A long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I had a blog. This galaxy was known as 1L -- or, sometimes more aptly, 1HelL. In this galaxy, time was elusive. It was constantly finding a way to slip through my fingers. Just when I thought I had nabbed some, it was already out of reach. There were always footnotes to read and essays to write. I logged hour upon hour on a legal research site whose name I may or may not have found derivative. And so, blogging took a backseat to case law. Until now. The school year is over and, as much as I loved eating three meals a day out of vending machines, my life has found some semblance of order -- in the form of a 9 - 6 unpaid judicial internship. Please, contain your excitement. So yes, the blog is back. Now, let's get this party started:
Uno: For those who are interested, the pipe-burst/leak situation in our apartment has still not been resolved. For some unknown reason, the management company refuses to take our calls and hasn't given us any sort of timeline for repairs. On Friday, I left the managing agent what I like to call "an intimidating message." It remains to be seen just how (or if) he will respond. In the meantime, we continue to live in a paint chip infested domicile that still smells faintly of wet dog. Yes, it's as wonderful as it sounds.
I suppose I can't really complain given the state of other unresolved leak situations in this country. Speaking of, is there anyone out there who can explain the concept of a "top kill?"
Dos: This blog was never meant to become the Vanity Fair highlights reel. And yet, despite my disdain for Graydon Carter, the people at vf.com continue to hit culture right on the nose. My most recent fascination? The Gay Guide to Glee! Brett Berk is a delightful dilettante and his glee-caps take themselves just seriously enough to make them hilariously fabulous.
Also on vf.com this month, an interview with one of my favorite John Ritter lookalikes, Zach Braff. (Braff used to be my favorite Ritter lookalike, edging out Ed's Tom Kavanagh, but that was before I started swooning over Jason Ritter's nice guy English teacher character on Parenthood. The chemistry between John's real-life son and Lauren Graham is crackling. Check it out here.) In the interview, Braff discusses his summers at Stagedoor Manor, a drama camp in Loch Sheldrake, NY (Vacation Village represent!), and his musical theater themed Bar Mitzvah. VF seems to find this unique. The editors clearly have never been to Bergen County -- where every girl and her sister has a Broadway-themed party replete with Playbill placecards and Fiddler on the Roof centerpieces. I just want to know if he chanted his Haftorah to "I Dreamed a Dream," Dudu Fisher style.
Tres: A lot of guys are obsessed with Bill Simmons, aka ESPN's "The Sports Guy." This weekend, in honor of Memorial Day, Bill shared some correspondence that he has received from his adoring fans. Here's my favorite:
Q: So I'm in the grocery store the other night buying ramen noodles 'cause that's literally the only thing I can afford to eat. Right after I had put the fourth huge case into my cart, a really cute girl approaches me and says, "Wow, that's a lot of ramen." For whatever reason, my immediate response is, "Yeah, I'm buying it for a local food drive for the homeless." Wouldn't you know it, but the girl finds this extremely sexy for some reason, and we continue to talk for a few minutes. Eventually, I ask her out, and we decide she will come to my place for dinner and a movie later on this week. What in the hell am I supposed to do? I have no money and a kitchen full of ramen noodles that are supposed to be for some mysterious food drive. Your thoughts?
-- Shane, Baltimore
SG: Yup, these are my readers.
Other, not quite as awesome, exchanges can be found in The Sport's Guy's Mega-Mailbag.
OMG...I was just about to end this post without calling your attention to the holy grail of Glee -- last week's flirtation with Lady Gaga. At this point, it's all pretty much been said. I'll just add this -- Quinn's outfit was kickass. Anyone who buys it for me will get a special prize.
In closing, one of these days I might get around to writing about the law. I'm starting to gather that bankruptcy court is a Dynasty-level soap opera. Stay tuned for more...
Thanks for welcoming me back into your lives! Love and Leotards, Y
Monday, May 31, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Letters from The Legally Insane
In the spirit of Greenberg, the last movie I had the pleasure to see in an actual theatre, I have decided to post some complaint letters that I would send if only I had an address...
You can safely assume that, as I descend further and further into the grips of finals-induced insanity, the letters will get progressively stranger.
So, here goes:
Dear Gratingly Good-Looking and Annoyingly Touchy-Feely Couple on line in front of me at the DVD rental machine,
First, I hate you. Second, based on the current placement of your respective hands, it seems unlikely that whether you rent Iron Man or Transformers will have much of an impact on your evening. I highly doubt that you will see much of either film. That said, can you please speed up your decision making so that I can rent Notting Hill for the umpteenth time? I need to get to Ben & Jerry's before it closes.
