If you exist in the world then you've probably heard of the concepts of introversion and extroversion, and know that these concepts are often applied as descriptors of people.  Well, if you believe that introverts don't like being around others and extroverts do, then you're almost right, but not quite.  Carl Jung, one of the fore-people of the field of psychology, was the first to use the terms introversion and extroversion.  He theorized that introverts are focused on themselves, internal reflection, dreaming, thinking, and insight. They're often disinterested in interacting with others compared to extroverts who focus outside of themselves and on sensory perception and action.  Extroverts are usually energetic and lively.  Jung originally proposed that people have parts of each of these within themselves, but current theory differs from his original theory.  Current theory posits that people fall on a continuum somewhere between introversion and extroversion.

Anyways, according to both definitions (the original and the modern) I am an introvert. It's not hard to tell.  I really like my close friends, but small talk with strangers is painful and exhausting.  Attending an event where I know no one, or even know some people, but don't know them closely, is anxiety-inducing. Leaving the house for irregular activities (anything aside from work and errands) is simply annoying.  My work as an academic and therapist is also a struggle as an introvert. I work in a field in which collaboration, networking, and first-impressions are pivotal to success.  I regularly meet strangers who immediately divulge painful, personal, and often awkward thoughts, to which I must respond appropriately.  Essentially, I am an introvert in an extrovert's life.

In my extroverted life as an introvert I have developed a few coping skills and rules by which I live my introverted extrovert's life.  The biggest of these coping skills has been finding friends who respectfully push my boundaries.  If it were up to me, I would interact with no one outside of school, work, and errands. This is okay for a while, but I don't believe that I exist exclusively for myself.  Holing myself up in my house is kind of selfish and doesn't do anyone much good.   Also, I know that when I do leave the house, I usually have fun. Having extroverted friends who come to me with ideas for excursions and opportunities to socialize, has forced me to leave my house and experience the world...within reason.

When I do socialize, which usually involves interacting with strangers of some kind,  I always worry that I'm going to say something stupid or look weird.  What I've realized though, is that first, the more I worry about looking weird, the weirder I act.  Second, who cares if I act weird?  What I'm really worried about when I worry about looking weird is that people will judge me.  Honestly, when I really think about it, I don't care much if people judge me.  If they don't like me, then I don't need them.  So, when I'm interacting with strangers, or even people who I worry will judge me, I remind myself that I really don't care if people judge me and that the worst that can happen is I don't make a friend.  I already have those, so I think I'll survive without more.

A final thing I've learned as an introvert in an extrovert's life is that it's okay to say "no."   When someone asks me if I want to make plans, I make habit of saying yes, because I like to challenge myself, but on occasion, if I'm really not up for it, I allow myself to say "no."  I allow myself to say no because I know I deserve it, and I know that for my happiness and sanity I need to spend the time by myself to gather my thoughts and recharge.  It's hard not to feel guilty when I say no, but I've made a conscious decision to catch myself with these guilty feelings, assess my reasons for feeling guilty, and in the end (usually) decide that I have no reason to feel guilty and let it go.

So, if you're an introvert living in a world that is certainly (I believe) more suited to extroverts, push your boundaries a bit, but let yourself off the hook when pushing your boundaries doesn't work out perfectly.  Regardless of whether or not you are the perfect social butterfly you've got other great qualities!  And while an awkward silence will be unbearably painful, I assure you that it will not kill you.

Go get 'em Tiger!

Keep on thinking,
Josie

'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;

Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.

What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,

Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part

Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!

What's in a name? that which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet;

So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,

Retain that dear perfection which he owes

Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,

And for that name which is no part of thee

Take all myself.'

These words were written by William Shakespeare but spoken by Juliet in the first scene of the second act of Romeo and Juliet. Juliet and Romeo are, of course, forbidden lovers, all because they belong to opposing families. "What's in a name?" Juliet questions. In other words, "Who gives a crap if your last name is Montague?! It's just a word. You're still the same person, a person that I want!"

But is that really true? Is it really true that our names are nothing more than a combination of letters that have come to represent the sum of our human parts and characteristics? I guess Juliet's on to something. After all, names are human constructs, just like race, and language, and any label for anything anywhere. Some time way back someone decided that sounds were necessary for human interaction, and that in order to effectively communicate, these sounds would be attached to objects, experiences, and feelings. So, the sound räk would come to represent a solid mineral material. The same thing happens with names. We've got a whole bunch that we all seem to keep in the rotation,--child after child is named Catherine--but, say, someone decided to throw random letters together and slap that combination of letters on a birth certificate. Those letters have no meaning until they're attached to a human being. By way of example, Nistlqa, a seemingly nonsensical combination of words, can come to represent a little blonde girl with a spunky attitude and a love for badminton.

So, as we can see, Juliet has a point. That being said, there's obviously another side of that coin because if it's true that names are just meaningless and random combinations of letters, then why do we name people with combinations of letters rather than combinations of numbers?  Why do we want sounds attached to our names?  And why is it, when you hear a unique name, that you always ask if it means something and what it means? Why do parents-to-be angst over naming their children and why do celebrities change their names for work?  Why do women in the United States change their last names to match those of their husbands?

These are obviously very complicated questions with even more complicated answers.  Someone out there who is much smarter than me has likely answered these questions.  An anthropologists, or a linguist, or a psychologist, or a sociologist.  I have no idea, but what I do know is that somewhere along the way, our names went from being random combinations of letters to random combinations of letters that say something about us.  This reflects what happened with words like "rock."  Sound became representations of things.

The cool thing about names is that while words like "rock" [generally] have one definition, names like Catherine have thousands of unique definitions.  No one Catherine is the same, so the same random combination of letters means millions of different things.  You cannot define Catherine like you can "rock."   So, again we're back to Juliet's argument that a name is nothing more than a random combination of letters, because really, what does Catherine mean if it describes millions of different things (or people)?

So, "what's in a name?"  Well Juliet, maybe not a definition of a person's character, but actually quite a lot.  Quite a lot that I'm not sure about.  But, quite a lot.

Keep on thinking,

Josie

"Misogyny: dislike of, contempt for, or ingrained prejudice against women."  While as a woman I have been highly aware of misogyny in daily life, recently it seems to be absolutely pervasive in popular culture.  With the recent Santa Barbara killings, social media (and real media) have been overflowing with discussion about sexism and how it affects both women and men.  It's especially been considered as it relates to the actions of the perpetrator of the Santa Barbara killings (who will never be named in this blog--I refuse to give him the recognition he so violently sought).  

