trains (sorry, DC).  Here are some of my successful happy day-makers:

• I take a hot second, at least, to give a cahoot about what I look like in the morning. I wear my best clothes, try new combinations of jewelry, try a new eye shadow color, or even just use a differently scented body wash or spray.  The good news is that in these hipster days, I can get away with wearing a lot of things and be accepted, so I feel like my options have expanded.  Probably not, but the point is I try to walk out the door feeling like a hot mama, and I wind up feeling more confident and, subsequently, in a better mood.  Yes, I do care about what others think of me.  So shoot me.
  
  I read an article that said women make the impression of being smarter when they look nicer.  The feminist in me grumbled loudly, but the columnist actually had a point. If you have taken the time in the morning to put yourself together on the outside, you appear to be more prepared for the day on the inside--you got a decent amount of sleep, ate breakfast, and are more alert and ready to rock and roll. Of course, these assumptions probably aren't true (my nemesis of a decent bedtime = OnDemand), but you can at least fake it until you really are awake and alert ... around lunch time.

• I designate something entertaining to do on my commute. It actually makes me (gasp!) look forward to the time spent on the train or bus. For example I totally dig the Washington Post Express news, found everywhere in seat crooks and from modern-day newsies. The crosswords are nerd-tastically fun and I arrive at the office fully aware of current events.
  
  I also have tried to designate the listening of my favorite podcast, Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me! (you're welcome, NPR) for my time on the train or bus. Yes, I may be laughing out loud at seemingly nothing to my fellow transit riders, but I know all those who stare at me are just jealous that I'm having fun on my commute, and they're not.  

• Spotify.

• I have fresh fruit and/or veggies to snack on throughout the day.  I made a grocery trip just for my work fridge and stocked up on crunchy carrots, celery, cucumbers, etc.  It prevents from filling my hunger with the readily available office candy, and instead eating a snack that crunches like a food label mom would approve. It makes me feel way better about snacking. Even better, I negate all the calories I burn by chewing said veggies by absolutely drowning them in ranch dressing. Nom.

• I make a huge effort to actually take a lunch break, and to use it to get a change of scenery, and get some fresh air.  It works wonders to break up a day to stop looking at a computer screen and get out of the zone. Of course, I'm currently writing this from my desk computer during my lunch break.  Erm ...this is not a good example.

• G.Chat. 

• My desk is decorated with photos of my family, prints from my travels, a pretty calendar, and some posters/images/quotes that make me laugh.  It feels homey, comfortable, and better about being in my office when it's pitch black outside at 5:30pm.  Not cool, wintertime! 

So there you have it: a potential recipe for a day that's a little bit happier.  Because happiness is the core of everything.

True Life: I Needed College, and Not Just For My Degree

This article is cross-posted on SparkAction.org.  It would be sweet if you checked it out.

***

The word on the street these days is that college is losing its worth.  "Why drop thousands upon thousands of dollars for tuition in an economy that is far less likely to find you a job that will pay you enough to make up for it?", people are saying.

In the scraping for jobs in this sad economy, a college degree--in all its glory--is losing prestige.  It can’t promise what it used to, and that’s throwing a lot of us off. We grew up being told that doing well in school and going to college would be the key to success.

Now the entire idea of higher education is being questioned.  Suggestions have emerged to skip the higher education experience altogether and get into the job market ASAP to save yourself the debt and frustration that often comes with a degree.

It is totally understandable that we’re focused on the economic crisis.  It’s a really, really big problem, and college tuitions are reflecting that.  Some re-evaluation is absolutely necessary and depending on your financial situation, other options have to be considered.  Even those of us who loved our time at college are frustrated with how hard we worked and how little it has, so far, paid us back. Literally.

But in focusing only on the economic payoff of college we’re missing something here.  Something big.  Something that is that, dare I say, even more valuable than a high paying career.

That’s the elegant point made by UCLA professor Mike Rose in his recent NPR commentary, "Value of College Extends Beyond Paycheck." Rose brings us back to the big picture—the purpose of education, what it means to be educated, and how that notion may be changing in a world obsessed with monetary gain.  He points out that the non-economic value of a higher education experience is that it expands beyond gaining a degree that will lead to a good job. His argument is a refreshing reminder to look at the broader issue and re-evaluate how we treat higher education as financial belts tighten.

"If all we talk about … is the economic pay off of education, that ends up effecting finally what we teach and how we teach it. It ends up effecting the way we define what it means to be educated." - Mike Rose

I realized this is an argument that has been missing in discussions of the value of college these days.  In fact, it gave me a big slap in the face for not thinking of it myself, in spite of all my pro-college nerdiness.  I too had been so caught up in the economic woes of the conversation and my own challenges that I had forgotten to take a step back and remember what I loved about college.  And that most of those reasons had nothing to do with working towards a career.

College made me a better person. My liberal arts college education encouraged me to dabble in different fields and schools of thought before settling into my major.  So, this argument goes hand-in-hand with the one that has been going on for years about the value of a liberal arts approach in higher education.
I knew Rose couldn’t be the first one to take the stance of valuable non-economic factors of higher education.  I wanted to see what others had to say about it, so I Googled, “why is a college degree important?” hoping for some other expert advice. My first page of results was this:

(or see for yourself)

Do you notice a pattern?  This whole first page tells us that the only reason to get a degree is to make more money.  That made me angry.  Where are those other scholars and professors and big-time advocates for higher education?  Those who believe there’s more to a degree than what translates into dollars?  With everyone’s heads stuck in the money muck, the argument for college beyond a good paycheck is a lonely one.

