over the river and off the cliff

Writing this will probably make me an enemy or two, but I do believe that a blog is allowed to function as an outlet for one’s personal rants. So consider yourself forewarned: these words might hurt your fragile little feelings, and you should proceed with caution.

I was annoyed on Tuesday. This probably isn’t particularly surprising to many of you, given that I have a penchant for complaining about rather inane and innocuous things. Chalk this up to the fact that I suffer from a plethora of First World Problems and greatly enjoy whining about them for the sake of absurdity. But by golly, on Tuesday I was miffed. And though I could pawn off my frustration on Aunt Flo and a lack of sleep, I believe that in this case my anger was legitimately warranted.

I hate viral campaigns.

I became miserably aware of this fact on Tuesday morning while watching my Facebook feed turn red and pink in honor of a particular cause. Now, don’t get me wrong: I COMPLETELY SUPPORT THIS PARTICULAR CAUSE. What I do not support is that someone, somewhere decided that if you are in favor of this cause, you should do x when doing x accomplishes nothing to really help the cause. I view such actions as empty gestures that probably aren’t backed by additional efforts during the remaining 364 days a year. They are things that people do to feel like they belong, like they are making a meaningful contribution to something bigger than themselves. Someone gave me a great word for this yesterday: slacktivism.

My rather violent and angry reaction puzzled me slightly. Sure, it was annoying that everyone suddenly looked the same on my news feed (photo below is a testament, each line is a different person and I have 360+ friends) – but was that really worth getting my knickers in a twist?

Answer: yes, since this is indicative of a much bigger problem.  I’m not really one to go around waving an American flag and setting off fireworks, but DAMNIT, this country was founded on freedom and individuality. Yet these days all it takes is one person changing a photo on Facebook before my entire ticker is taken over by the same goddamn image. Such things are evidence to me that people are less and less apt to stop and think for themselves. “Oh hey, that’s my opinion too! So I’m going to do the exact same thing as you to show that I agree, rather than letting my daily actions serve as a testament to my beliefs!”

I realize that this isn’t true in every case, and that some people who appear to be jumping on the bandwagon have actually been walking the walk all along. However, I don’t believe that this is true in most instances. I find viral campaigns to be particularly offensive because they lead to a false sense of accomplishment. People think that by changing a picture or clicking a link, they have committed a great philanthropic act when really they’ve done nothing but push a button on their mouse. Again: slacktivism. I believe that more effective measures would involve actively researching a cause and then doing concrete, tangible things to further it.

My intent here was not to offend any of my friends who are guilty of the aforementioned offense. I do not consider any of you to be non-thinking lemmings (if I did, we wouldn’t be friends). However, it never hurts to have someone draw attention to your actions and ask you to really consider what you’re doing; I’d expect nothing less from any of you. So, you know, next time it seems like a good idea to follow the latest trend on the internetz, do me a favor and think of my poor Facebook feed – and whether or not your commitment to the cause warrants a line item on it.

**sidenote: I feel compelled to present something of a counterargument to the above, just for the sake of academic debate.

humanity 101

So I came to a realization while watching Grey’s Anatomy the other night. I know that such a statement probably immediately disqualifies any potentially profound thoughts, but bear with me.

For those of you unfamiliar with the show, all you really need to know is that it’s your typical Joe-Schmo medical drama. Every doctor is sleeping with (or has slept with) every other doctor, and each episode features several patients that either live or die depending on how tragic the installment intends to be. The writing isn’t particularly good, the characters are not terribly well-developed or dynamic, and it’s always raining because the show takes place in Seattle.

However, as I sat there last Thursday night, I noticed that I was wringing my hands on behalf of whatever individual was squirming in their hospital bed. It then dawned on me that (in a way) I actually cared about what happened to this fictional person. Whatever their story was - memory fails me - my heart strings had been effectively pulled to the point where I felt emotionally invested in the outcome of this nonexistent patient’s situation. In fact, I cared about the show’s static characters as well. I wanted their lives to pan out in various ways, I wanted the Tough Guy to show his soft side, I wanted the two people who secretly pined for each other to get together. I. Fucking. Cared. About people that don’t exist.