In a very telling article about the perpetrator and his "friends,"  all of whom participated in a Pickup Artist Hate (PUAHate) online community, the perspectives of a [hopefully] very unique group of people were shared.  These people, exclusively male as represented in the article, are a community who discuss their hate of women who, according to them, refuse them the sex they deserve.  In this community they condone rape, revere those who use force to gain influence over women, discuss their plans to "kill the entire school,"  encourage each other to write manifestos declaring their hate of women, critique the bodies and sexual choices of women, and honor the name of the perpetrator.  This is the community that the perpetrator was a part of, posting in the community "Women are the Enemy.  You need to start seeing them as enemies...they torture you, starve you of sex, and humiliate you...women are the ultimate cause of your suffering.  They are the ones who have UNJUSTLY made our life a hell." 

So, despite this, and many other misogynistic comments writing and recorded by the perpetrator, why is it that the first explanation people have for the perpetrator's killing spree is unwell mental health?  When so much evidence demonstrates the role of a boy's unrealistic expectations of women that are a result of his understanding of his and women's cultural contexts, why is it that mental disorder is always the immediate explanation (at least for white men--it's terrorism for minorities). 

I'm not saying that mental health problems didn't play a role in the perpetrator's choice to kill innocent people, but I am saying that the many individuals who have exclusively explained the perpetrator's actions with mental health are somewhat missing the boat.  Our society is so blind to misogyny that even when a person's hate for women is blatantly stated, we ignore it and explain it away.  That just seems silly to me.  It's similarly concerning that when intelligent and highly informed female experts assert the role of misogyny in violence [some, but not all] men so vehemently take offence, go on the defensive, and play the victim.  As if because "not all men" violently react like the perpetrator, misogyny is not actually an existing phenomenon.  

Not only does this response continue to allow us as a society to ignore the role of misogyny in violence against women, but also allows us to perpetuate stereotypes about mental health and people with mental health concerns.  In perpetuating these stereotypes we continue to allow people to believe that individuals with mental health conditions are unstable, violent, and dangerous (which is generally not the case). This stereotype prevents normal people who have actual mental health problems from getting the help they need because they fear that they will be assumed to be like "that man who shot up a sorority."

Let's not allow the evil acts of one person to domino into residual impact on additional individuals. Let's, for once, acknowledge the role that culture plays in our perception of violence.  We're only harming ourselves, men and women, by ignoring it.


Keep on thinking,
Josie

Today Maya Angelou died at the age of 86.  If you're at all present in social media, or really just in the world, you probably already knew this.  You also probably knew that Maya Angelou was an incredible cultural influence with a very important role in the world.  She will, of course, continue to hold this vital place in culture well beyond her death.

So upon learning of Maya Angelou's death today, I was first sad because I understood that our world had lost a woman who contributed a great deal of good.  After that though, I was a bit annoyed with myself.  I was annoyed because for the first time I realized my ignorance to her actual work.  I am fairly ashamed of this as a feminist and as a member of humankind, especially being that I am a member of human kind who has spend much of her life with the sole purpose (and luxury) of learning.  That has literally been my only responsibility of significance in life--to absorb the world. Maya Angelou is a remarkable part of the world.

I pondered this for a while, my ignorance.  Why am I so ignorant about the life of Maya Angelou?  Why do I only know her name, and that she is important, and not why she is important?  Of course part of the reason for my ignorance is that I didn't pursue Maya Angelou.  I could have looked for more information about her, read more of her work.  To a certain extent that was a choice I made, but at the same time, I have persisted through 19 years of formalized education including years of English literature coursework, two college level literature courses in high-school, a liberal arts bachelor's degree, and now an advanced degree in a social science.  Not once along the way have I read a single work of Maya Angelou's.

As a matter of fact, in thinking about it I realized that I can count on one hand the number women authors whose works I have read (1. Charlotte Bronte, 2. Mary Shelley, 3. Harper Lee, 4. Amy Tan).  One of these authors originally published her books in a male pen name and another dropped her first name to sound more androgynous.  Just one of these authors belongs to a minority race.  So, in 19 years and counting of education, I was introduced to a whopping four female authors and therefore heard the voices and world-views of just four women.  How many male authors have I read? Too many to count.

It's probable that my access to literature written by women was limited by the fact that there is a dearth of literature written by women, compared to men.  This is obviously a product of historical context, but I'm not willing to accept that as explanation.  That explanation is a cop out and only perpetuates society's neglect of important minority voices.  "It's not our fault" is never an excuse. Maybe it's not our fault, but the question is, what are we going to do about it?  It seems like the answer to that has generally been "not a lot."

This is wrong.  By neglecting the voices of people of color, varied sexual orientations, varied genders, varied religions, varied ages, varied identities, in literature, and in the teaching of literature, we are also neglecting to assert the importance of these varied identities in the wider world.  Of course I hadn't read anything written by Maya Angelou.  She was a multiple minority who resolutely struggled for representation in the world (as evidenced by her efforts as a social activist and by the content of her work--from what I understand at least), and I was educated in a middle-class predominantly white town.  I had very little in common with Miss Angelou, but that is precisely why it's so striking that I didn't read her works--I never had the chance to learn about our lack of commonality. In essence, the very thing about which Maya Angelou wrote and spoke was what has prevented me from reading her works, and the works of her cohorts, in my tenure as a student.

Maya Angelou is a vital and beautiful voice in our world.  She is, and will continue to be, seen this way. What we need to do is go beyond this basic understanding and actually hear her voice, not just hear about her voice.  It is not until we hear directly from the voices of those who are different from us that we begin to understand our commonalities, but also the beauty in our differences.

In the words of Maya Angelou, "It is time for parents to teach young people early on that in diversity there is beauty and there is strength."  I believe that literature provides us with the opportunity to teach this principle. We simply need to use literature as the opportunity to hear the voices of many rather than to hear the voices of few.  It is time.

Keep on thinking,
Josie

Today I faced a beast.  I faced a beast called Dress Shopping.  That is right,  I faced Dress Shopping and I slayed Dress Shopping.  For those who are unfamiliar with how one goes about slaying Dress Shopping, it is important that you know that a slaying is different than a victory.  When one finds an appropriate style of dress in appropriate colors, with appropriate amounts of skin showing, at an appropriate (or in my case cheap) price, that is a victory.  A victory is very good because it means that Dress Shopping the Beast will disappear. The problem with victory is that while Dress Shopping the Beast disappears, its friends Shoes, Hair, and Makeup come to seek vengeance for their fallen comrade.  A slaying of the Dress Shopping Beast means a victory over it, and all of its friends.  (Side note: I'm really impressed if you made it through that giant metaphor).

When I dress shop (and I am much like most women), I meticulously comb through rack after rack of discount dresses and gather as many as look even remotely appropriate (and attractive of course).  This is round one. In round two I take my approximately 32 dresses (this is not a hyperbole--there were actually 32 of them today) to the fitting room where I try them on in groups of 8 (4 of them).  In each of those groups of eight there is a winning dress that makes it to round three.  Along the way photographic text messages are sent to various important parties for their input (ah, technology).  The four winning dresses from round two are then compared to each other in round three, and the fairest dress of them all is the one that gets to go to the ball (or in this case the Sunday evening outdoor wedding).  Finding a dress is then followed by visits to three different stores to find matching shoes.  Today this whole process took approximately four hours.  I tried on 32 dresses in the hopes that one of them would work.  I spent four hours finding and purchasing just two items.

