Thursday, July 16, 2009
I am thrilled to announce that the new and improved Ivy League Insecurities has launched! I will now be located at http://ivyleagueinsecurities.com/ so bookmark me. Come on over and make yourself at home. And never fret. Everything you've read and seen here will be there too. The good news is that my new digs are far sleeker than this cozy joint. The bad news is that you will need to resubscribe. But in the grand scheme of things, that's not that bad, is it?
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
On a more philosophical note (and you know I love me my philosophical notes), this experience made me realize that conformity is very often 100% unconscious. We go about our days, we do what we do, but we often don't think about why we do what we do. Nor do we very often find ourselves pondering why we don't do the things we don't do. This is hardly a earth-shattering thought, but could it be that many of our habits, our routine activities, are not products of pure choice or free will, but are rooted in adherence to tacit societal and behavioral norms? Do we not do things like have makeshift toy picnics at the playground because of the power of convention, or simply because we are not very imaginative creatures most of the time?
Maybe, just maybe, this has nothing to do with conformity or convention or imagination. Perhaps, this is just a matter of old school etiquette. A playground is a designated space for kids, yes. But for kids to run freely. There are permanent obstacles of course - the swings, the slides, the water fountains. But perhaps we are not meant to create more obstacles by taking up a sizable footprint with a picnic blanket? If we get all Kantian here and think of what would happen if everyone threw caution to the wind and threw down a blanket, there would be no room to run...
Anyone have any thoughts on my admittedly bizarre inquiry into convention and creativity?
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
The temporary existential unease, the fleeting fire of regret, was well worth it. Within hours of posting my thoughts on the matter, I had a few comments from fellow bloggers who applauded me for saying something, for starting - or rather continuing - an important and necessary conversation. And then yesterday, these compatriots continued the discussion, each on her own blog.
Lindsey of A Design So Vast bemoans our inclination to judge others based on appearance, on external qualities. She writes, "It is impossible to know, from how someone looks on the surface, what is going on inside his or her heart. I have learned enough in my life to know that with absolute certainty." And she is on to something, isn't she? Because this is what affluence and education are - superficial, surface markers of an individual that often reflect poorly what is going on internally. Thankfully, Lindsey is another curious soul who refuses to remain quiet because of her arguably fortunate life. She states, "I will not be muzzled; I believe there is too much to be gained by telling our stories, whoever we are and whatever formal education we have."
Lindsey's classmate Mama of The Elmo Wallpaper highlights an interesting and overlooked feature of the Montana mom saga, namely that this woman was so overwhelmed that her judgment was possibly compromised. Being overwhelmed, stretched thin, drained are phenomena to which all of us mothers can surely relate, regardless of pedigree or paycheck. Mama makes a number of stellar points, her arguments rooted in her own experience as "one damn lucky woman" and concludes, "An education or a privileged background doesn't guarantee us anything, and everyone has a story to tell."
I want to thank these two women, these Cheerio Compatriots, whom I've never met in real life. Yes, because they linked to me. But more because they are keeping this conversation, this fundamentally important, albeit incendiary, conversation, going. Because they are telling their stories. Yesterday was a good day; I read their words, their ideas, and through the screen their conviction was pure and palpable. I felt a surge of old school academic adrenaline and nodded and said to myself, Now we're talking.
Let's not stop now.
Monday, July 13, 2009
All joking aside, there is a lesson to teach you and this picture makes a perfect prop. Yesterday, I was as pale as the left side of her stunning face (right side of the picture - I'm confused too). And today? Yup, you guessed it. As tan as the right size of her stunning face (left side of the pic). Well, not quite as tan. But close. I joke not.
How is this possible? It's magic. No, actually it's called a spray tan. And you would think that after about a dozen botched spray tan adventures over the last decade, I would learn and embrace my whiteness. After all, Mom says that pale is beautiful, that fair skin is creamy, delicious perfection. Everyone points to Nicole Kidman as a compelling example of the beauty of alabaster. And, no, she is not a hideous creature. But I am not fooled. She is about seven feet tall and when she was eight months pregnant, she looked like she had eaten a moderately sized turkey burger (with the bun on the side). The point: I didn't learn my lesson. No. To the contrary, I repeated those childhood words in my head: If at first you don't succeed, try and try again.
So I tried again. Yesterday was a gloomy day for me and I figured what better way to cheer up than strip naked and stand in a spaceship-like machine and let it spit orange chemicals all over my body? So I moseyed down Columbus Avenue to Beach Bum Tanning and told the nice (and very tan) man behind the desk that I'd like a spray tan. He nodded and asked me for my name. And I'm not sure why he needed to know my name to grant me access to the spray tan room, but I gave it to him. And then he asked for something else. My right index finger. My right index finger?
Yes, he wanted me to place my right index finger on this groovy little finger pad thing. Four times! Now I had to ask.
Very Tan Man: So people don't steal your tans.
Me: But I don't want to buy a package of tans. Just one tan, please.
Very Tan Man: Put your finger on the pad, Miss.
Me (in my head as I am dutifully placing my fingertip on that pad four times like the good girl I am): Who steals tans?
Very Tan Man (presumably noting my now incredulous pale face): It happens. I tell you. People steal tans. It happened with this married couple.
At this point, I just nodded and asked him to point me to the faux-sun-spaceship wondering what kind of wife would stoop as low as stealing her husband's tans? And after practicing about six times how to stand for optimal spraying, I stripped down, pressed that ominous black button, closed my eyes, and crossed my fingers. And as I walked home, skin still pale and sticky with the promise of summer glow, I smiled smugly. Because I had a secret. I was mere hours from hotness. And sure enough, as the hours passed, I grew darker and darker.
