10.6.08
I have not been truly single since I was about fifteen. My relationship history has been peppered with a few short, fun relationships, but most of it has been spent in perfect monogamy-induced bliss. Six months with Nick was followed shortly by two years with Justin, and then a quick turnaround to three years with Dominic.
A few weeks ago, I was talking to the guy I went to freshman dance with in high school, recounting my latest breakup to him. “Wow,” he said. “You have wasted six years of your life in relationships that have gone nowhere.”
Thanks, Alex. Exactly what I needed to hear. Well, he’s spent most of the last six years single, so what does he know?
But, to some extent, he’s right. The pathetic part is that every time, I thought I’d found someone so different than the last. I entered each new relationship with this blinding hope, instilling all faith in my significant other. Yet they all have let me down, miserably so.
I don’t know what it is about me, but men tend to view me as disposable. That’s all it really comes down to. I’m someone to edit papers or help with trigonometry homework; maybe I’m just some arm candy on Friday night. Do they look at me and not see a future?
Yet every time, I was the girlfriend who cooked romantic dinners, found thoughtful gifts for no reason at all, and went to sporting events I did not understand or enjoy. One boyfriend made me a grilled cheese in the microwave, one gave me pictures of himself for a holiday, and they all went to my tennis matches just to watch girls in short skirts.
This isn’t to say I was a saint in any of these relationships. I regularly made it clear that sitting through soccer games was akin to rubbing a cheese grater over my face. And I have been called narcissistic and high-maintenance, not without good reason. (I’ve also been called plenty of things that we cannot print in the Chimes—also, probably not without good reason.) Say what they will, but I gave each relationship my all. I tried, and I tried, and I tried to fix it and pour every ounce of energy I had into making the partnership succeed.
Maybe the problem was that there was no partnership. The effort was all mine; they sat back and enjoyed the ride. My mother says this is how men are and that I should have learned that by now. They will not pick up after themselves, they will not listen to you, and they certainly are not going to match your efforts in the relationship.
This is depressing. It makes me want to stop trying and stop believing that they next one will be different, which is what I’ve always believed was true without question.
I feel like I’m no better off than when I was fifteen, without even a driver’s license. Now, I have can vote and legally drink, but has anything really changed?
Thursday, October 16, 2008
The summer of no Facebook
9.15.08
When I got back from Greece, I deleted my Facebook account for many reasons, none of which anyone needs to know. I spent June, July, and August in the wake of my Facebook’s death, which ended up being more of a mercy killing than anything else.
After the initial withdrawal symptoms had passed—what do I do after checking my email?—I found out how bound I had been to Facebook and its evils. Checking up on my “friends” without actually having to interact with them had become my modus operandi, and without Facebook, I found myself having very little interaction with anyone. The deletion of Facebook became complete social absconding for a summer.
I heard from one friend, two or three times, over the course of the summer. Even that was via email.
When I got back on Facebook when school started, there was a flood of messages asking where I’d been, what had happened to me, and why I was back. It was like I’d gone away to boarding school after a scandal. In reality, I’d been at home, working, doing everything I would naturally do.
Of course, now that I’m back on, I have slipped back into my old habits. Why call someone when you can write on their wall? Why go to lunch when you can use the chat option? We’ve become so interconnected that we can’t truly connect with anyone.
Not having Facebook was one of the best choices I made this summer, though. There was no one to barrage me with questions about my breakup—I didn’t have to try to explain a situation that I did not understand to people who really had no right asking. With no Facebook, there was no duty to keep “in touch” with people—mostly people I didn’t want to be friends with anyway, like my old group from high school. No Facebook meant an excuse from all means of interaction, which is both scary and pathetic.
Deleting Facebook became a segue to other, more meaningful changes. I stopped checking my email so much, and my computer actually had a chance to collect some dust. When I really needed to say something to someone, I called them. I spent most of my time outside with my dog, not inside downloading music, Facebooking, or playing solitaire. Now that Facebook has weaseled its way back into my daily routine, I find myself fighting the urge to immediately reply to posts or messages. Usually, I lose that inner struggle, but the fact that the struggle exists is a step in the right direction.