Today I slayed the Beast and in doing so, realized how much life is like dress shopping. When we have goals in mind for ourselves (like buying a cheap but perfect dress), sometimes we have to attempt that goal many, many, times (32) to reach that goal, and sometimes it takes a really long time (4 hours).  But ultimately, at least in my opinion, it's worth it because we end up where we need to be, whether that's with an accomplished goal (a sexy red dress and adorable sandals), or somewhere else much better (can you imagine if my budget had been unlimited?).  It's not simple, but it's not supposed to be.  I appreciate my sexy red dress so much more because I worked so hard to find it and because I know it was the best dress that Ross Dress for Less (yes, that's really the name of the store) had to offer.

The good news: On occasion reaching goals isn't so hard.  It only took me 2 minutes today to find perfect red lipstick matching nail polish.

Keep on thinking,
Josie

Approximately two years ago I moved 550 miles away from my very cushy existence to an apartment near my graduate school.  For the last two years I have lived alone in an apartment and existed as a relatively independent individual (note: relatively does not mean completely--phones call parents very quickly). So, as I am nearing the end of my time in this city and moving another 1000 miles away from home in a few months, I felt that now was a good time to impart some wisdom on those of you who will soon be leaving home for the first time. For those reading this who are well distanced from the coming-of-age time of your lives, please consider this an opportunity for a sociological education that you never asked for (read: PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME!)

Things I've learned in my tenure as a first-time independent apartment renter and human being:

1)  Your neighborhood will change.  Two years ago when I moved into my current apartment my neighborhood was verging on sketchy, but was still firmly planted in a safe student slum.  I was content with that and knew that while I was losing the luxury of living in an area with real human beings, I was gaining proximity to work.  Within the past two years, my neighborhood has opened a free clinic and a Catholic Charities office.  Needless to say, the clientele in the area has transformed somewhat, but you know what, diversity and change keep you grounded.  Embrace it.

2)  Ants can appear without warning and will never leave you.  Every spring they will come.  They will come marching in (they actually do that--in freaky zombie-like single-file lines) and will parade right into your trashcan.  You will spray, and clean, and smush, but from that point on you will have phantom sensations of ants crawling on you at all times.

3)  If the floor is sticky it should have been mopped three months ago.  See list item 2.

4)  You should probably wash your linens.  There will come a time when you will look at your bed linens and towels and wonder when you last washed them.  This is inevitable. At this point you will want to wash them...unless you have to pay for laundry.  Then you should bring them with you next time you go to your parents' house.  Parents love when you bring dirty laundry home.  It brings them back to the good old days.

5)  Don't park on the street.  Bad things happen on the streets.  It will cost you extra money to park in a private, well-lit, gated parking garage, but it is safer for you and your car.  It will be worth it when your friends are angsting about scratches on their cars and break-ins.

6) There will come a time when you will have to make a very important choice: air conditioning or fan/ heat or layers.  Heat and air conditioning are expensive and if you are anything like me you will have very little money.  You will want to save that money and you will realize that one of the easiest ways to save money is to cut your electricity bill.  You will likely spend extended periods of time in extremes of very little and very much clothing.  You will be laughed at for your onsie and/or bathing suit, but you will be the one laughing when your electric bill comes.  

7) Another very important choice will be to decorate or save your security deposit.  While your lease says that you can hang things on walls with screws (not nails) you will think very long and hard about exactly what you want to hang on your walls and where you want to hang them.  For example, I have a nicely framed piece of artwork that I have wanted to hang in my apartment for the last two years; however, I have not hung it out of fear that I will not like the place I choose and will then have an extra hole in my wall.  Oh the agony.

8) You will inevitably collect stale cereal.  I really don't know why this happens.  It's just a thing.  I currently have six boxes of cereal, only one of which I am willing to eat from. Also, see list item 2.

9) Clean your apartment before you leave it for extended periods of time. You will not want to come home to a mess after a long trip.  You also will not want to deal with old and moldy coffee filters when you begin making coffee at 7 o'clock the morning after your homecoming.  That it is simply infuriating and you will have no one to blame but yourself.  Additionally, see list item 2.

10) Killing plants is a right of passage...  You will start with the best of intentions.  "It can't be that hard. It's only a plant.  It only needs water."  [I said before killing three basil plants and one campanula-get-mee (a.k.a. the devils flower).]

11) ...So is calling the cops on your neighbors.  This will make you feel guilty and like an old lady/man who has no life and has lost all sense of fun.  This withstanding, your sanity depends on your ability to draw the line and just call the cops using a non-emergency number.  This should be used as a last resort after calm discussion (usually followed by not-so-calm discussion) has been attempted and unsuccessful.

12)  Err on the side of gunshot.  If you are wondering if a sound was a gunshot or a skateboard, assume it was a gunshot.  This will increase your anxiety but also decrease your chances of getting killed while walking alone at night.

13) Throw away your junk mail.  Don't leave it at the mailbox.  Don't be the jerk who leaves the junk mail on the floor for people to slip on or leaves it hanging around the mailbox.  Bring it back to your apartment with you and throw it the heck away.  No one wants to deal with your garbage and it's disrespectful to the cleaning people and other tenants.  Be a good neighbor.

14)  Your neighbor is doing jumping jacks.  Just go with it.   That repeated, rhythmic, banging sound coming from above you is due to aerobic exercise.   Again,  your sanity depends on this self-deception.

15) Get a damn dishwasher!  When you are apartment hunting, don't be cheap.  A dishwasher is worth a bit of extra rent per month.  I spend at least 20 minutes a day washing dishes by hand.  That's 2 hours and 20 minutes a week that I will never get back. Time is money people!

16) Find a place you'll want to stay in for a long time.  Moving sucks.  Packing sucks. Apartment hunting sucks.  Asking friends to help you move sucks.  Helping friends move sucks.

17)  People will judge your book and DVD collections.  The first things visitors to your apartment will look for are your book and DVD collections.  Be cautious with what you choose to display and how you choose to display it.  I once had a visiting friend conspicuously move a set of horribly written but incredibly entertaining vampire novels to a different shelf because they were next to the Harry Potter series.  This offended her and apparently needed to be remedied immediately.  My collection of musical movies is apparently similarly offensive to guests.

18)  Bugs will need to be killed and you will need to do the killing.  There are these things called Silverfish.  They are the most repulsive looking insects you will ever witness.  They have endless numbers of legs and scamper about at breakneck speeds.  They are next to impossible to kill and they may terrorize you because of this.  They may also crawl on your arm while you are relaxed on your couch reading.  It will be solely your responsibility to kill these vile creatures (and other vile creatures that invade your space).  Just scream really loudly while you're doing it and understand that the crunching noise is a good thing.  It means that for at least a small period of time, you are rid of the monster.