Admittedly these observations are not earth-shattering in and of themselves. This is one of the reasons we retreat into the world of television; it affords us the opportunity to peek in on others’ lives, to wrap ourselves up in someone else’s story and forget our own. It is escapism at its finest and yet it allows us to remain somewhat connected to reality via our silly little emotions. It’s a billion dollar industry that thrives on making people care about folks they will never know.

What we often fail to acknowledge is the fact that every real person has a story, and it is most likely just as complex as Dr. Grey’s. Telemarketers, the obnoxious girls giggling in a restaurant, the guy working the window at the Burger King drive-thru – these people will all watch loved ones die. Some of them may have survived cancer or lost a child or had a parent that abused them. And yet when we interact with them, we often forget all of this. We are easily annoyed by their actions, impatient and unforgiving because we have made a disconnect between “us” and “them”. They are strangers, and therefore we don't really give a rat's ass about them.

One of the reasons we’re so drawn to and interested in these TV characters (fictional or "real") is due to the fact that we are exposed to intimate details of their lives. But when such details are unknown (as is the case when our fellow man interrupts us during the dinner hour), we are more apt to judge and reject. Would anyone scream at a celebrity for accidentally bumping into them? Probably not, because you know who that celebrity is; they are human to you since you’ve been bombarded with so many details about their life. But they are no more worthy of your patience, time, and consideration than the guy who does your dry cleaning. The main difference is that you know their story (or at least think you do).

Most of us don’t go around wearing intimate information on our sleeves. We keep various parts of ourselves hidden, and these parts are often those that would cause others to more readily treat us with compassion. We fear and repress our own vulnerability and yet we need this vulnerability from others if we are to connect with them. It's a delicate balancing act; no wonder human interaction is so difficult at times.

I'm not saying that knowing information about someone will always change your opinion of them, nor am I claiming that celebrity and acceptance are solely the result of voyeurism. Really I just want to point out that everyone's story is just as valid, important, and interesting as that of the person lying in a hospital bed on a television show. Perhaps if we bring this fact to mind the next time the customer service rep in an office across the ocean mispronounces our name, we'll be more apt to treat them with patience and kindness. They have grandparents and maybe a pet dog; they live somewhere and do something. We should be nice to them. We should maybe wring our hands on their behalf.

And this, dear friends, is a thought brought to you by Grey's Anatomy.

on the road to rage

I know that the blogosphere has been longing for a new post from yours truly, but rest assured that my recent hiatus was not unwarranted. In February, I finally returned to the world of the Functionally Employed and have since been readjusting to zero free time and (sad to say) zero sit-on-my-ass-and-type-out-a-meaningful-blog-post time. But fear not! Though I haven’t been writing much, re-entry has nonetheless been providing countless topics upon which I can expound in a nonsensical and overly-dramatic fashion.

Take, for example, my daily commute. Let it be known that I currently reside in the Sacramento suburbs with my beloved parents. Re-inhabiting my childhood home has its perks: mom makes killer dinners every night, it’s dead quiet when I want to sleep, and I get all the benefits of having a cat without actually having to take care of him. There is, however, one major drawback… I have to travel approximately 9.6 miles to my office every morning. This may be no cause for alarm to most (after all, there are definitely masochists who drive 120+ miles to San Francisco), but I am not - nor will I ever be - a commuter. In fact, my idea of a bearable journey to my desk involves a several-block walk or a short bike ride. Anything outside of that is just downright inconvenient and invariably causes my font of repressed angst to flow freely.

9.6 miles is admittedly not a hop, skip, jump, or sensible bike ride away from anything, and is especially obnoxious when one is forced to travel along a city’s main artery during rush hour. Those 50 minutes that I spend in my car each day are accordingly riddled with an unprecedented amount of anxiety and overall hatred for the human race. Since I’m not really one to keep complaints to myself, I thought I’d pass along a brief list of the drivers who are the most aggravating offenders…because, honestly, misery loves company and we all hate this shit.