Yours,
Y
You can safely assume that, as I descend further and further into the grips of finals-induced insanity, the letters will get progressively stranger.
So, here goes:
Dear Gratingly Good-Looking and Annoyingly Touchy-Feely Couple on line in front of me at the DVD rental machine,
First, I hate you. Second, based on the current placement of your respective hands, it seems unlikely that whether you rent Iron Man or Transformers will have much of an impact on your evening. I highly doubt that you will see much of either film. That said, can you please speed up your decision making so that I can rent Notting Hill for the umpteenth time? I need to get to Ben & Jerry's before it closes.
Yours,
Y
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Greetings From Kamp
First, an apology. While I have not deluded myself to the extent that I believe you've all be waiting with baited breath for my next piece, I have abandoned this post for far too long and, for that, if it mattered to you at all, I am sorry. Second, the commentary I've been remiss in posting re-entered the cultural consciousness this week and is now timely again. So, thank you, Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, for giving John Hughes the recognition he so richly deserved.
As some of you may recall, some years ago I wrote a book review for The Current on David Kamp's United States of Arugala. Kamp is a contributing editor for Vanity Fair (always my glossy of choice despite Graydon Carter) whose "Arugala" is a gastronomic history of the nation featuring equal parts gossip and grain. Simply put, I loved the book and have since been pleased to learn that Jon Rieder has added it to his Sociology of Culture reading list.
Time passed and I thought little of Kamp until I saw the name Norman Rockwell on the cover of a Fall 2009 issue of VF. It seemed that Kamp had written a piece entitled "Why Norman Rockwell Matters" -- a defense of the famed American illustrator against his high-falutin art world critics. Now, I don't profess to be an art connoisseur. I like Jackson Pollock as much as the next girl, but I don't see why Rockwell incurs so much wrath. The man created a universe inhabited by people that each of us, on some level, encounters on a daily basis. His skill is undeniable and he forced us to examine ourselves as a wartime nation in a way that no other artist of his era could.
I started caring about Rockwell as an academic pursuit in Dr. Stone's 11th grade American History class. For our first assignment, I reviewed a comprehensive biography of Rockwell and became fascinated by his political paintings -- especially "The Four Freedoms" and "Ruby Bridges goes to School." As a junior at Barnard, I chose NR (as I now fondly refer to him) as the focus of my Colloquium in American Studies research. I took on Rockwell as propagandist -- a far less odious Leni Riefenstahl. What I found, is that NR was no more commercial than Andy Warhol -- but he receives a sliver of the love. In response to Kamp's article, VF's mailbag was filled with mixed takes on Rockwell, his contributions, and achievements. Read my take. Read Kamp's take. I'll post excerpts of both. I'm curious to hear what you think.
While I was happy to find that Kamp and I have a common interest, I didn't think he was stealing my ideas until I saw his piece on the late, great John Hughes.
Note: I don't actually think Kamp knows who I am, but, DK, if you do...send a note. I'd love to chat and help you with your inevitable article on the AAGPBL.
Anyhoooooo...
Vanity Fair recently featured a loving tribute to Hughes -- that inimitable auteur of teendom and class anxiety. Beyond Kamp's piece, the magazine featured interviews with frequent Hughes collaborators and his undisputed muse, Molly Ringwald. (Oh, how I wish I was her at the end of Sixteen Candles! Jake Ryan, swoon, what a dreamboat!)
On Sunday night, the Oscar broadcast featured a sketch of similar note with Ducky, Ferris, The Nerd, and Kevin McAllister all making appearances. (Kudos to Adam Shankman and the Oscar producing crew for extricating Macauley Culkin from whatever crack den he currently inhabits. Though, in all fairness to Macauley, I could be wrong about the crack den. He is more likely living in a Cryogenics Lab as the man looks exactly like he did twenty years ago. Creepy.)
I know. I know. You're wondering what any of this has to do with me. Well, if you must know, over a year before Hughes passed on, I wrote a paper on his legacy for my Popular Culture at the University of Melbourne. Yes, I took a Pop Culture class. Yes, Clueless was on the cover of the reader. Contain your jealously. In said paper, I called Molly Ringwald's hair the flaming totem of a generation. Too glib? Who asked you?
So, you heard it here first kids. David Kamp is stealing my ideas. Just thought you'd like to know.