19) Mugs procreate.  Where do they all come from!?  I've run out of room!

20)  There will come a time when you will have to buy something you never had to buy before, and it will appall, astound, and disgust you.  I never realized how many things my parents provided for me without any request on my part.  My parents are both dentists and obviously provided all of the dental supplies I ever needed.  This being said, I must have thought that toothpaste and toothbrushes apparated into existence because the first time I needed to purchase these items it was as if I had been required to purchase an elephant.  I'm fairly certain I stood in front of the toothbrushes at the grocery store for a solid five minutes before finally deciding which one to buy.  The injustice!

So there you have it--my sage advice for those about to embark independently on a voyage into the real world.  In sum: you should clean, bugs are gross, neighbors sometimes suck, you will be judged.

Keep on thinking,
Josie

According to Merriam-Webster, hope is defined, "to want something to happen or be true and think that it could happen or be true."  It's really a vague word and incredibly hard to specifically define.  I prefer to define the word a little differently than Merriam-Webster.  Is that allowed?

That was a rhetorical question.  I was only pretending to care about Merriam-Webster's feelings.  Sorry Merriam-Webster, but my definition of "hope" is having a positive outlook on one's future life events.  That may be an even vaguer definition than that offered by Merriam-Webster, but it seems more in line with what I know about how hope works in the real world.

You see, to me, hope is not only an event-specific noun (like Merriam-Webster presents it), but also a way-of-life that encompasses a person's entire being.  From my [limited] experience with the world, it seems that people are hopeful about life in general, in addition to being hopeful about specific events or occurrences. It seems that hope is both a state and trait phenomenon (got all sciency and psychological--you still there?).  Turns out the research supports this theory (Check out more here).

So, I believe that at least in part, being a hopeful person is a choice.  We can either decide to be hopeful (and therefore positive) about that which we're dealt in life, or we can choose to be unhopeful (which is not actually a word; and therefore pessimistic) about that which we're dealt.  While I understand that sometimes there are brain chemicals at play that make us physiologically depressed, and prevent us from being able to make a choice about whether or not we'll be hopeful, when there are no nuisancing chemicals I just don't get why anyone would choose to be unhopeful.  It seems to me that choosing to be hopeful comes with perks like being happier, nicer to other people, and better citizens of this great big world whereas choosing to be unhopeful comes with only one thing.  A great big goose egg.

The one scary thing about hope is that it leaves us open to pain.  When we are hopeful that things will work out to our benefit and they don't, it can be demoralizing and make us feel really let down by the world. It can also leave us a bit embarrassed if we've  led people to expect that things will work to our benefit and they don't.  Like we've failed someone, somehow.

The great, and kind of ironic, thing about hope is that it's self-fixing.  When hope leaves us hopeless, and we're hopeful people, we feel less hopeless in hopeless situations (Huh?).  Hopeful people recover from failures better because they can see the possibility of a better future.  Pretty cool.

So, I ask again, why wouldn't someone choose to be hopeful?  Seems like a no-brainer to me.

Keep on thinking,

Josie

I am nearly twenty-five years old, which is absolutely terrifying.  I sense a quarter-life crisis rapidly approaching.  Aside from the existential paralysis that accompanies the age of 25, I can guess with a fair amount of certainty that I will no longer be considered a child.  That probably already happened, but if it hasn't, the age of 25 will surely put the last nail in the coffin. My childhood is a goner.

That sucks, because childhood comes with some pretty great perks.  For one, grown-ups have almost no expectations of children.  As long as they're not throwing themselves on the ground in public places, people are pretty impressed.  As an adult, if you so much as sigh at an inappropriate time, you are scolded.  Another perk of childhood is ignorance.  Don't get me wrong, I really love being a keeper and disseminater of knowledge, but it was even nicer when, as a child, I knew nothing and everything was a new and exciting learning experience.  Every contact with the world was filled with awe and wonder at the vastness and improbability of the universe.  As adults, we get careless in the mostly familiar world around us and forget to notice the unfamiliar things.  With that carelessness departs our awe and wonder.

While these two perks of childhood are pretty awesome, one by far surpasses them.  That is, as a child you can play without an excuse.  Children never have to have a reason to play, go wild, run around.  Adults have to have a purpose behind their play.  Adults have to have worked really hard, accomplished something, or be celebrating someone else, to feel that they deserve to play. As if play is exclusively reserved as a reward.

As a fledgling academic my life responsibilities are less than those of many adults, but certainly more than those of children.  As an academic I am expected to produce something everyday without the luxury of 9-5 time boundaries.  This means that at all times I feel the need to be working toward completing at least one item on one of many perpetual lists.  "Infinity lists" if you will.   This weekend I had the opportunity to celebrate a dear friend's upcoming nuptials with an irresponsible bachelorette party complete with laser tag, trampolining, and a wine tasting for a touch of class.  The laser tag and trampolining were, of course, the best parts.  Pure child-like glee.  For two short days my fellow infant academics and I let go of our many infinity lists and allowed ourselves to let loose, laugh endlessly, act goofy.

The thing is, we would never have let loose without the excuse of celebrating our bride-to-be.  That's because we're adults. Kids get to play without purpose, for the heck of it, and adults have to explain themselves when they play.  It seems to me that adults could use the opportunity to let loose even more than kids given their extra life responsibilities (e.g., bills, jobs, loans, regularly brushing teeth).

But here's a radical idea.  Let's not make excuses. Let's not explain ourselves, and find reasons to celebrate, and call things rewards that we never really had to earn in the beginning.  We owe these justifications to no one, including ourselves.  Let's just play.  Unencumbered by infinity lists.  Without expectations for ourselves or others.  With the awe and wonder of children.

Let's just play.

There is a right of passage in womanhood.  A right of passage that most women dread, but eventually succumb to.  Great deals of money, pain, stress, angst, are spent on this particular right of passage.  We women pretend to accept it as a part of being female, grin and bare it for the sake of others, but silently seethe that our male cohorts do not have to experience that particular brand of anguish.  Many young girls fantasize about the right, but after experiencing it, and looking back on it as older adults, realize that their childish conclusions about the right were completely off base. Being a bridesmaid is not the princess-like fantasy they imagined.  Being a bridesmaid is more like being the horse the princess rides on her way to meet her prince charming.

Being a bridesmaid is both the greatest joy a woman can experience as a friend and the most arduous.  Like a bad reality show, only the strongest friendships survive.  The rest are thrown into pool by an enemy, or vomit after eating a bug, early on in the season.  Eliminated with a hardy "You're Fired!" Except that's the problem.  You will never, ever, be fired from bridesmaid-dom.  Perhaps demoted from maid of honor to a bridesmaid, but, unfortunately, never fired.  Your punishment will be putting together 500 place cards and sitting through discussion after discussion about wedding plans.