• Mr/Mrs I Don’t Have To Wait in Line at Freeway Interchanges: This person thinks they’ve been endowed with special privileges, one of which allows them to speed past all of us poor schmucks who are dutifully waiting to transfer over to a different freeway. They fly by on your left side and, at the last minute, nose their way into the front of the line and consequently remind everyone that life just isn’t fair. [and that nice guys finish last, or at least have to wait in longer lines]
• Mr/Mrs I Can Totally Text and/or Talk On My Phone and Remain an Attentive Driver: NEWS FLASH – YOU CAN’T! Not only is your little charade against the law, but you are continuously drifting over into my lane while you wildly gesticulate with one hand and hold your phone in the other. Do the math on that one – you have no hands left for the wheel. You’re not that important; save your titillating (and undoubtedly worthwhile) conversations for a time when you aren’t endangering the lives of your fellow man.
• Mr/Mrs You Have Exactly 6 Inches of Space Between You and the Car in Front of You Which Clearly Means That I Can Switch Into Your Lane: Nope, this is a grievous miscalculation on your part.
• Mr/Mrs I’m Going To Ride Your Ass Even Though I Know You’re Completely Incapable of Going Any Faster Because There’s Too Much Traffic: I fully intend to invest in some snarky “Get off my tail” bumper sticker the very next time I patronize a tacky gift store.

The list actually goes on, but I think I’ve proved my point. One can certainly see an overarching theme when it comes to the aforementioned miscreants; they are all selfish jackasses who have absolutely no regard for how their actions affect others. I vividly recall in Driver’s Ed when my instructor said, “Driving is not a right, it’s a privilege.” I sure as hell wish people would remember that they’re lucky enough to be maneuvering a 2-ton vehicle and should therefore respect the road and its fellow occupants. I suppose that’s asking a lot of a human being, however.

In the meantime, I’ve begun collecting monies for my Cure Joselyn’s Road Rage Fund, which will be put toward financing a new living situation in Midtown. Should you wish to contribute, inquire within. If I don’t do something relatively quickly, I guarantee that my hours on the road will continue to harden and disenchant me…and suddenly I’ll be the one cutting in line at that god-forsaken freeway interchange.

my recent brush with Certain Doom

As time continues on its eternal march, I find myself becoming obnoxiously aware of my own fragile mortality. The naive optimism of my youth is withering like a dying flower and I'm turning into nothing short of a hardened, skeptical (and some might say overly-paranoid) soul. I fear for my life in automobiles. I exercise like a maniac. I say prayers to deities I don't believe in when my airborne plane encounters turbulence. It seems that everything these days is potentially lethal and/or at least mildly life-threatening, and I must remain hyper-vigilant in order to ward off potential disasters. What was once an attitude of "That could never happen to me" has become "Why the hell SHOULDN'T it happen to me?"

Given this information, I'm sure you can imagine how I reacted when - several weeks ago - I discovered a couple of mysterious bumps while rubbing the back of my neck. At first I was puzzled; did I mis-feel something? Was that my imagination? Further inspection revealed that there were indeed two distinct, hard, pea-sized masses just beneath the skin. I reacted as any normal person probably would: fleeting thoughts of CANCER skittered across my brain before I promptly shoved them to the back-burner. Denial and avoidance seemed like the only logical courses of action in this case, so I waved my flag of negligence proudly.

It wasn't until I noticed them again several weeks later that the worry really set in. I poked and prodded at the poor things relentlessly, called the advice nurse to see if I should be worried, and finally worked myself into such a frenzy at the family dinner table that my mother snapped, "JUST GO GET THEM CHECKED OUT ALREADY." [this is not to imply that my mother is an uncaring, callous woman...rather she was sick of hearing me bemoan the likelihood that I was dying of some tragic form of neck cancer] The following day (Saturday), I went online and dutifully booked an appointment with my physician for Monday morning.