Why school?
 Rose talks about a “civil purpose of education” that existed in the Jeffersonian era—a belief that you needed to be educated in order to function in a society. Back then, they didn’t get degrees so they could get hired.  They read books and had arguments so they could just be in an intelligent way.  Things have obviously changed a lot since then.  But I think our forefathers were on the right track.

When I was in college, I got emotionally invested in my studies. I was studying things like ethics, gender identity and communication, and listening.  I walked out of class with tears in my eyes on more than one occasion. It was pretty amazing. If you're thinking, wow, this girl is a complete nerd!, you’re right.  But my point is that the chance to go to college and take classes like that stirred up my senses and made me realize that there is so much to learn.  It humbled me in the best way possible.  It ultimately made me want to write, and here I am.  Yes, I got a degree, and I know I deserved it.  But that's definitely not all I got.

Nothing can change the value of what happens when we get an education.  I believe what I gained in my four years of college are skills, perspectives, and lessons that I would be much more unsuccessful person without.  It gave me the ability to think about the world with an open and informed mind, the ability to engage in conversation, and the desire to feed my curiosity and explore new ideas.

So, what good does that do me?  I can have intelligent conversations with people of all ages.  I know where to look if I want to learn more about something.  I can listen in ways that make conversations productive.  I can stand my ground. I can be adventurous.  I can be ambitious, respectful, curious, and independent.  I can make myself who I want to be.  To me, that’s what a successful life is about. 

Of course, getting that degree at the end wasn’t half bad either. But what we need to remember is that a college degree represents so much about a person—what they went through to get it, and how they’ve come out more intelligent, more resourceful, and more mature than their freshman-selves.

That is what education is for, isn’t it?  Being more prepared for what’s next? What we learn in our educational journey helps us function in life before, after, and during the nine-to-five grind, and that is what we need to remember most when jobs are sparse.  In fact, the life skills that have come about through my education are probably the most valuable things I have going for me these days.

“The idea of intellectual growth that is not just learning things to make a living, but also learning things to enable you to do things with your life, enable you to find interests and pursuits that in some way or another may be expand the way you see things.  There’s a social benefit for sure—learning to think together, learning how to attack problems together, learning how to disagree, being exposed to other points of view … there’s multiple reasons that have played in and out for our justifications  for schooling.” - Mike Rose

The Baby and the Bathwater
We’re experiencing a crisis of value in this country. Especially with things on edge already, we don’t want to throw the baby out with the bathwater, but we’re having a hard time figuring out what the “baby” is. We view our most “imminent threat” as the economy and we’re getting tunnel-vision.  In the frantic, desperate attempts to solve our problems we tend to forget about the big picture – the foundations of our intellectual selves, which we truly need to focus on in order to pull ourselves out of this mess.

So what really is the purpose of education?  In a perfect world, it is to learn how to live well.  That usually translates into getting hired and being able to flex your brain muscles.  But clearly it’s not working out like that for many Americans these days.

So, I think we should take a step back and take an old school look at, well, school.  We need to remember that no matter one’s ambition or the higher education experience available to them--technical, vocational, liberal arts, private, public, two-year, four-year--that there is always more to learn.  Do we really want 18-year olds thrown into the job market to fend for themselves?  And miss the opportunity to learn more about the world they are working for?  I know I don't.  Young people need that time to grow and learn, and so does the well-being of our country.

Happy birthday, Blog!

A year ago today, this blog was born. Though with three short entries, it was the beginning of something that has kept me motivated to think, reflect, and write, and I'm glad for it.  I remember the day well-- it was the first night in the summer apartment I was subletting in North Carolina, anticipating the next day, for it would be my first day interning with the American Dance Festival.   It was ridiculously hot and humid outside and inside (similar to where I am today), and I was content, nervous, and excited looking forward to what was in store for me.  It was an amazing summer.  Again, not too different to where I am now, a year later, in an exciting new place with an open road in front of me.

In this year, I've made some blogosphere friends and found writers like me who inspire me to write about whatever the heck I want, through 20something Bloggers and others. I've also learned a lot about myself.  So, here's to hoping I can continue to inspire myself and others with this blogness business as the years go on.

How to celebrate?  By postponing until I have time to write a real entry instead of being on Blogger when I'm at the office?  Sure.  In the interim, I'll leave my blog with a photo of a delicious-looking birthday cupcake.  A big thank you to my readers-- friends, family, random people who stumble upon my site, blog friends who I hope to someday meet in person, and even the haters (because I have so many).

ROC-City Living

Moving to a new city was so exciting.  I loved the new sights, new smells, new people, new bars (but NOT the new rent ...).  I can safely say that I've fallen in love with DC, and with a heavy heart, have told my best friends, still residing in my hometown, that I'm probably not coming back in the fall.  It's nice to be entering this new phase in my life in a new city, but coming back home to visit is just as nice.   I find so much comfort in driving around surrounded by license plates that are the same state as mine, not having to dial an area code when I make a phone call, and wondering when I'm going to run into someone from high school at the grocery store (just kidding about the last part, that is actually usually the opposite of comforting).  Home, sweet home.