And I woke up this morning and guess what? My skin is no longer transparent! There is some color. No, it's not as bronze as the beauty's (half) face above, but it's tannish. And other than my hands (which look like I've been sifting through powdered bricks), the tan is reasonably even. Is it perfect? No. But we all know perfection is boring. I know. I know. Tell that to little missy above and Nicole Kidman.
Any humorous tanning stories out there? Anyone else walking around with a positively glowing pair of hands?
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Well, we all knew it wouldn't last. At least I did. I guess it's possible that some of you out there had a pinch more faith in me.
That's right. After a short stint as an annoyingly abstemious post-"vacation" dieter, I'm eating bread again. With a vengeance.
It all went down the tubes yesterday beginning with one of my favorite Starbucks Spinach Feta wraps. I was hard at work, burning like a zillion calories on my Laptop and figured: it's a whole wheat wrap. That is very healthy. Probably has fifty-something grams of fiber. Shouldn't even count as bread... And then BAM. Diet is over.
Since that moment, I've consumed the following yummy carborific goodies:
1. Spring rolls
2. Vats of white rice
3. A Skinny Cow (ha!) mint ice cream sandwich
4. A grilled cheese sandwich
5. Toddler's leftover fries
6. A Levain chocolate chip cookie. (Heaven)
And now I am writing this post and thinking ahead to dinner. What will it be? Not sure yet. But I do know that it won't be home-cooked or bread-free. Quitting can be delicious, my friends! Don't judge me. Join me!
Friday, July 10, 2009
This morning, I sat on the hardwood floor between Toddler and Baby, brokering peace negotiations between the pajama-clad girls who are many long months away from receiving their Masters in Sharing. Mission accomplished. Within a few moments, Toddler was playing with her Mama Tape Measure and Baby was playing with her Baby Tape Measure. And I had a few fleeting, but delicious moments to go online before Baby pulled up on my back and yanked out a massive fistful of my hair. Maybe she wanted me to get off my computer. Or, maybe she's envious because she's bald.
Anyway, before snapping my laptop shut and giving my girls the absolute, unmarred attention they deserve, I was able to read this article. It's the latest entry in Judith Warner's NYT blog Domestic Disturbances. And I was sufficiently disturbed (in the best possible way) to forgo that much-needed shower and read it over a few times, read all of the comments it elicited, and then write my own comment. In that little comment box, I wrote one of my Insecurely Yours letters. I thanked Judith for her brave words, for speaking up, for defending those of us here on ILI and beyond who are educated and interested and insecure. If you are curious, you can read my letter below.
Now, off to analyze my infant-induced hair loss and take that much-needed shower. In case you are interested, while I am showering, I will be giving myself a very articulate pep-talk to prepare myself for the attacks I fear are headed my way. And if there is time left over, I will contemplate the symbolism of those tape measure "toys" with which my girls love to play. Cheerio.
Thank you. For daring to lift that proverbial lid on our society’s simmering stew of resentment of women with “major educations,” of women who are intellectually-curious and interested, of women who are unwilling to stay mum behind a lipstick smile just because their lives are charmed in some way.
In writing this post and triggering the comments that precede mine - many of which are unnecessarily snarky and collectively serve as a prime example of the very resentment you explore — you cast a light on profound and provocative topics of education and wealth and social perceptions. Many of your readers are missing the point here - and maybe willfully so. Patently, your article is not about the law of child endangerment, or what it means to be a responsible mother. Nor is your article truly about this one woman, a professor in Montana.
Rather, your article (bravely) points to an arguably wider phenomenon, namely our culture’s apparent desire to put a muzzle on women who are affluent and educated. There does seem to be a belief that because these women enjoy noteworthy privileges of elite educations and financial freedom, they should keep quiet. Often, it seems that acceptable stories - of struggle, of adversity, of that enigmatic “real world” that we all live in — can only be voiced by members of the more “normal” species of women. I recently started a blog called Ivy League Insecurities in an effort to give these women a voice, to combat the societal message to stay mum and enjoy my “good” life and I have been criticized and - shocker - told to keep quiet, that my story is not a story worth hearing, that my insecurities are inauthentic because of my objectively “privileged” life.
So as one of the well-educated women you write about who is simply unwilling to stay mute, I applaud you for writing this and for welcoming and weathering the very predictable and revealing maelstrom it has triggered.
Aidan Donnelley Rowley
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Friday, July 3, 2009
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
If you were gracious (or bored) enough to read my recent "vacation" vents, you’d think I’d vow to stay put at home for a while. It would be the sensible thing to do. But no. I try not to be sensible too often. It bores me.
Last night, Husband and I piled our little jet setters (and enough luggage/gear/potty paraphernalia for six months) into a sparky rental car to drive to Cape Cod to visit Husband’s extended family. The drive was mostly smooth, the girls mostly slept, and we made good time. We scarfed soggy sandwiches and chewed gummy worms and in an old school (and utterly futile) move, I swigged a Diet Mountain Dew to stay awake. Around one in the morning, we tiptoed into the home where we’re staying and tossed the girls into foreign cribs. Obediently, like the awesome, well-raised kids they are, they settled in and snoozed. Five hours later, Husband and I woke up to a swell of saccharine baby screeches and damp beach air. Exhausted, yes. Drained, absolutely. Happy, you bet.
I will try to keep the vacation play-by-play to a minimum because writing about the indulgent details of my "adventures" is beginning to bore even me. But I wanted you to know that I’m here and not there (although in cyber-territory, it doesn’t much matter) so that you will forgive me if I say something flip-floppy, offensive, or just deeply blonde.
Apologies in advance for the beach brain.