The proceeding days were interesting to say the least. For whatever reason, I'd decided that these were to be my final moments of "normalcy"...I was more or less certain that the doctor was going to take one gander at my neck and declare me a goner. My life had obviously been going too well recently and surely some tectonic shift of fate had occurred. I was consequently going to get it.

I began looking at everything in an entirely new light; mine was suddenly a world of "lasts". My last normal workout. My last normal dinner. My last normal night of sleep. All aspects of my squish-ably comfortable existence were threatened and I was certain that every iota of my well-being was to be ripped away at 10:10AM on January 28.

Throughout all of this inner turmoil, however, there was one prevailing thought: if I escape this unscathed, I will never take my body or my health for granted again. 

I remember sitting in a biology class eons ago, learning about DNA. I marveled at the fact that our body executes countless processes with uncanny precision and consistency; it consequently seemed impossible that we get sick as little as we do. And yet there I was - a greedy, entitled teenager - who completely took for granted the fact that her blood, bones, and organs were doing their jobs and keeping her alive at all costs. Why is it that we only appreciate, acknowledge, and fully understand everything that we have when we feel we are at risk of losing it?

Obviously the jovial tone of this post gives away the end of the story. After a very thorough inspection of my neck, my doctor happily chirped that I had absolutely nothing to worry about. Those little bumps were lymph nodes, they were totally normal in size, and the only reason I was feeling them was because I'd probably been doing some weight lifting that had tightened the muscle and thus made them more apparent. I was certainly not going to die - at least not from neck cancer, and not at that particular moment. I felt a little silly, but mostly relieved and infinitely appreciative of the fact that I would live another normal day.

I know that this will not be the last time that I experience an unwarranted freak-out over what appears to be a medical anomaly. My only hope is that I'll be able to (in the interim) retain some reverence for the fact that I'm alive and seemingly healthy. It's difficult to remember this when one is wrapped up with the concerns of modern existence, so I do intend to consciously set aside a few moments and give thanks for the miracle of my silly little life.

And tonight? Well, I'm going to enjoy a lovely not-last-meal and then cuddle the shit out of two of my favorite cats.

we are nowhere and it's now

"You should've gone into a profession," my mother says. I'm slumped in my seat at the dinner table, shoveling a forkful of salad into my mouth after lamenting my latest job hunt woes. "You know, like a lawyer or a doctor or an accountant."

I stop for a moment and imagine what my life would be like with a steady career. It sounds so enticing: an income, independence, direction. I'm suddenly lifted above the gray cloud that's descended over my mood, floating in a make-believe land of Could-Potentially-Haves where there is an actual reason to get out of bed in the morning. I have a purpose and it's fucking beautiful. My moment of euphoria is just that, however: a moment. My spirits plummet when I'm once again confronted with the reality of my situation...I'm an unemployed 30-something who is skilled at many things and a specialist in nothing. 

I think, in many ways, my generation is a little lost. We grew up hearing stories of the American Dream: college and career leading to countless riches and contentment. It seemed like a formula, a guarantee. If we followed some steps, we'd get to where we needed to go. I adhered to the prescribed path with a relentless fervor, earning near-perfect grades, picking a major that I thought sounded interesting, attending a great college, and graduating with a commendable GPA. But when I stood on that precipice between College and Life, I had a disturbing realization: I'd accomplished all of this without thinking about what I actually wanted to do. I had a degree in a field that ultimately meant nothing to me. My fundamental assumption had proved erroneous: turns out that blindly following the approved path didn't automatically lead to success. I was 23 years old and had no idea who I wanted to be, where I wanted to go, or what I wanted to do. And as far as I knew, there was no conventional method for getting myself out of this predicament. 