For approximately one year, your friendship with the bride will be placed on hold and all friendship efforts will be focused toward "The Wedding." You will spend the majority of your meager income on "The Wedding."  Travel to "The Wedding" (and the shower, and the bachelorette party).  A dress (she says you can wear whatever you want as long as it's pink, but she's lying).  Shoes (the proper heel size to make you and the other bridesmaids appear to be the same height, not wedges, not patent leather, black).  A hotel room.  Three gifts.  Professionally done hair (which will fall to pieces before the ceremony).  Professionally applied makeup (which will actually look damn good).

Goodbye disposable income.  You have been disposed of.

If you make it, congratulations!  You have officially earned your title as "best friend to the bride" and learned one of two things for when it's your turn.

1) You've paid your dues.  You can be a bridezilla too (complete with requests for purchases of skin care products months before the wedding because "my photographer doesn't do touch-ups.")

2) You'll know how it feels to be the princess's horse.  You'll be nice.

On behalf of bridesmaids everywhere, I beg of you! Choose number two!

The elderly woman on the far left looks directly into the camera.  Her face is excited.  Eyebrows lifted as she broadly smiles. She is filled with a sense of glee that is usually reserved for children...on Christmas morning. A retired biology teacher, it is fitting that she is enthralled by that which stands behind her, what can only be described as a massive fossil.  A mastodon perhaps, though the species is really quite unimportant given that it ceased to exist approximately 10,500 years ago.  Aside from the immediate thrill of a dinosaur (or former dinosaur) in her presence, the building in which she stands holds endless opportunities to pursue her efforts of learning and sharing knowledge with the very young children she accompanies.  These are efforts that she will relentlessly continue until she, like the fossil, ceases to exist.

To her right stands a woman, approximately 20 years her junior, sharing similar stature and facial features among other traits unseen in this particular captured moment of time.  This younger woman, smiling genuinely like the elderly woman, does not look at the camera.  Instead, her gaze is focused off into the distance, her mouth forming silent words.  Perhaps words intended to assuage the frustration of the toddler in her arms.  A practiced behavior that will become an invaluable practiced behavior once the toddler becomes a young child, then a pre-teen, then an adolescent, then a young adult.  She never anticipated that more of the words she spoke would be "don't do thats" and "I'm proud of yous" and "I love yous" than "molar" and "pro fee" and "amalgam."

True to her nature, the toddler is arching her back, hips thrusting forward, angst on her face that only this toddler would know, wanting desperately for her feet to be independently on he ground.  Wanting desperately to roam the world like her younger siblings.  She will--roam the world.  A free spirit will develop in her.  One that her sister envies from a distance, that she learned from her brother who she will eventually out-spirit.  She will prove the naysayers wrong.  She will be a doctor, a philosopher, a socialite, a social activist, because she says she will.  Her feet will be planted firmly, and independently, on the ground.  The weed-covered ground that she will slowly, but surely, rid of dandelions.

Beside the angsting toddler and assuaging woman stands a short, but unmissable little girl.  She is unmissable because she is dressed in bright purples and pinks.  Her pants are three sizes too big.  She will grow into them, so she is told.  Her face may be the most distinct of the five, because anxiety and worry foreign to her age consumes her features.  She is terrified of the fossils that bring her grandmother so much happiness.  She fears they will attack her.  Take her from her family.  Maybe even eat her.  A reasonable fear, given that despite their current inanimate position in the world, they were not inanimate two weeks ago when she snuck a peak of the movie her parents were watching.  Sneaking peeks never worked out well for her.  She once ruined the surprise of a gifted polka-dotted pink purse when she snuck a peek before it was wrapped.  She will not sneak a peek again.  She will follow the rules and fear the larger things in the world, because, after all, that is what she knows.  This fear though, will bring her success.  Following rules can do that.

To the pink girl's right is a boy, about a foot taller.  He, like the elderly woman, is looking directly into the camera, thrilled to be standing in front of his idol.  A tight-lipped, but true, smile on his face.  A real life dinosaur--one of the many species whose name he had dutifully memorized in what he will later refer to as his "golden days" as an only child.  Perhaps this extinct creature was one of those on the colorfully printed sheets on his bed at home.  These dinosaur sheets, and their friend Winnie the Pooh, will be neglected in favor of solid colored green sheets. The boy's true smile will also be neglected, in favor of an ironic one,  to accompany his ironic t-shirt and ironic non-prescription glasses.  He will forget the name of the fossil behind him but will gain knowledge of Proust, and Vonnegut, and Wallace.

Oddly for these five individuals, no words are spoken.  This picture, however, is worth 729 words.  Words that were and words that will be.

You know that question people ask you to start conversation at a party or to test your public speaking skills at a job interview?  That dreaded question.  The one that will send your mind spinning into a frenzy, imagining  what your answer will mean about you as a person, other people's opinions of you.  "Describe yourself in one word" they say.  You choose the wrong word and you'll be considered too something (intense, emotional, depressed).  Really screwed.  You choose the right word and you're golden. Virtually a shoo-in to that social group or job you really want.  I think the question is just social torture.  A panic attack in sentence form.

To avoid the inevitable panic associated with the dreaded conversational prompt, I've developed a small cache of safe responses.  For most of my adult life I've answered pretty consistently.  "Passionate," "hardworking," I say.  Those are usually safe answers in any situation. Social or professional.  Today I think I'd answer that question a little differently.  You see, while I am still both passionate and hardworking, these two traits have left me at present with an even more salient single characterizing word for myself.  My passion and hard work have left me in a state of transition.

Since college I've striven to earn my PhD.  I started a PhD program about two years ago, but within months of beginning my advisor decided that it was time for her to leave my program and (by default) me.  I had decided to achieve my PhD with my current program because of my advisor.  She was the reason I chose to come here, so when she left, it made sense for me to leave too.  No one else was doing the work that I needed to be doing. It was a logical choice. Since making that choice I've been in academic limbo.  One foot out the door, looking for new programs, but one foot in, finishing my Master's degree.  I'll be starting on my PhD at another school soon.  In the mean time, I am still a student at my original school, but one on the way out.  My home will only be my home for another three months before I move to a new home.  My work at my current program has hit a plateau.  There's no reason to start things I can't finish. I'm a lame duck.  Full of possibility and potential for a new start, but until then, absolutely useless.

There's a sense of constant anticipation that comes with this "lame duck" period.  Knowing that the future is full of possibilities, none for which I can reach quite yet.  For a person who's constantly in motion, constantly striving for the next goal, constantly making lists of things to be done, this is quite an uncomfortable place to be. Until then, I've got the perfect single word to describe myself.

 "Describe yourself in one word." they'll say.   "Waiting," I'll reply without hesitation.