In my three-day weekend, I packed in as many things "Rochester" as I possibly could.  And I did a pretty solid job:
First and foremost, I got to see all the wonderful people who still live there.  Just loverly.

Wegmans (x 3 times). Duh.  Sub shop, pastry shop, and a collection of delicious samples including sirloin with chutney sauce and grapefruit sorbet.  Score.

A 2 a.m. garbage plate.  A Rochester classic.  Well, not the 2 a.m. part, but it often coincides. Do you like to eat the most calorie-filled foods after a night of partying?  Then get yourself to Rochester for a garbage plate.  For a garbage plate, you pick your main ingredient-- hamburger, cheeseburger, white or red hot (all sans the bun), grilled cheese, egg, etc., and then pick your "fillers" like homefries, mac salad, macaroni and cheese, baked beans, etc.  It gets drizzled with a meaty hot sauce and your selection of condiments, and voila!  Chop, mix, consume.  Sound nasty?  Calorie and digestion wise, it is. But I try not to think about it... ever.  It's worth every greasy, fatty bite. My favorite combination is the classic cheeseburger plate with homefries, macaroni salad, more hot sauce, and dash of ketchup.  You're not a true Rochestarian 'til you've had one of these.  (Not my photo, but you have to see it to believe it):

(photo credit)

Highland Park, where the Lilac Festival happens annually.  I missed the festival, but I got to see the lilacs before they went away for the season. Also at Highland Park is a beautiful Vietnam War Memorial for Rochester native veterans, which I had walked through before, but wanted to visit again in honor of this weekend's holiday. It's a very nice memorial, with plaques with names of local fallen soldiers, each on its own plaque.  The plaques also say where each soldier went to high school--it was quite strange to see so many names from my high school.  It reminds me that things like this hit close to home.  The plaques spiral down a walkway that leads to larger area with more names, quotes, etc.  One of my favorite parts of the memorial is a large plaque along the sidewalk with a quote from The Things They Carried.  It's a book I read when I was in high school, but I still remember how powerful it was.

Sinbad's.  Best Mediterranean food EVER.  Sambusek plate?  Yes, please.

Abbott's ice cream.  Nothing like it.

I also was able to visit the store at which I worked for a few months when I was living at home, where I befriended many co-workers and loved being around beautiful jewelry and home decor.

Not so Rochester but still fun--the movie Tangled.  Funny adorable, and so Disney.  They wil never stop being awesome, and I love that I can still enjoy their stuff as an adult.  They can make a horse one's favorite character in a movie about humans.  Brilliant!

(credit)

I hope everyone had a day off on this holiday weekend!

And enter the coincidence: As I type this from the gate at the airport, playing over the terminal speakers is Carrie Underwood crooning "Home, sweet home."  You said it, Carrie.  This is a new phase in my life, but no matter what, Rochester will always be home, sweet home.

A Night at the Building Museum: Notes from an evening of improvisation, Part I

With my new post as intern/apprentice at the Liz Lerman Dance Exchange (yes, it's kind of a big deal), I am finding myself in some awesome dance situations with some pretty talented people.  Not to mention that I've met Liz Lerman a couple times and share a desk space just a few feet from her.  Not kidding.  *Star struck*.  So, when a Dance Exchange company member was desperate for dancers for a site-specific improvisation at the National Building Museum, I jumped at the chance.  Performance opportunity? Check.  Site specific in a ridiculously gorgeous building that's a national gem? Check.  Affiliation with an internationally renowned company? Check.  Chance to meet fellow local dancers? Check. Free dinner? Check.  Hell yes, I'm in.

It was a super awesome experience so I naturally went to town with blog-ness.  It was so long we had to break it up into two parts, but here's how it all began ...

The following is cross-posted on the Dance Exchange Blog. They're doing some pretty cool stuff, I would browse around if I were you.

Tuxedos.  Floor-length gowns.  Cocktails.  Hors d’oeuvres. Draped tables.  And … wait? Is that a barefoot dancer over there?

Last night, I joined six other dancers in a site-specific improvisational commission at the National Building Museum’s annual Honor Award Gala.  It was a spontaneous performance for many of us—I myself found out about it a mere two hours beforehand—but it quickly became one of my most beautiful and memorable dancing experiences.

Totally unaware of the splendor of the Building Museum before this event, I found myself breathless when I first walked in.  If you’ve never been to the National Building Museum, get yourself there as soon as possible, and be sure to bring your camera.  Seriously.  Opening itself to a majestic floor-to-ceiling lobby almost the size of a football field across and 75 feet up, the space is divided by enormous ornate columns—some of the largest in the world.  Look up and twirl around and you’ll see the lobby lined with the buildings floors, fringed by arced décor that reminds of St. Marc’s basilica in Venice.

(photo by Daniel Zook)

As the cast made our way up, down, and around to get acquainted with the building, Dance Exchange company member Sarah Levitt explained that our task for the evening was to transition guests from one segment of the evening to the next through improvisation.  In our improvisation, she continued, we should make relationships with each other and the architecture and shapes of the edges, structures, and elements of the space. “This space is so amazing that really anything will look interesting,” she said in awe of the marbled columns and spanning Great Hall.  No argument on that one, Sarah.  I could tell immediately that a space like that was a dream for a dancer, especially in improvisation.  I was so excited!  Not only were we going to be able to use our bodies to explore the incredible architecture itself, but splashes of luminescent purple and green fabrics draped carefully as backdrops, artfully constructed plates of food, and a giant pyramid-shaped projector hanging from the ceiling were going to be part of our performance space.  Oh, and hundreds of people dressed as if they were walking the red carpet.