When I got back from Greece, I deleted my Facebook account for many reasons, none of which anyone needs to know. I spent June, July, and August in the wake of my Facebook’s death, which ended up being more of a mercy killing than anything else.
After the initial withdrawal symptoms had passed—what do I do after checking my email?—I found out how bound I had been to Facebook and its evils. Checking up on my “friends” without actually having to interact with them had become my modus operandi, and without Facebook, I found myself having very little interaction with anyone. The deletion of Facebook became complete social absconding for a summer.
I heard from one friend, two or three times, over the course of the summer. Even that was via email.
When I got back on Facebook when school started, there was a flood of messages asking where I’d been, what had happened to me, and why I was back. It was like I’d gone away to boarding school after a scandal. In reality, I’d been at home, working, doing everything I would naturally do.
Of course, now that I’m back on, I have slipped back into my old habits. Why call someone when you can write on their wall? Why go to lunch when you can use the chat option? We’ve become so interconnected that we can’t truly connect with anyone.
Not having Facebook was one of the best choices I made this summer, though. There was no one to barrage me with questions about my breakup—I didn’t have to try to explain a situation that I did not understand to people who really had no right asking. With no Facebook, there was no duty to keep “in touch” with people—mostly people I didn’t want to be friends with anyway, like my old group from high school. No Facebook meant an excuse from all means of interaction, which is both scary and pathetic.
Deleting Facebook became a segue to other, more meaningful changes. I stopped checking my email so much, and my computer actually had a chance to collect some dust. When I really needed to say something to someone, I called them. I spent most of my time outside with my dog, not inside downloading music, Facebooking, or playing solitaire. Now that Facebook has weaseled its way back into my daily routine, I find myself fighting the urge to immediately reply to posts or messages. Usually, I lose that inner struggle, but the fact that the struggle exists is a step in the right direction.
What school should be about
8.31.08
Though I wanted to write something along the lines of relationship problems or social criticisms, I though I’d jump on the back-to-school bandwagon this week.
My fifth semester at Capital has begun—the second part of my undergraduate journey. The only strange part of this is that I think I’ve just realized what college is supposed to be about. Not parties (too busy to go) or drinking (also too busy), but rather challenging your assumptions.
This is the first semester I haven’t taken primarily classes in my major. Instead, I have a whopping three religion classes. I’ve called Capital’s religion requirement “indoctrination,” among other things that are not printable, but I would like to formally rescind those comments.
I’m not going to say that in week two of the semester I’ve started to understand religion, because I don’t and I probably never will. However, I recently read a Buddhist parable about a woman’s grief making her more susceptible to religious conversion.
Not only is this a text I never would have willingly picked up, it has made me think very hard for the last week about the difficult times I’ve had where I’ve wished I had a religious pillow on which to fall back.
I only took these classes because I hoped they would help me understand literary works within my major better—books that were written with a strong religious context. Now I find myself viewing the world under this lens of grief-to-religion—how much faith is born of a person needing something to get them through the seemingly impossible? And does it matter how faith is born, anyways? That’s what this week has been for me—a line of questions.
My memory holds no warm and fuzzy stories about the “Cap Family” or late night dorm room talks that have changed my life. But now I do have a story about a group of classes that have made me think, if only for a little while, about a subject I’ve held with disdain. That is what a liberal arts school should be about—not reaffirming ignorance but about opening up a line of questioning. It’s certainly not about supplying a set group of answers to closed minds.
College is full of these kinds of opportunities. Capital has been accused of being like high school, and it can be if you let it. It would be very easy to enter a small school like this and have another four years of high school. Or, you can take classes in a subject you know nothing about (for me, religion and China) and make yourself talk to people you don’t know—people who are different from you, look different from you, and have different value systems from you.