"That goes for you too!" she said after a comment to my sister.  "You marry someone rich and handsome.  Don't forget that.  That's important."  I visited with my 92 year old grandmother today. She is attempting to impart as many words of wisdom as possible before her unfortunate, but quickly approaching, death.  I laughed that this was the wisdom that she chose to impart. She was joking, but only somewhat.

My grandmother is many things.  Beautiful, classy, frugal, educated, independent, incredibly intelligent, a pioneer.  She was a science teacher when women were not pursuing careers, let alone careers in science.  Female science teachers are hard to come by even today.  My grandmother is all of these things, but one thing she is not is delicate. My grandmother says what she means.  She does not mince words.  She does not ponder the consequences of these words.  She does not fear what people will think of her if she asks for things or requests that her needs be met.  She expects greatness out of all with whom she interacts and thus brings out the best in those people. She is a force to be reckoned with.

 These characteristics of strength  are why I admire her.  I want to be her.  She is my idol because she is fearless. I strive to live a fearless life without the hindrances of embarrassment, or fear, or low self-esteem.  Being kind, and thoughtful, but not stifled. These are the lessons my grandmother learned from her mother. These are lessons I have learned from her, and from my mother, who also learned from her.  These are lessons I will someday teach my daughters.

And so it goes.  Generations of women. [Marrying rich and handsome men.]  Forces to with whom be reckoned.

Keep on thinking,

Josie

We all want Moments (capital 'M') in our lives, or as they say on American Idol (which, yes, I still watch), a "moment moment". These Moments are life events that take our breath away, change our perspective of the world, help us to realize that we are only single people in a world of many.  Our wants are minute.  Our experiences are minuscule.  Our feelings are tiny.  Moments happen occasionally, but between Moments we wait.  We wait for the next Moment to come by and sweep us off of our feet.

What we forget is that, while we do not get Moments everyday we do get moments (lowercase 'm').  moments happen and they don't smack us in the face with profundity.  Instead, they whisper quietly to us from a corner.  We miss them when we aren't paying attention.  moments are what truly form our existences and affect us day-to-day.  The jam-session I have when I'm driving home at night.  The lunch I had with friends, after which I felt full both physically and emotionally.  The small applause from a stranger I heard after playing my guitar in my apartment with the windows open.  These experiences encourage me, motivate me, make me feel appreciated, give me that little boost of energy and love that I need to carry me through to my next Moment.  

moments change us. moments inspire us. Be attentive.  Don't miss a moment.

Keep on thinking,

Josie

Today my sister graduated from a very small, very Jesuit, very private, liberal arts college.  She graduated without debt.  This is more than most of her cohorts can say, but they too originated from quite comfortable existences.  One does not simply attend a private school.  Private schools require family love, and family support, and family money.

Today my sister graduated from college and my brother, parents, grandmother, and I drove one of the four cars parked in our driveway to an outdoor ceremony, where we sat in the pouring rain for the hour before the outdoor ceremony began.  An hour during which we complained profusely about how uncomfortable and unhappy we were because we were waiting in the rain--wearing too many layers--for my sister to receive her college degree.  The ceremony (for which my sister bought a new dress and new shoes) ended and was followed by a $250 celebratory dinner at an Italian restaurant.

After dinner we moved my sister out of her on-campus apartment along with all of the other families moving their graduates out of their on-campus apartments.  Belongings were packed and belongings were discarded. A number of perfectly good rugs, comforters, electronics, etc., were thrown to a dumpster.  Entire refrigerators of unconsumed food were thrown away as the food would not survive trips home.  All of these discarded foods and belongings were carried to the nearby dumpster where one, then two, then three, families were joyfully shuffling through the graduates' discarded goods.  As if it was Christmas.  They saw value in all of the carelessly dismissed goods.

Perspective.

Keep on thinking,
Josie

Plans are my thing.  I make them.  I stick to them. I like them.  They [generally] like me (continue reading for clarification). The thing about plans, though, is that they work until they don't.  Often I've expressed my dissatisfaction with broken plans and equally often the response from others is a euphemistic "best laid plans...", though nobody seems to finish that sentence.

Turns out the saying actually comes from the poem "To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough" written by Robert Burns in 1785.  Allegedly the poem was written after Burns found a nest full of mice during winter, who had been displaced despite their well laid plan and well-created nest.  A nest that was ultimately ruined by a farmer's plow.

The poem actually says, "but little Mouse, you are not alone,/ In proving foresight may be vain:/ The best laid schemes of mice and men/ Go often askew,/ And leave us nothing but grief and pain,/ For promised joy!"  Ain't it the truth.  Broken plans (and homes) are by no means a strictly mousey problem.  Burns himself says so.  We humans lay plans and inevitably the plans are for naught.  We are left with monstrous, gaping, question-marks in our lives.  Back at the start, looking around for a solution to a problem when no solution exists.  At that point we humans have a choice to make that cannot be made by mice.

The first option is to start panicking and not stop until we're back on track with our plan.  The good thing about that option is we end up back where we hoped to be.  The bad thing is that, in the mean time, we completely lose touch with our world, so consumed with getting where we want to be that we don't enjoy the process of getting there.  The second option is to relax. When we relax, we actually allow ourselves more opportunities.  By this I mean that when we lose the plans we gain experiences that we could never have imagined for ourselves, and almost always, we learn from and grow from these unplanned experiences.  These unplanned experiences can be the ones that are most foundational to our ultimate destination.

Remember, while you and mice have your plans in common, you are not mouse. When your plans fall to pieces, you have a choice.  Make it.

Keep on thinking,
Josie

My grandmother is currently dying.  Technically anyone who is currently living is also currently dying, but as far as I know, she's closer than the rest of us.  That's really a glass half-full, glass half-empty, kind of issue. Because of my grandmother's approaching passing, I had a conversation with my mother today. The conversation landed upon the issue of where my grandmother's belongings, specifically her furniture, would go upon her death.  Perhaps it seems a bit cold and calculated to plan for the logistics of a woman's death, but these are the things you do when someone you love is nearing death.  This, along with a lot of reminiscing and nostalgia-ing.  As is typical of my family, human beings (like my siblings and me) will be displaced and replaced with furniture.  When I was a child my playroom was filled with the furniture that came from my grandparent's home upon my grandfather's death.  Apparently we have a family tradition.  The Jews have Shiva, we have furniture.

When my mother first mentioned the great furniture diaspora that she had planned, it sat fine with me.  It was when the details were discussed that I went a little insane (I don't actually think you can go a little insane.  That may be an absolute). Turns out, my mother intended for my childhood bedroom furniture to be replaced with my grandmother's much nicer furniture.  My reaction to this plan shocked me a bit.  Despite knowing that the decision would be a logical one, I was panicked.  I immediately began to cognitively scheme and manipulate the conversation such that my bedroom decor would be maintained in its entirety, while my siblings' was gradually deconstructed.  