(photo by Daniel Zook)

One of the (many) things I love about modern dance is that it is easily removed from a recognizable dance environment and dropped right in the middle of pretty much any situation. In my days I’ve danced around benches along the street, on the quad of my college campus, and even around trees and mailboxes along a street in Italy.  Among party guests at the most glamorous event I’ve ever been to?  That was a new one for sure.  It was going to be a whole new ball game for me. Challenge accepted!

(photo by Daniel Zook)

Following a loose structure of spacing and theme for movement, we began the evening of improvisation by slithering our selves through the crowd of mingling guests, who spilled out of a cocktail room into the hallway during the first part of the event—a cocktail hour.  We slowly stacked ourselves in a line through the crowd, creating and shifting into shapes by relating to each other and the space. With surprised and curious reactions from party guests, we made our around and in between the conversations with shape-inspired movement.  Eventually we moved our way to corners and gaps in space in the hallway and in the party room, continuing to improvise with the space. As guests became more familiar with turning a corner to see a dancer along their path to the bar, we eventually became a part of the scenery that people seemed to enjoy.  Personally I received a few confused looks, but also many smiles, questions, and even a couple high fives as I struck a pose with a raised arm and flat (and apparently slappable!) hand.  I even had a few party guests imitate me as I twirled, posed, and spiraled my way past them, all in a fun and lively spirit.

Eventually, it was our task to help lead guests towards and down the stairs to the next part of the evening taking place in the lobby.  Using gathering and directional gestures, we helped point guests towards the stairs, and draped ourselves along the stairwell as they descended into the Great Hall.  We then welcomed the group into the lobby with joyful improvisation before we faded away to allow the evening’s official festivities to begin.

Our next appearance helped encourage guests to take their seats, we formed a festive structure called a second line, in which we followed behind a few horn-players from the evening’s New Orleans-style jazz band. Moving away from the abstract movement we know and love, we brought out the jazz hands, swinging legs, and sugar walks to capture the changed and elated energy of the live musicians interrupting the quiet mingling.  As we boogied to the staccato jazz, we each carried a few pieces of blue foam-like blocks in all shapes and sizes, taken from a work-in-progress structure of piled shapes.  We had taken them from an abstract structure sitting in the backdrop of the Great Hall (the evening’s keynote speaker explained later that these were pieces from a playground constructed in a devastated neighborhood as a part of a commissioned architectural project). After making our rounds, we playfully added our pieces to the structure and moved about the shapes, engaging in the parts and the whole as it came together.

Our last task was to encourage guests to enjoy the jazz band on the dance floor, as we were the first on the floor with snaps and claps, eventually bringing some guests to come enjoy the music with us. Once we got the group boogying, we left them to it and called it a night.

Part II will a elaborate on the evening’s keynote address about elements of play, which beautifully parallel concepts of dance.  Plus, I’ll post some video clips of us dancers in action!

America, the beautiful?

When I heard the news that Osama bin Laden was dead, I was scared and confused.  My mind was swimming with fear of retaliation and questions of what this meant for the war on terror and our troops overseas.  Trying to wrap my mind around the news, I quickly turned to CNN and listened intently to fill in the blanks that Twitter and Facebook statuses did not include.  Soon, coverage shifted from the newsrooms to DC streets, showing people literally run towards a quickly growing crowd in front of the White House cheering “U-S-A!”. 

Living in DC, it would have been easy for me to hop the metro to Pennsylvania Avenue to join what looked like half of the city in cheers.  However, I was in no state of mind to celebrate.  In fact, as I watched crowds of people pour onto the streets, my confusion deepened.  Utter joy and patriotism over a death?   I was shocked.  It seemed so unnatural.

No argument here that the world is better off without Osama bin Laden— he was a monster.  However, I don’t think any death, no matter who or under what circumstance, should be what brings a country together. I’m scared that we reacted in a comparable way to crowds in the Middle East who cheered as airplanes flew into the twin towers ten years ago.  For me, that was the most twisted part of that unforgettable day ten years ago. 

A more somber reaction to Osama bin Laden’s death would have served us much better in the eyes of the international community, for the sake of our foreign relations and for the sake of each other.  Instead of feeling patriotic, I feel disappointed in America.  I feel we’ve lost some of our dignity by showcasing to the world this kind of reaction—dignity that we are already working so hard to uphold.

I was also unsettled that many were declaring this event as the "end to the war on terror."  That is a dangerous perspective for us to have, and worries me that we were too easily blind-sighted by the significance of bin Laden's death that we temporarily lost sight of the bigger picture.  Thankfully, we're now hearing less talk of this as an end and more of as a means to an end and a point of transition for the war on terror, which I can agree with whole-heartedly. Though it's been said that al-Queda doesn't have the "smarts" to continue to carry out bin Laden's ideas as harshly, he does have a strong following who I have no doubt that we are making very angry right now.  So, we cannot have our guard down and appear easily distracted.  I say let's relish in this significant"victory", but not lose sight of what true "victory" would actually be for America, and for the world.  If one such true victory does exist.  Does it?