Allowing yourself to be molded by new experiences is vital to being a part of a world that is inseparably connected across religious, political, and continental lines. The world we’ll be a part of after graduation will not be welcoming to people who are stuck in a high school senior mindset.
Though I wanted to write something along the lines of relationship problems or social criticisms, I though I’d jump on the back-to-school bandwagon this week.
My fifth semester at Capital has begun—the second part of my undergraduate journey. The only strange part of this is that I think I’ve just realized what college is supposed to be about. Not parties (too busy to go) or drinking (also too busy), but rather challenging your assumptions.
This is the first semester I haven’t taken primarily classes in my major. Instead, I have a whopping three religion classes. I’ve called Capital’s religion requirement “indoctrination,” among other things that are not printable, but I would like to formally rescind those comments.
I’m not going to say that in week two of the semester I’ve started to understand religion, because I don’t and I probably never will. However, I recently read a Buddhist parable about a woman’s grief making her more susceptible to religious conversion.
Not only is this a text I never would have willingly picked up, it has made me think very hard for the last week about the difficult times I’ve had where I’ve wished I had a religious pillow on which to fall back.
I only took these classes because I hoped they would help me understand literary works within my major better—books that were written with a strong religious context. Now I find myself viewing the world under this lens of grief-to-religion—how much faith is born of a person needing something to get them through the seemingly impossible? And does it matter how faith is born, anyways? That’s what this week has been for me—a line of questions.
My memory holds no warm and fuzzy stories about the “Cap Family” or late night dorm room talks that have changed my life. But now I do have a story about a group of classes that have made me think, if only for a little while, about a subject I’ve held with disdain. That is what a liberal arts school should be about—not reaffirming ignorance but about opening up a line of questioning. It’s certainly not about supplying a set group of answers to closed minds.
College is full of these kinds of opportunities. Capital has been accused of being like high school, and it can be if you let it. It would be very easy to enter a small school like this and have another four years of high school. Or, you can take classes in a subject you know nothing about (for me, religion and China) and make yourself talk to people you don’t know—people who are different from you, look different from you, and have different value systems from you.
Allowing yourself to be molded by new experiences is vital to being a part of a world that is inseparably connected across religious, political, and continental lines. The world we’ll be a part of after graduation will not be welcoming to people who are stuck in a high school senior mindset.
The argument against friendship
4.21.08
Finals week last year was marked by the unexpected death of my mother’s best friend. Losing a friend, I think, is harder than losing a relative. You chose your friend; you chose to be with them. In a way, it makes your bond more meaningful because it was cultivated purposefully. The time and effort that goes into creating a friendship is hard to go through again. After the loss of all my closest friends, I find myself wondering the same thing she still is: will I ever have a best friend again? More importantly, will I ever want one?
The possibilities for loss just don’t seem to outweigh the possibilities for gain anymore. The slight chance for companionship has become the sure chance for disappointment. My mom has the errant email or call from an old friend but there is no daily correspondence; why would she devote time to people who don’t keep their word or have any desire to be the friend she is to them? As for myself, I’ve completely stopped opening up. As Kenny Chesney would say, “I can’t go there.” Why would I bother to try when every attempt ends in dismay?
I do not have the desire to cultivate any more deep and lasting friendships, nor do I make the time to do so. Of course, there is a downside; there is no one to talk to “just because” and no one to listen to my diatribes. A year after the fact and there is still a large gap in my mother’s life: no one to talk to while doing the dishes, no one to confide in at all. I suppose she feels much the same as I do—in a strange way, betrayed. Anger, distance and death are cold and unforgiving. No second chances. I’ve come to stop desiring second chances at all.
I get very tired of hearing people say things like, “you can never have too many friends” or “you should get out more” to me. While I recognize the need for social interaction, I do not recognize the need to pour my heart out to anyone or risk relationships with a bevy of people who could stab me in the back at any moment. History is riddled with people trusting people they should not trust. Why fall victim to an obvious trap? I realize that many people feel the risk is worth the possible gain. That does not hold true anymore for me.