I haven't spent a significant amount of time in that bedroom in two years.  I moved over 500 miles away and am moving even further away in the near future.  I made the choice to leave my childhood home, and my childhood bedroom, and really my childhood in general, to pursue my own life goals. But for some reason it seems that something inside of me is still dependent on that bedroom. 

Perhaps I feared that without the pink walls and white bed clearly designating a space as my own, my parents would forget me.  Or maybe I feared that without the pink walls and white bed, I would forget myself and the childhood that I had.  Or maybe I just have peter pan syndrome and never want to grow up.  Whatever the reason, it is uncomfortable and downright terrifying to think that things will be changing.  That I am truly growing up.  That adulthood is inevitable.  That my life is my own.  For worse or for better.  It is is my own. Change is terrifying.

Keep on thinking,

Josie

My father is on a mission.  A Mission to Eradicate.  Never in my life have I met a man so intent on the removal of various harmless living organisms from his personal space, as if they are inflicting him with personal injury.  At this moment his mission is primarily focused on the elimination of ants, chipmunks, and grass.  The grass is less an attempt to eradicate, and more an attempt to control. The ants are a persistent and hopeless problem. The effort to eradicate them has been adopted by my family, who can frequently be heard yelling "ANT ANT ANT!" with the thunderous sound of squashing soon following.  The chipmunks however, they are a chronically acute problem, reoccurring every spring and summer with small and hopeful respites during the fall and winter.  They clog the pool filter with their unliving bodies after suicide missions into the pool, create homes in the garage among old sports equipment and forgotten belongings from college dorms, and create homes in well-manicured landscaping.

Thus, every spring my father re-launches his Mission to Eradicate, armed with a live trap, pool skimmer, and peanut butter, like some awkward superhero with a discontinued story-line and only three comic book issues to his name. As a result of the chipmunks' equally tenacious mission to infiltrate his garage, my father ritually sets a trap just inside the garage door (through which the 'munks have intelligently chewed a hole), and everyday catches a new soldier of the Mission to Infiltrate.  The fallen soldier is then triumphantly released into a nearby forested area.  Before doing so, though, my father is sure to crack the door to the house, stick just his head inside, and announce with a slightly exasperated and slightly thrilled voice that, indeed, his daily mission has been accomplished, and he will return momentarily after releasing the villain a safe distance from the house.

The poor, trapped, chipmunks fight valiantly to escape their trap, but their effort is for naught.  They do, however, gain their small piece of revenge when they leave a single cracked sunflower seed beside the trap--a symbol of their Mission and a big middle finger to my father who cannot, for his life, locate the origin of the sunflower seed. And so it goes, as it does in Suburbia, day after day with the same missions and the same endings. An eternal struggle for power.

Keep on thinking,

Josie

Returning to my childhood home always brings me flashing back to high-school and the uncomfortable and awkward self-identity that accompanied it. It’s as if through some sort of osmosis, I soak in my immediate environment and revert to the person I was when I spent my everyday within it.   After that came college.  Then graduate school.  As I stepped foot into each of these new academic and life pursuits, I increasingly separated myself from that high school version of myself.  And that’s exactly what it was, a different version of myself.  Awkward. Theater Geek.  Goody-goody. Over-achiever. These four words capture the essence of high-school me.  While I’ve maintained some of these personality traits, a lot of things have changed.  Mostly for the better.

For that reason I am always perplexed when people long for the “better days” of high school, or nostalgically reminisce on what it was like to grow up a kid of the ‘90’s.  I truly do not understand why someone would want to return to that horribly awkward and uncomfortable time.  Perhaps it’s because I have self-improved since high school while others have depreciated.  Or perhaps, looked at differently,  I’ve simply elevated to average whereas others have been there all along.

Regardless, every time I return home I will reiterate the same coming-of-age stories, with the same friends, who I no longer know, and who no longer know me.  I will return to the same bowling alley, mall, cinema, restaurant.  And for that short period of time, I will fall back into my awkward high-school self or act the part of the self-actualized academic (whichever best suits the people I’m with), and thank the coming-of-age gods that it’s only temporary.

Keep on thinking,

Josie

Four days ago I went to the grocery store,  skyped with my family, watched some YouTube videos, had dinner with friends, and graduated in a stadium full of people.  With each of these events came a unique and different community with which I interacted, each with its unique individuals, ways of functioning, spoken and unspoken rules, ways of supporting members, and effect on me as an individual within the community.  Six very different communities in one single day.  

I've come to ponder the importance of community to our well-being as individuals and as a collective of individuals living in the same world, so as a good academician I researched it. According to a definition established by Mac Queen and her colleges (2001), communities are characterized by shared space, common interests, joint action, relationships, and diversity. Without communities we'd each be our own little islands, existing in the same ocean but living completely separate lives. We would have no direction, no purpose, no physical support, no emotional comfort.  There would be no shared experiences and the majority of the inanimate objects that we interact with on a daily basis would never have existed (they required development and building through community effort).  The world would not exist as we know it. Sounds pretty miserable to me.

Instead of being islands though, we're more like fish, interacting with each other in large groups most of the time but separating off on our own when we need to.  The cool thing is that despite the fact that we all exist in a world full of communities, the communities in which we exist and interact a daily basis look completely different than the ones that our grandparents were part of.  Yet, they still fit the definition of community.  

For instance, the fact that you're even reading this little essay means that you are a member of a community that never existed for your parents or grandparents.  Yet, I argue, the internet community provides a shared space, common interests, joint action, relationships, and diversity that are required for a community to exist.  The internet community (dare I say it?!) provides this in an even more sophisticated way by allowing us to learn about and gain access to people and experiences that we otherwise would never come in contact with.  Because of this immediate access to diversity, I believe that our generation will be a generation of change.

Recently I've begun exploring the wonderful, beautiful, diverse, world of Nerdfighteria.  I certainly would not categorize myself as a Nerdfighter (I respect Nerdfighters far to much to do that without paying my dues); however, what I have learned is that internet communities like Nerdfighteria act and function the same way as all other "physical" communities.  Nerdfighters share the space of the internet, they have similar interests in nerdy (and totally awesome) things, they work together to "decrease WorldSuck" and to always remember to "be awesome." They have deeply personal relationships with each other and provide emotional support better than most communities I know.  Nerdfighters are certainly one of the most diverse (and open) communities I have ever seen. Ultimately, they are one of the highest functioning communities out there!

Of course, Nerdfighteria is just one example of MANY "non-traditional" communities on the interwebs, but it is certainly a vivid one, and frankly, beautiful.  Someone go do a social science study on THAT!

So, in line with my mission to always encourage open minds, I challenge you to think about the communities you're a part of and remember that communities come in all forms, with many functions.  Just because a community doesn't look like your grandparent's community, doesn't mean it's not a "real" community.