In his official announcement of bin Laden's death, our President, who I greatly respect, stated that "justice has been done." This statement soon become headlining and historical, summing up to a whole in four words.  Justice?  Really?  Is all right in the world now that Osama bin Laden is no longer living and breathing?

I know I cannot speak for those who lost family, friends, and coworkers on September 11^th.  I can only speak for those who, like me, lost their innocence and sense of security on that day, watching people jump from burning buildings from my middle school classroom and not quite understanding why.  But bin Laden's menacing operations and disturbing desires are still haunting all of our lives in some way,  so I am uneasy that we consider the demise of bin Laden as ‘justice’ for all suffering that was endured around the world.

Was this justice for bin Laden himself, though?  Perhaps. I understand the operation carried out in Abottabad was with the purpose of eliminating bin Laden.  I am still coming to terms with that whole concept of a justified murder in the hands of a government, which is odd because if I ask myself, "did he deserve it?", I answer with certainty, "yes."  So, I'm not sure why I'm still thrown off a little by the government's actions. What I do know, however, is that I have deep respect for the individuals who carried out the orders--for their bravery, skill, and risk they put forth to do what they felt they needed to make the world a safer place.  No matter my thoughts on military actions, of which I know I have little knowledge, my hat is always off to those who devote their lives to it.

It's times like this when I turn to (reliable) news sources, blogs, and conversations with and by my peers for help in wrapping my mind around such a historial moment. Luckily for me, I spend my days fishing through news sources for my real job, so I am in no shortage of discussion.  Also convenient for me, news has been all over young people (and vice-versa) involving Osama bin Laden's death, and what followed in the streets of America and college campuses.

It was pretty easy to notice the overwhelming majority of 20-somethings in celebrations all over the country (my tiny Ohioan alma mater even made an appearance on CNN), and the insurgence of young faces and voices has raised many eyebrows and theories in the media.  From what 9/11 meant to us to retaliation against accused apathy of our generation, people are reaching for explanations for this reaction--and some of them, I think, got it.  Maybe it's because I'm surrounded by news sources about young issues all the time these days, but this is the first time I can remember such a significant presence of young voices on a national issue in a long, long time.  But I'm not complaining about that.

This is obviously not done being talked about around the world for a long, long time, so I will continue to figure this out for myself with the help of comments, discussions, and op-eds that I stumble upon.  In the meantime, despite my confusion in my patriotism and the pride we hold as a country, I just hope we can get ourselves together and move forward calmly and rationally so we can continue towards a true end to the all of the terror this world faces.

Yes, I am.

Happy International Women's Day!  What a fantastic holiday to have, and one so conveniently shared with Mardi Gras. Now that's a excuse for a girls night out if I ever heard one! It's also a perfect opportunity share a fantastic article I found a while ago.  I give mad props to Sarah D. Bunting, who shatters misconceived notions in this article. While I needed some gender-related classes in college and wonky feminist theory texts to learn this lesson, all Bunting needed was a dictionary. Girl power!

---

Yes, You Are

from tomatonation.com

By Sarah D. Bunting

feminism n (1895) 1 : the theory of the political, economic, and social equality of the sexes 2 : organized activity on behalf of women's rights and interests — feminist n or adj — feministic adj

Above, the dictionary definition of feminism — the entire dictionary definition of feminism. It is quite straightforward and concise. If you believe in, support, look fondly on, hope for, and/or work towards equality of the sexes, you are a feminist. 

Yes, you are. 

The definition of feminism does not ask for two forms of photo ID. It does not care what you look like. It does not care what color skin you have, or whether that skin is clear, or how much you weigh, or what you do with your hair. You can bite your nails, or you can get them done once a week. You can spend two hours on your makeup, or five minutes, or the time it takes to find a Chapstick without any lint sticking to it. You can rock a cord mini, or khakis, or a sari, and you can layer all three. The definition of feminism does not include a mandatory leg-hair check; wax on, wax off, whatever you want. If you believe in, support, look fondly on, hope for, and/or work towards equality of the sexes, you are a feminist. 

Yes, you are. 

The definition of feminism does not mention a membership fee or a graduated tax or "…unless you got your phone turned off by mistake." Rockefellers, the homeless, bad credit, no credit, no problem. If you believe in, support, look fondly on, hope for, and/or work towards equality of the sexes, you are a feminist. 

Yes, you are. 

The definition of feminism does not require a diploma or other proof of graduation. It is not reserved for those who teach women's studies classes, or to those who majored in women's studies, or to those who graduated from college, or to those who graduated from high school, or to those who graduated from Brownie to Girl Scout. It doesn't care if you went to Princeton or the school of hard knocks. You can have a PhD, or a GED, or a degree in mixology, or a library card, or all of the above, or none of the above. You don't have to write a twenty-page paper on Valerie Solanas's use of satire in The S.C.U.M. Manifesto, and if you do write it, you don't have to get better than a C-plus on it. You can really believe math is hard, or you can teach math. You don't have to take a test to get in. You don't have to speak English. If you believe in, support, look fondly on, hope for, and/or work towards equality of the sexes, you are a feminist. 

Yes, you are. 