We eventually get used to our new way of life without someone important in it. We stop expecting to replace the people we lose. The trust we had in them simply dissolves over time; though the love we felt for them remains. We no longer check the caller ID or dial their number by accident. Normalcy is slowly replaced by normalcy v2.1. We readjust to life not necessarily alone, but perhaps with a canine companion or a good book—both less frustrating and more rewarding than people any day.
Finals week last year was marked by the unexpected death of my mother’s best friend. Losing a friend, I think, is harder than losing a relative. You chose your friend; you chose to be with them. In a way, it makes your bond more meaningful because it was cultivated purposefully. The time and effort that goes into creating a friendship is hard to go through again. After the loss of all my closest friends, I find myself wondering the same thing she still is: will I ever have a best friend again? More importantly, will I ever want one?
The possibilities for loss just don’t seem to outweigh the possibilities for gain anymore. The slight chance for companionship has become the sure chance for disappointment. My mom has the errant email or call from an old friend but there is no daily correspondence; why would she devote time to people who don’t keep their word or have any desire to be the friend she is to them? As for myself, I’ve completely stopped opening up. As Kenny Chesney would say, “I can’t go there.” Why would I bother to try when every attempt ends in dismay?
I do not have the desire to cultivate any more deep and lasting friendships, nor do I make the time to do so. Of course, there is a downside; there is no one to talk to “just because” and no one to listen to my diatribes. A year after the fact and there is still a large gap in my mother’s life: no one to talk to while doing the dishes, no one to confide in at all. I suppose she feels much the same as I do—in a strange way, betrayed. Anger, distance and death are cold and unforgiving. No second chances. I’ve come to stop desiring second chances at all.
I get very tired of hearing people say things like, “you can never have too many friends” or “you should get out more” to me. While I recognize the need for social interaction, I do not recognize the need to pour my heart out to anyone or risk relationships with a bevy of people who could stab me in the back at any moment. History is riddled with people trusting people they should not trust. Why fall victim to an obvious trap? I realize that many people feel the risk is worth the possible gain. That does not hold true anymore for me.
We eventually get used to our new way of life without someone important in it. We stop expecting to replace the people we lose. The trust we had in them simply dissolves over time; though the love we felt for them remains. We no longer check the caller ID or dial their number by accident. Normalcy is slowly replaced by normalcy v2.1. We readjust to life not necessarily alone, but perhaps with a canine companion or a good book—both less frustrating and more rewarding than people any day.
What men don't understand about women
4.7.08
And I only have five hundred words?
Let me begin with a few obvious observations: men don’t understand how much women enjoy shoes, handbags, and sunglasses; nor do they understand how much we like “looking around.” This is what we mean by “shopping.” Not “going to get something we need.” It’s “looking around,” and men should learn to love it. My boyfriend switches out sizes for me and when my usual size doesn’t fit, he says it was made wrong. Men, take note. We need self-affirmation.
Really, though: men don’t understand that women like labeling. Not labeling as in “geek” or “dork,” but labeling in relationships. We want to know where we stand with you. Are we just a friend? A friend you like? A fling? Someone you’d bring home? “In a relationship” on Facebook? Don’t make us guess about your feelings.
FYI, we don’t want to hear about your car anymore. Please stop. I don’t want to feel like I’m sitting on broken glass when I’m really just in your mom’s old car. Whether your ride is an ’08 Lexus or an ’86 Corsica, I don’t want to get an earful when my dog gets a little dirt on the seat.
That being said, men who take care of themselves and their possessions (to a reasonable extent) are attractive. Grooming habits matter to us. Cologne. Mouthwash. Wax your car (but don’t look at yourself in it). Pluck or wax your eyebrows. Yes, I said pluck or wax. It doesn’t make you metrosexual, it makes you stop looking like a caveman. Do you think David Beckham was born looking like a Greek god? No. Put some effort into your appearance, boys.