A few months ago, a friend of mine mentioned that he has a buddy who's known from the get-go that he wanted to work for Apple. He was hired by the company straight out of college and is still working there now. After relaying this story, my friend made a rather poignant comment: "I envy that he's always known what he wanted to do. Even if I did know what I wanted to do, I still don't know if I'd know how to do it!" We were all raised with this idea that we could do anything and be anything with the right amount of determination. But what if we stand up to wave our wand and have no idea what to wish for? Oftentimes even if we do have some inkling, the path to attainment is uncharted; this not only creates obstacles but also leaves infinite room for error. And then a final hurdle: what if there's not a place for us in the job market once we've trained ourselves to get where we thought we wanted to go?

My solution to this conundrum has been a bit haphazard; I've just chosen the most interesting of my available opportunities and hoped for the best. The idea is that I'll eventually stumble upon something that gives actual meaning to my existence. Until I find this, however, I'm going to keep pressing the Reset button. That's the most difficult part: choosing a path, eventually realizing you've erred, and then altering your course. You doubt your inner compass, your ability to persevere, and your knowledge of yourself as a person. Whereas my parents' generation picked a career and stuck with it for 30+ years, members of mine have often had three or four "jobs" before they even turn 30. I can't help but wonder why we are so indecisive and fickle...and I can't help but worry that there's an arbitrary time limit on all of this, that one day a clock will strike and suddenly I'll be unable to change my course. [This of course will happen when I'm a 60 year old checkout clerk at Walmart who's earning a few pennies less than minimum wage]

Sometimes I think that my life might be easier if I'd bitten the proverbial bullet and randomly selected a profession; at least then I'd have a safety net. However, I also would've devoted numerous additional years to schooling and certainly wouldn't have had many of my [inspiring] worldly experiences. I still haven't cobbled together much of a Life Plan, but maybe that's okay. In a world where there are no guarantees, I suppose I'd rather have a diverse portfolio than run the risk of being pigeon-holed. Unfortunately this strategy will involve a lot of dry spells, uncertainty, and discouraging conversations at the dinner table from time to time.

life on venus

Back on a particular evening of April 2009, I was at a night club in Göteborg. Though it was well into spring at the time, the weather on the rooftop patio was only relatively survivable; you weren't going to lose any limbs to frostbite if you stood beneath one of the heat lamps. This of course meant that the Swedish women were clad in T-shirts, short skirts, and heels. As a native Californian, however, I felt that such temperatures warranted what can only be described as sub-zero garb. I was consequently covered from head to toe, a veritable conservative brunette in a land of scantily-clad blonde beauties. Needless to say, I was feeling a little insecure and out of place. I happened to be at this venue with my boyfriend, who made an off-handed comment at an inopportune moment.

"It must be so difficult to be a Swedish woman. They've got to feel so much pressure to live up to the reputation of being the most beautiful women in the world."

Though he was just making an innocent - albeit characteristically oblivious - observation, I felt compelled to give him a firm punch in the arm. I wanted to tell him that I'd spent the better part of my evening wondering why I wasn't sucking it up and freezing my ass off in the name of fashion. I wanted to tell him that I was ogling these women and feeling that I needed to be more beautiful. I wanted to tell him that almost every woman feels this, that we exert a shockingly large amount of effort trying to do it all and have it all and be strong, composed, and undeniably attractive in the process. This compulsion to obtain perfection is not at all unique to Swedish females; it affects practically every member of my gender. It starts early and is a seemingly incurable infection that flares up every now and then.

Case in point: many years ago, I was over at a friend's house and she had a closet whose doors were outfitted with mirrors. We were seated on the floor in front of  said closet, talking with our backs positioned away from our respective reflections. I remember catching sight of our images at one point and thinking, "I'm so much fatter than she is." It was during this moment that I first became painfully aware of my body and its "undesirable" proportions. I felt strikingly inadequate: my friend was thin, smart, popular, and athletic. I remember thinking that I didn't stand a chance in a world filled with people like her. I was eight years old at the time.