The definition of feminism is not an insurance policy; it doesn't exclude anyone based on age. It doesn't have a "you must be this tall to ride the ride" sign on it anywhere. It doesn't specify how you get from place to place, so whether you use or a walker or a stroller or a skateboard or a carpool, if you believe in, support, look fondly on, hope for, and/or work towards equality of the sexes, you are a feminist. 

Yes, you are. 

The definition of feminism does not tell you how to vote or what to think. You can vote Republican or Libertarian or Socialist or "I like that guy's hair." You can bag voting entirely. You can believe whatever you like about child-care subsidies, drafting women, fiscal accountability, Anita Hill, environmental law, property taxes, Ann Coulter, interventionist politics, soft money, gay marriage, tort reform, decriminalization of marijuana, gun control, affirmative action, and why that pothole at the end of the street still isn't fixed. You can exist wherever on the choice continuum you feel comfortable. You can feel ambivalent about Hillary Clinton. You can like the ERA in theory, but dread getting drafted in practice. The definition does not stipulate any of that. The definition does not stipulate anything at all, except itself. If you believe in, support, look fondly on, hope for, and/or work towards equality of the sexes, you are a feminist. 

Yes, you are. 

The definition of feminism does not judge your lifestyle. You like girls, you like boys, doesn't matter. You eat meat, you don't eat meat, you don't eat meat or dairy, you don't eat fast food, doesn't matter. You can get married, and you can change your name or keep the one your parents gave you, doesn't matter. You can have kids, you can stay home with them or not, you can hate kids, doesn't matter. You can stay a virgin or you can boink everyone in sight, doesn't matter. It's not in the definition. If you believe in, support, look fondly on, hope for, and/or work towards equality of the sexes, you are a feminist. 

Yes, you are. 

Yes. You are. You are a feminist. If you believe in, support, look fondly on, hope for, and/or work towards equality of the sexes, you are a feminist. Period. It's more complicated than that — of course it is. And yet…it's exactly that simple. It has nothing to do with your sexual preference or your sense of humor or your fashion sense or your charitable donations, or what pronouns you use in official correspondence, or whether you think Andrea Dworkin is full of crap, or how often you read Bust or Ms. — or, actually, whether you've got a vagina. In the end, it's not about that. It is about political, economic, and social equality of the sexes, and it is about claiming that definition on its own terms, instead of qualifying it because you don't want anyone to think that you don't shave your pits. It is about saying that you are a feminist and just letting the statement sit there, instead of feeling a compulsion to modify it immediately with "but not, you know, that kind of feminist" because you don't want to come off all Angry Girl. It is about understanding that liking Oprah and Chanel doesn't make you a "bad" feminist — that only "liking" the wage gap makes you a "bad" feminist, because "bad" does not enter into the definition of feminism. It is about knowing that, if folks can't grab a dictionary and see for themselves that the entry for "feminism" doesn't say anything about hating men or chick flicks or any of that crap, it's their problem. 

It is about knowing that a woman is the equal of a man in art, at work, and under the law, whether you say it out loud or not — but for God's sake start saying it out loud already. You are a feminist. 

I am a feminist too. Look it up.

The Day After Opposite Day, Pt. 2

In The Day After Opposite Day, Pt. 1, I shared my revelation that I was in desperate need of a new lifestyle—one that was active and full of new stimulations. It was easy for me to fall into lazy habits when I moved to a new city. Honestly, I think I was just scared to get settled into a new place, because I did not consider my new one-bedroom--though cozy--my home.  But after the day of the death of my lovable lab Caffie (Opposite Day), I did a lot of reflection. Besides the obvious grief of loss of the family dog, I made some discoveries about my childhood, my life, and what the heck to do with myself.

Our childhoods define us. It's totally cliche, I know. But in these days for many of my friends and I--twenty-somethings-- physical and emotional elements of our childhood are disappearing, and I am realizing why the statement is so tiredly used. When I think about who I am, a lot of my thoughts go back to my mom, my dad, my sisters, my house, my school days. The lessons I learned as a child from my family and the childish mistakes and my first embarrassing moment are the foundations of my moral fiber. They are the basis of how I mentally approach life. A lot of things in my later life define who I am now, but my childhood is what defines who I will always be.

My childhood stays alive in memories, and it stays alive in physical embodiments.  Eventually, however, some memories will fade away. As I get older and my life moves out of transition this transitional phase and into full adulthood, I fear the that little, special details of my memories will be pushed farther and farther back until they are inaccessible.  


Thus, with the fear of my memories fading as I grow up, I cling onto the physical embodiments of my childhood, like my house and my old things. I think that is why I cherish old things.  They remind me of myself, of who I am. I love going back and reminiscing, holding things that belonged to another time and place. I love hugging and smelling my blankie, which accompanied me every single night in bed until college.  I loved just sitting in my childhood house, thinking about the memories that the walls held.  But when Caffie died yesterday, it hit me hard that representations of my past are dropping from my reach.  I realized that my attachment to Caffie, combined with unconditional love companionship, was related to the fact that when I looked at her, I saw my childhood in her glassy eyes and greying hair.  Most of her memories embodied my own, for she lived almost her entire life with me. 

I used to think that those physical embodiments of my youth were the ones I could really count on to hold those memories for me.  I guess I underestimated my memories and thus depended so much on the tangible things that held them for me.  But I am quickly learning how foolish that was.  The physical elements of my childhood are dropping away one by one like they are in line to walk the plank, falling away and lost forever. 