I think I need to tell a story to better convey this disconnect in male understanding of females. I’ve spent the better part of this semester attempting to set up my friends Derek and Claire. Derek was completely shocked when I was mad at him for not responding to Claire’s messages. At first I thought he was simply a dolt. Later, I realized that it just wasn’t a big deal to him. Claire would be wondering what she’d said to make Derek not want to talk to her, and to Derek, this wasn’t even a situation. The moral of this story? Communication matters to us deeply. Call us, email us, text us. When we talk to you, talk back without monosyllabic answers.
When all’s said and done, we want you to understand the simple things (which are often the things that elude you). Confide in us, talk to us like we’re not just one of the guys, let us know we matter. More than anything, we need you to understand that we crave being needed. I don’t want to be disposable. Yes, you should be able to live without me. But don’t make me think we could say goodbye and I’d never cross your mind again.
And I only have five hundred words?
Let me begin with a few obvious observations: men don’t understand how much women enjoy shoes, handbags, and sunglasses; nor do they understand how much we like “looking around.” This is what we mean by “shopping.” Not “going to get something we need.” It’s “looking around,” and men should learn to love it. My boyfriend switches out sizes for me and when my usual size doesn’t fit, he says it was made wrong. Men, take note. We need self-affirmation.
Really, though: men don’t understand that women like labeling. Not labeling as in “geek” or “dork,” but labeling in relationships. We want to know where we stand with you. Are we just a friend? A friend you like? A fling? Someone you’d bring home? “In a relationship” on Facebook? Don’t make us guess about your feelings.
FYI, we don’t want to hear about your car anymore. Please stop. I don’t want to feel like I’m sitting on broken glass when I’m really just in your mom’s old car. Whether your ride is an ’08 Lexus or an ’86 Corsica, I don’t want to get an earful when my dog gets a little dirt on the seat.
That being said, men who take care of themselves and their possessions (to a reasonable extent) are attractive. Grooming habits matter to us. Cologne. Mouthwash. Wax your car (but don’t look at yourself in it). Pluck or wax your eyebrows. Yes, I said pluck or wax. It doesn’t make you metrosexual, it makes you stop looking like a caveman. Do you think David Beckham was born looking like a Greek god? No. Put some effort into your appearance, boys.
I think I need to tell a story to better convey this disconnect in male understanding of females. I’ve spent the better part of this semester attempting to set up my friends Derek and Claire. Derek was completely shocked when I was mad at him for not responding to Claire’s messages. At first I thought he was simply a dolt. Later, I realized that it just wasn’t a big deal to him. Claire would be wondering what she’d said to make Derek not want to talk to her, and to Derek, this wasn’t even a situation. The moral of this story? Communication matters to us deeply. Call us, email us, text us. When we talk to you, talk back without monosyllabic answers.
When all’s said and done, we want you to understand the simple things (which are often the things that elude you). Confide in us, talk to us like we’re not just one of the guys, let us know we matter. More than anything, we need you to understand that we crave being needed. I don’t want to be disposable. Yes, you should be able to live without me. But don’t make me think we could say goodbye and I’d never cross your mind again.
In light of the Spitzer scandal...
3.24.08
If I’ve learned anything over the past few weeks, it’s that if I’m ever hard-up for cash, I should go carouse New York City and look for city personnel. I’m just kidding, but $4,000 for 4 hours? Really, Eliot Spitzer (who, by the way, I’m pretty sure will be much lower than the circle of the lustful in Dante’s hell)? Were you that sexually frustrated? Was your wife that much of a dead fish that you had to find a call girl?
The Spitzer scandal points to a larger truth I’ve been mulling over for awhile now and it’s not that women are higher life forms—it’s actually the antithesis. Why do women continue to stand next to men who are louses?
As I watched the clips of Spitzer’s speeches, his obviously stunned wife standing there with him, I was disgusted for reasons beyond his personal ethics. They have two teenage daughters. The example she is setting is that it is perfectly fine to continue to be with someone who does not respect you or themselves. Then the new governor comes out with his wife and talks about his affairs, and his wife is still there with him. How will these marriages ever have any semblance of trust in them again?