Keep on thinking,

Josie

I love the color pink. My laptop is pink, my phone is pink, my camera is pink, my bedroom walls are pink. It’s all pink, which is exactly as I want it. Pink makes me happy!

It is possible that my ravenous craving for all things pink is resultant of sociocultural powers, environmental influences, or some other inconspicuous force. It is also possible that some natural force caused me to like the color pink just as anyone else would love the color green, or yellow, or red.

The color pink has developed meaning within the context of our culture. People often associate pink with tranquility, nurturing warmth, femininity, love, inhibition, emotional claustrophobia, emasculation, and physical weakness. The color has developed so much cultural meaning that colleges have painted visiting team locker-rooms pink to make opponents feel passive and emasculated before a game. Likewise, people automatically attribute characteristics to a person if, like me, they have a healthy obsession with the color pink. If you’re a woman and like the color pink, it’s assumed that you’re either hyper-feminine or a slave to the patriarchy. If you’re a man you lose your masculinity and are immediately categorized as “metrosexual” or homosexual.

Ultimately, the color pink doesn’t gain you respect in most professional domains. I’ve experienced this myself in the world of academia. In my time spent in this world I’ve realized that despite the fact that academics produce and consume hundreds of colorful and uniquely-designed presentations every year, they almost never contain the color pink. There are a number of possible explanations for this phenomenon, but the one that is most glaring to me is that academics are avoiding the color pink because of their fear of the many negative meanings the color has gained in our culture. They fear that the color alone will undermine their authority in research.

To put it frankly, I think that’s bull shit. I think it’s bull shit that a color needs to represent anything at all. The need to categorize everything is part of human nature and makes our cognitive processes more streamlined, but just because something is innate and natural to human functioning doesn’t mean that we humans need to succumb. It’s natural for us to defecate outdoors but we’ve curbed that natural tendency for the sake of our health (and to avoid a repeat of the black plague). Just as we control ourselves and use the toilet, we can control our natural tendency to connect meaning to color, especially when the meaning we attach is negative and harmful.

All this leads me to my mission. My mission is to start a movement to eliminate the negative connotation of the color pink, one presentation at a time. As part of this mission, every single one of my presentations includes the color pink and I have encouraged my colleagues to do the same. In doing this, I have realized just how much the color pink means to people, including my professors. One professor called my pink-inclusive presentation “pretty” while making no comment on the content of the material I presented. Other professors have been more supportive, but none use the color pink in their own presentations.

Ultimately this is a minuscule mission. When you consider the bigger picture, who really cares what people think about the color pink? However, I argue that this minuscule problem is just one facet of a larger problem. Just like the vast majority of people automatically attach a demeaning implication to the color pink, they automatically attach negative meaning to physical characteristics of people like race, language, and disability. This is wrong.

My hope is that perhaps through my Mission of Pink, I can not only erase the unfairly attributed negativity that our society has assigned to the color pink, but can also help people to realize that we cannot assume anything about quality or character simply based on appearance.

Keep on thinking,

Josie

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I am a product of helicopters.  Helicopters that hovered about me for the first 20 or so years of my life, assessing my life situation and landing to provide relief as necessary.  These helicopters would provide bandaids for boo-boos, bring forgotten lunches and homework to school on their own lunch-breaks, offer “loans” when money was tight, apartment hunt when it was time to move.  I still have hovering helicopters in my life, the only difference is now they’re hovering from 500 miles away.   

Three years ago I graduated from college.  It was an exciting time, but also a terrifying one.  I had no prospects except a job at a department store and a unit that the helicopters offered me in their hangar.  After a year living in the hangar I left for grad school.  It was terrifying.  After 20 years with hovering helicopters, I wasn’t sure what to do.  What if I needed an emergency airlift?

What I realized was that helicopters are great, but they’re noisy.  In fact, all that noise can be a bit distracting and can really prevent you from doing what you want and hearing your own thoughts.  It’s kind of nice to have the peace and quiet.  Without the helicopters’ noise I got to know myself a lot better.  I was able to differentiate my own thoughts from the noise of the ‘copters.

The flip side to that is that I also realized that that noise is kind of nice.  In fact, sometimes the constant ‘copter noise can be helpful when you need a bit more focus in your life. It took some time to learn to focus without the white noise.

Want to know something else I learned?  I learned that helicopters can travel pretty far and pretty fast in an emergency.  I realized that if for some reason I really did need the helicopter to land, it could get to me without too much trouble.  But in the mean time, I learned that I was able to manage on my own (without non-emergency landings).

So thank your own ‘copters for their persistent hovering, but know that it’s okay for them to hover from a distance. They’re nice to have around, but after 20 years of their hovering they’re probably tired, and best suited for emergencies.

Keep on thinking,

Josie

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On ME and MY desire to become a princess

Can we please just call this a no-judgement zone for a minute? I’m about to quote Mia Thermopolis, or should I say Amelia Mignonette Thermopolis Renaldi, Princess of Genovia, and I need you to take it seriously. Who’s that you ask? Oh, just the star of one of the GREATEST Disney movies ever: The Princess Diaries. Anyways, [SPOILER ALERT] in The Princess Diaries, Mia angsts over whether or not she wants to become a Princess. She has a choice to make and in the end it starts looking like she’s going to choose against becoming a princess.

Then she says these wise words in a speech:

”..then I realized how many stupid times a day I use the word ‘I.’ And probably all I ever do is think about myself. And how lame is that when there’s like seven billion other people out there on the planet. But then I thought, if I cared about the other seven billion out there, instead of just me, that’s probably a much better use of my time.”


These were such wise words that I was moved to name my pet gerbils after her (and her best friend Lily) when I was younger. RIP Mia & Lily (the gerbils).

Anyways, she’s got a point! So often we are so caught up in our own stuff, in our own experiences, that we forget that there are other people around us whose experiences matter too and from which we can learn.

For example, today I had dinner with friends. By the end of the meal I was acutely aware that the majority of my contributions to conversation were about ME, and MY life, and MY experiences. Rarely were they an elaboration on that which was expressed by others, or even questions about the experiences or thoughts of others. They were always declarative statements about ME and MY life.

But recognizing the problem is half the battle. I recognize that what I said at dinner did not necessarily reflect what I felt. I really love the people I had dinner with tonight, but my words reflected self-consumption and insecurity. Had I been actively listening to my friends instead of thinking about myself while they were talking, and had I stopped to think about what I wanted to say before I said it, I probably would have said less about me and learned more about them. I also probably would have gained a better understanding of my friends and their worlds which is an important part of being a good friend and a good person.

Ultimately, Mia took a step back and realized that she was more focused on her own wants than the needs of others. She chose to be Princess to remedy that through understanding the needs of others and serving them to meet those needs. Despite the fact that Princess Mia is a fictional character, I can only hope that you and I will be more Princess-like and use our time thinking about others instead of ourselves.

Keep on thinking,

Josie