A box of my belongings that lived in my bedroom and soaked up the sights and smells and  smiles and tears of my childhood in a house that is now on the market now sits in a stuffy attic.  Once the house sells, that will pretty much be all that is left. And now that Caffie is gone, when I go home to visit, that is one less reminder of my childhood that will be there.  


It occured to me that perhaps this is why I had my 'revelation' of a desire for a new and improved lifestyle.  I need to grab onto something--onto my life today, which is moving forward at a pace that I sometimes can't keep up with--to fill my life as the things of my childhood, my old life, cued up on the rickety slab of wood.

Maybe my attachment to things and my obsessions with childhood memories is exorbitant or just plain crazy.  But as I sit here, writing about all this, I realize that my memories have impacted me in an even more devious way than I realized: they inspired me to be the artist I am today.  

I think my attachment to things and memories is why I picked up photography as a teenager. I absolutely loved getting my prints and putting them into photo albums, accompanied with ridiculously specific captions (date, place, name of every person in the photo, what was happening in the photo). Enter the digital age, and to this day I will not publish my Facebook photo album until it is in chronological order and properly tagged and captioned to my liking.  And when photographs cannot suffice, I write. I require myself to capture the feelings, the thoughts, the reflections of one moment or event in time and immortalize it in words. It started with my own personal diary, and then a journal I took with me to my travels to Italy. Knowing that I would cherish those moments forever, I was painstaking in my detail to description of my time there.  That journal turned into the blog to go with the times, and here I am. 

Clearly, my sentimentality can get the best of me.  But as I grow into my adult self and accept the fact that I will never be able to hold some of those things again, I will cherish the memories and objects that do stay on the boat.  


So, I can say with content, nostalgic thoughts, and infinite blank pages ahead, that all is not lost.

The Day After Opposite Day, Pt. 1

My mind was a blur when I woke up this morning.  I had slept for over 12 hours, which I hadn't done since high school--and a sure sign to me that I really needed to rest my head and my mind.  It took me a second to realize why I was so exhausted.  And then I remembered about Caffie.  I opened my email and read all the messages and collection of memories my family had sent around in memory of my dog who had been put to sleep earlier that day.  I went to this very blog, and couldn't even believe my own words about her passing.   I was confused, sad, and completely unmotivated to do anything besides stay in bed and let the world pass me by.  I had promised myself the night before that I would get up early, take a walk to breathe in some fresh air and life, and not mope.  But the rain was falling and was predicted to all day, so it was another day of bed and movies on the Lappy for me.

After unsatisfactory Facebook browsing and a couple of mediocre chick flicks, I realized how sore my neck was, how greasy my hair was, and how disgustingly lazy I had become.  Today I was mourning the loss of Caffie, but this wasn't close to the first time I had wasted a day in bed.  Living alone was a challenge for me--having been surrounded by sisters and roommates all my life, I had to adjust to having just myself around.  As I began life in my one-bedroom,  I struggled with the quiet and the calm.  But what I realized today is truly how much living with other people helped keep me active and motivated.  Here, I had nobody to judge me if I spent day after lazy day with my face glued to a screen, or inspire me to get up and out. I enjoyed that freedom for a while.  But today, it slapped me in the face.

I gotta get up, I told myself.  I need to do something.  Something new.  I couldn't spend my independent adult life--a new and scary concept in itself--in bed.  I had work, but what else do I have?  It hit me that I had been making excuses to get settled here.  It's been a month and time is up!  Instead of catching onto the excitement of a fast-paced new life that was in front of me, I was letting the train pass me by.  But no!  Today, I decided, I was going to start making a life for myself.  I shot up in bed, closed my Netflix, Hulu, and Facebook tabs, and replaced them with research of dance classes, theater performances, and places to buy bikes.  This is happening.  I am going to ride this train.  No, even better, I am going to drive it.
  
Declaring it here is the only way I can think if motivating myself, since self-motivation by talking to myself hasn't seemed to help in the past.  I realized that I had totally fallen out of the boat on my monthly resolutions.  Moving and starting a new job was my excuse for February.  But no more of that.  So, this month, I decided that I will:

Once a day: Meditate and stretch

At least once a week: Attend a dance class

Absolutely ASAP: Buy a bike (and use it)

Despite the toll some of these will take on my wallet, I am hopeful that they will make up for it in reason and happiness.  Determined to get started, I got out of bed, lit the deliciously scented vanilla candle in my living room, and took some deep breaths while stretching my legs, pathetically stiff--further reinforcement that I needed a lifestyle change.  As I felt my muscles uncomfortably extend, I took some deep breaths and remembered something I a dance teacher had said during the warm-up of a dance class once: "give your body some love."  As I sat there, rolling my head to loosen my neck, stiff from staring at a laptop while reclined, rotating my toes and ankles to recall my turn-out, and massaging my thighs, I remembered why that was so important.  My body really needed some love and attention--the kind that I had deprived it of a long time.

A couple downward dogs later, I settled into a cross-legged position and, with the help of an audio guide (thank you, YouTube!), did a 10-minute meditation.  Now, I am no master at meditation, but I had read and heard from others that making it a regular part of your daily routine can have a significant positive impact on mood and perspective.  And in this time of big life changes, I will take whatever I can get in terms of solace.  I'm also a hippie at heart.