Second chances are great, but the foundation of a relationship is trust. I know I’m not a very forgiving person by nature, and I actually hold grudges for an extended period of time, but I’d like to think that most women couldn’t stand next to their cheater husbands on television for the world to see. Apparently, I’m wrong.
I think this is part of the reason I don’t have much respect for Hillary Clinton—that and the heinous black and yellow jacket I always see her wearing; it makes her look like a bumblebee. She is undoubtedly an incredibly intelligent woman who has political experience and viable plans for the future of this country. But how much self-respect could she have left, after the huge scandal with Bill? I don’t see strength and leadership when I look at a woman who didn’t leave the man who turned her life upside down. I see weakness.
“Everyone has affairs,” the defense seems to be for cheaters and people that stay in relationships with them. I’m very bitter and cynical, but even I can’t make myself believe that. I want to believe that there are people out there who respect their significant others, politicians or not. Unfortunately, I know many relationships that have both endured affairs and ended because of them, so affairs obviously happen frequently. The consensus seems to be that just because the person you love decides to “love” someone else for awhile doesn’t mean you can stop loving them. How could you continue loving them?
I speak without experience in the situation, but I do speak with self-respect and a clear sense of how I believe women should be treated (and men; we all know women cheat too). So, if you see me on TV one day standing next to my cheating, public official of a husband, call me out on it. Or, if you see my MySpace page with pictures of me and a public official who is someone else’s husband, call me out on that, too.
If I’ve learned anything over the past few weeks, it’s that if I’m ever hard-up for cash, I should go carouse New York City and look for city personnel. I’m just kidding, but $4,000 for 4 hours? Really, Eliot Spitzer (who, by the way, I’m pretty sure will be much lower than the circle of the lustful in Dante’s hell)? Were you that sexually frustrated? Was your wife that much of a dead fish that you had to find a call girl?
The Spitzer scandal points to a larger truth I’ve been mulling over for awhile now and it’s not that women are higher life forms—it’s actually the antithesis. Why do women continue to stand next to men who are louses?
As I watched the clips of Spitzer’s speeches, his obviously stunned wife standing there with him, I was disgusted for reasons beyond his personal ethics. They have two teenage daughters. The example she is setting is that it is perfectly fine to continue to be with someone who does not respect you or themselves. Then the new governor comes out with his wife and talks about his affairs, and his wife is still there with him. How will these marriages ever have any semblance of trust in them again?
Second chances are great, but the foundation of a relationship is trust. I know I’m not a very forgiving person by nature, and I actually hold grudges for an extended period of time, but I’d like to think that most women couldn’t stand next to their cheater husbands on television for the world to see. Apparently, I’m wrong.
I think this is part of the reason I don’t have much respect for Hillary Clinton—that and the heinous black and yellow jacket I always see her wearing; it makes her look like a bumblebee. She is undoubtedly an incredibly intelligent woman who has political experience and viable plans for the future of this country. But how much self-respect could she have left, after the huge scandal with Bill? I don’t see strength and leadership when I look at a woman who didn’t leave the man who turned her life upside down. I see weakness.
“Everyone has affairs,” the defense seems to be for cheaters and people that stay in relationships with them. I’m very bitter and cynical, but even I can’t make myself believe that. I want to believe that there are people out there who respect their significant others, politicians or not. Unfortunately, I know many relationships that have both endured affairs and ended because of them, so affairs obviously happen frequently. The consensus seems to be that just because the person you love decides to “love” someone else for awhile doesn’t mean you can stop loving them. How could you continue loving them?
I speak without experience in the situation, but I do speak with self-respect and a clear sense of how I believe women should be treated (and men; we all know women cheat too). So, if you see me on TV one day standing next to my cheating, public official of a husband, call me out on it. Or, if you see my MySpace page with pictures of me and a public official who is someone else’s husband, call me out on that, too.
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