A friend recently linked me to this article and I found that many of the points struck a chord. One particularly intriguing comment involved this notion that we women revel in seeing female public figures looking particularly haggard. These individuals who had previously achieved super-hero status are suddenly downgraded because they've been caught with stringy hair on a Saturday morning. It's as if we experience a sense of relief when we see such things; these "perfect" women are actually not flawless, so perhaps we don't have to be either. Well, that and we feel superior to them for one moment because our hair looks particularly good that day.

It's not my intent to compose some "woe is me for being a member of the fairer sex" diatribe here. Rather, I'm drawing attention to the fact that we all put undue (and unnecessary) pressure on ourselves at one point or another. It is difficult to divorce oneself from the compulsion to compare; we are social beings and so much of our existence is dependent upon how we are able to relate and react to one another. But instead of seeing others as a potential threat (or someone that we will never measure up to), we should realize that they're undoubtedly coping with their own sets of problems. No one has it easy, no one is perfect, and I guarantee that your life is going to be filled with additional imperfections if you struggle to make it flawless.

I will happily admit that I'm learning to take a more forgiving stance with myself. My foibles make me relatable, which in turn means that I'm usually in good company (or company, at the very least). I will never be a Gorgeous Swedish Woman who can wear heels in zero degree weather. I will, however, be a Frumpily-Dressed Californian who writes snarky blog posts. 

Thankfully I'm becoming okay with that.

cue the violins

"Thanks for coming in...wait, what happened to your face?"

As I stood in the bathroom rubbing my head, this is how I envisioned the opening moments of the following day's job interview transpiring. You see, I'd just made a very grievous error; while attempting to apply deodorant, I missed my armpit entirely and instead slammed the stick of white gel directly into my eye socket. After running through the obligatory Paranoid Joselyn Thoughts (does deodorant cause blindness??), I became concerned with a much more immediate issue: there was a decent chance that this would leave a mark and the aforementioned interview was a scant twenty-three hours away. I closed my eyes, exhaled, and wondered what deity I needed to thank for blessing me with such a unique worry. Certainly only I could be so lucky?

A friend of mine plays several exotic instruments and is often obligated to do business with vendors in Iran whenever he needs replacement supplies. Apparently the reputation of these individuals is questionable at best, and he once joked that he must be the only person on the planet with Shady Lute Merchant Problems. I found his claim to be exceedingly humorous - not just because I was amused that this was a legitimate concern in his life, but also because I realized that he, too, was afflicted with an uncommon set of grievances. It's not my business to air such information in this public forum, but suffice to say this guy has had some seriously weird shit happen to him. Sometimes when we were hanging out, I'd worry that our mutual "luck" would create a Disaster Vortex that would swallow us whole.

But hearing him lament his trials and tribulations also made me wonder if we are all actually cursed with what we consider to be uniquely troublesome issues. I initially began this blog with the intent of drawing attention to my bizarre and random life occurrences; however, now I'm beginning to wonder if this shit happens to everyone and they're all just much more adept at letting it go. Whereas I fuss and fret over a bruised eye socket, someone else might simply laugh it off and move on with their day. I am eternally envious of those who can Let go and let God; I can only dream of the day when my brain will choose to have such a laissez-faire attitude. Instead, I'm an obsessive perfectionist who believes that any slip-up in her vigilance will result in some kind of mishap.

In all honesty, I began writing this post several days ago and had to put it on the back burner because some Particularly Unfortunate Things happened. Luckily, said things managed to put the deodorant issue into perspective. I can now do little more than shake my head at Past Self and wonder why she interpreted a knock in the eye socket to be a blatant assault on behalf of the Universe. 

Perhaps it's time for me to start focusing on the plethora of successes in my life instead of bemoaning the few broken bits. Perhaps I should throw caution to the wind and risk getting caught up in a tornado. Perhaps this blog needs to be revamped and renamed: My Life as a Functional (Waterproof!) Umbrella.

...

Unfortunately that just doesn't have the same ring. And then I'd be depriving you, dear reader, of the opportunity to feel a little less alone while chuckling about one woman's version of shady lute merchant problems. You're welcome.