Giving myself a slap in the face (literally) and some motivation to create new habits for myself came out of many things.  Besides my shame of my inability to touch my toes like I used to, I realized that having to say good-bye to my dog had a lot to do with it, and I came to some interesting conclusions about the strange transition into adulthood. In part two, I'll try to make sense of it all.

Opposite Day

When my twin sister and I were very young, we named March 5 Opposite Day.  Begun to commemorate the loss of a family friend, who had passed on March 5, we declared that all things that happen on March 5 should be the opposite.  As young girls, this was our way of dealing with loss.  As we got older, we would occasionally commemorate the holiday by convincing mom and dad to let us have ice cream for breakfast, and one year I recall us walking to school backwards.  We continued to mature and the concept of Opposite Day faded into a mere childhood memory.  

I woke up today without a thought to the date.  But the morning was soon not any other morning when I got the heart-wrenching and sudden news that my childhood black lab Caffie was experiencing a dramatic change in strength and personality, and my parents made the tough call to put her down peacefully. 

I panicked.  I called my mom and overwhelmed her with questions, because the last time I was home with Caffie she was just fine (besides her frequent and eventually expected "surprises" she would leave for us in the house ... ha).  I begged her to wait a few days. I wanted to drive the 7 hours up north and say goodbye.  But they could not wait.  She did not want her to suffer any more, and I hesitantly accepted the fact.

The vet appointment was at 11am.  In desperation, I looked down at my watch to see how much time Caffie had--and how much time I had before I had to say "I had a dog"--and my stomach dropped when I saw the date, shared conveniently in the box that replaced the 6.

5.  March 5.  Opposite Day. I was shaken by the eerie coincidence.  I called my sister to tell her the news and, after some time of tears and mourning, I asked her, "do you realize what today is?"
Long seconds passed.  "Opposite Day."

I could sense her stomach tightening at the realization, and a somber silence filled between us as we marveled at the irony in strange reflection.  A holiday we created to deal with death when we didn't understand it came back to us in this event of significant loss--one of the biggest for our family.  For a moment I reverted back to the days when we just made up our own naive ways of accepting the realities of life.  And in that moment, everything made a little bit more sense.  Maybe we weren't so foolish after all.

___

She's the sweetest dog in the world, many friends and visitors would tell us.  I have no doubts that she was.  She really was the best dog a family could ask for, and she certainly was a big part of mine.  A short commemoration, here are my favorite memories of the hairiest, happiest, hungriest member of the Waldman family:

I remember the day my parents told us that, after months of my begging, they agreed to get a family dog.  My sisters and I jumped for joy, our dreams of a cuddly puppy coming true.  I also remember the day we went to visit her at the breeder's.  She was 8 months old, timid, and a little scared, but she warmed up to us in just a few minutes.  And her tail didn't stop wagging for 14 years after that.

It was the last day of second grade when she came to us (already a very happy day--I had just opened my 3rd grade information packet to find out that I was assigned to Mrs. Atkinson, the best teacher in school, for next year).  As my sister and I started on our route home, I looked up and saw my mom waiting for us next to the school's sandbox.  She was holding a leash attached to a jet-black, floppy-eared pup sniffing out her scenery.  We squealed and ran up to our new dog and she immediately received us with millions of chin-kisses.  Sis and I fought over the red leash as we bounded up the hill, and we played with her for hours. 

'Caffie' was her name at the breeder's, and it stuck. It was short for Caffeine, we were told, since she was a hyper little puppy in her first few months.  However, after a run-in with a bigger dog, her leg was broken and she had since taken a much more laid-back personality (hence 'Decaf', a nickname we often teased her with).  Due to her laziness, fetch was a common failure in dog games with Caffie.  She would fetch a tennis ball or frisbee once or twice.  Then, on the third try, she would watch us throw the object, watch it land, look back at us, and plop down on the grass.  No more fetch for her.

Her calmness was a good match for our loud, crazy family.  Caffie soon adjusted to the constant motion of the house and, after a few minutes of interrupting our dance routines in the family room with demands for tummy rubs or walking right on top of our board games, she would settle herself in the corner and watch the action.

She learned quickly that I was the one who had offered myself to feed her dinner every day, and, to no avail, always found me at 4:30pm with eager kisses and that tail wagging, saying, "it's time!"

Appropriate for our geographical location, she also loved the wintertime.  When we would let her out into the back yard covered in 2 feet of snow, she would bound through the yard like an antelope, leaping over the tall snow.  She would stick her head down into the snow and zig-zag around the yard, then lifting head to sport a decently-sized pile of snow sitting on her snout.  Watching her play was really one of the only things I loved about winter.

As she got older, friends and visitors giggled at her "eyebrows", "beard", and "socks"--her greying gave her amusing humanistic facial hair and patterns.

Of course, all dogs are dog-dogs--she loved to play with her dog friends--but I think of all things, Caffie was a people-dog.  She just loved to be around her family.  Her tail constantly wagged and, though her sharp bark could fool a trespasser, as soon as someone got close enough for her to sniff, you knew she was a big softie.  Everyone was greeted with licks on the hand or wherever else she could access--she got me on the back molar once.  Impressive, right?  'Atta girl, Caff.  Thanks for the love.