As I have said before, I don't believe in blogs as online journals (a bias documented throughout the annals of this blog)--I started this when I couldn't email a professor my paper and have tried to keep from boring you with quotidian details--but maybe there are people out there who wonder what it's like to be 25-year-old (hyperlexic) urban woman (as my roommate seems to). For them, I post this:
We, here at Katabasis recently embarked on a new plan for self-improvement. We're facing the downward slope toward 26 and our early twenties are squarely behind us. It's time to grow up. So, we have gotten a job in line with our chosen career, gone back to school, done a triathlon, lost five pounds, and purchased several stylish articles of clothing (not to mention adopted the royal 'we'). We have also launched an all-out offensive to move past the junior-high-ish stammering mode of interacting with boys (who will henceforth be called men). All of this has involved very few blog posts and a staggering increase in boredom. Up until recently, I hadn't noticed that the two might possibly be correlated, but now it seems rather intuitive. Bumming around South America, doing triathlons, partying with grad students trying to reclaim their college days--none of these things are actually fun. Performing sock puppet musicals, watching WB shows and squealing when people kiss, snickering through Hillary Duff movies--these are fun, and they don't comprise a large enough piece of my life pie anymore. Instead, I stress about my next review, the project for school, and whether or not my investments are bearing sufficient interest. When people ask me how it's going, I try to mitigate their imminent misery by keeping to 'fine.' Most would say it's just the going to school while working full time thing that's not fine. But here at Katabasis, our crack team of researchers has made a thorough investigation of the matter and come to the following conclusion: success is slowly sucking away our soul.
Take for instance this past weekend: it involved clothes shopping, a party, dinner and a night at the club with the girls, a limo ride to Palo Alto, a professional conference, and an art show opening. It looks great on paper, exactly what life is supposed to be for an attractive 20-something, single, urban woman. But it was more work than fun. Clothes shopping involved trying on at least twelve pairs of jeans with "whiskering" (those faded stripes at the hips) and varying amounts of spandex before deciding that one was at least acceptable (though will likely no longer fit if I lose the other five pounds I've been meaning to). I then went to Victoria�s Secret to find a bra that would work with a club top, only to discover that I am pushing the edge of their catalog (none of the five pounds having come from my chest), and nothing that remotely fits works with anything else in the god-forsaken mall. On top of that, the designers seem to have ignored the curvy girls this season, so I left feeling vaguely fat and generally incompetent at this thing girls are supposed to master by 13. I wanted to cry, but instead went home and decided to skip dinner. At the party that night, I reached my limit after a drink, what with all the not eating and everything. I switched to water and had several conversations with smiling men, almost certainly dribbling stupidity as I concentrated on not throwing up. I gave my number to the nicest of them (mission objective #1 in Operation Dating), but probably did it wrong since he hasn't called, and headed home.
The professional conference the next day admitted of so complete a dearth of new information that I left shortly after getting there. That night I went to dinner with Mindy and her many Stanford MBA associates, none of whom could care less about me since I'm not a promising networking lead and a seemingly high risk for gold-digging (could it be more absurd?). Katrina was in town and we headed to the club so she could get her groove on and they could make themselves the collective center of attention. I spent the evening shuffling in vague gyrating patterns nearby, constantly being shoved aside by men in dire need of a chance to rub their genitals against Katrina's rump. That night I believe I got in seven drinks, including one straight amber liquid I would never order, all of which serviceably dulled the ache of being ignored.
The rest of the weekend followed suit.
I happen to believe that Chaucer wrote his Canterbury Tales with the following question in mind, "Which is the worst of the seven deadly sins?" I also happen to think that he settled on envy (check out the Pardoner's Tale if you're a fellow nerdXor, or Se7en if you're not). I had always thought of myself more as the sort for gluttony than envy, but what could this all be if not envy of that ephemeral ease pictured in car commercials, beer ads, and clothing catalogs? It's not the ad companies' fault; they're just trying to tie their product to our idea of the good life. But that's not my life; it's a series of chores I do so I don't have to look back one day and wish I knew for sure that being popular was a lie. I wander many locales stranger than the Pardoner's foreign lands, in search of a society's salvation I don't believe in. And if I'm not careful, the only boy I'll ever kiss will be the Host.