Oh, and Oscar fashion this year sucked. More on that later...if I can ever find my way out of Vera Farmiga's ruffles.
As some of you may recall, some years ago I wrote a book review for The Current on David Kamp's United States of Arugala. Kamp is a contributing editor for Vanity Fair (always my glossy of choice despite Graydon Carter) whose "Arugala" is a gastronomic history of the nation featuring equal parts gossip and grain. Simply put, I loved the book and have since been pleased to learn that Jon Rieder has added it to his Sociology of Culture reading list.
Time passed and I thought little of Kamp until I saw the name Norman Rockwell on the cover of a Fall 2009 issue of VF. It seemed that Kamp had written a piece entitled "Why Norman Rockwell Matters" -- a defense of the famed American illustrator against his high-falutin art world critics. Now, I don't profess to be an art connoisseur. I like Jackson Pollock as much as the next girl, but I don't see why Rockwell incurs so much wrath. The man created a universe inhabited by people that each of us, on some level, encounters on a daily basis. His skill is undeniable and he forced us to examine ourselves as a wartime nation in a way that no other artist of his era could.
I started caring about Rockwell as an academic pursuit in Dr. Stone's 11th grade American History class. For our first assignment, I reviewed a comprehensive biography of Rockwell and became fascinated by his political paintings -- especially "The Four Freedoms" and "Ruby Bridges goes to School." As a junior at Barnard, I chose NR (as I now fondly refer to him) as the focus of my Colloquium in American Studies research. I took on Rockwell as propagandist -- a far less odious Leni Riefenstahl. What I found, is that NR was no more commercial than Andy Warhol -- but he receives a sliver of the love. In response to Kamp's article, VF's mailbag was filled with mixed takes on Rockwell, his contributions, and achievements. Read my take. Read Kamp's take. I'll post excerpts of both. I'm curious to hear what you think.
While I was happy to find that Kamp and I have a common interest, I didn't think he was stealing my ideas until I saw his piece on the late, great John Hughes.
Note: I don't actually think Kamp knows who I am, but, DK, if you do...send a note. I'd love to chat and help you with your inevitable article on the AAGPBL.
Anyhoooooo...
Vanity Fair recently featured a loving tribute to Hughes -- that inimitable auteur of teendom and class anxiety. Beyond Kamp's piece, the magazine featured interviews with frequent Hughes collaborators and his undisputed muse, Molly Ringwald. (Oh, how I wish I was her at the end of Sixteen Candles! Jake Ryan, swoon, what a dreamboat!)
On Sunday night, the Oscar broadcast featured a sketch of similar note with Ducky, Ferris, The Nerd, and Kevin McAllister all making appearances. (Kudos to Adam Shankman and the Oscar producing crew for extricating Macauley Culkin from whatever crack den he currently inhabits. Though, in all fairness to Macauley, I could be wrong about the crack den. He is more likely living in a Cryogenics Lab as the man looks exactly like he did twenty years ago. Creepy.)
I know. I know. You're wondering what any of this has to do with me. Well, if you must know, over a year before Hughes passed on, I wrote a paper on his legacy for my Popular Culture at the University of Melbourne. Yes, I took a Pop Culture class. Yes, Clueless was on the cover of the reader. Contain your jealously. In said paper, I called Molly Ringwald's hair the flaming totem of a generation. Too glib? Who asked you?
So, you heard it here first kids. David Kamp is stealing my ideas. Just thought you'd like to know.
Oh, and Oscar fashion this year sucked. More on that later...if I can ever find my way out of Vera Farmiga's ruffles.
Monday, February 8, 2010
It ain't Oprah, til' it's Oprah
So, he is human after all. For awhile there, he had me going. The needlepoint precision, the Alexis Carrington shoulders, the ability to appear in four television commercials at once. Peyton appeared to be the Bionic Man -- until late in the 4th quarter of yesterday's big game. Down by 7, having been knocked from his perch by an onside kick that can only be described as chutzpah-dic, Peyton did the unthinkable. On the verge of tying the game, he threw a Brett Favre Special -- a Pick 6 to end what had, until that moment, been a high stakes gunfight.
No one could have predicted it. It was so unlike him. Something a less polished quarterback would do. Not Peyton. Not the golden boy.
So goes the story that people will be telling of last night's Super Bowl at water coolers around the world.
The questions abound as to the impact on Manning's legacy -- and what this means for Indianapolis' future. Can everyone just take a breath? He threw an interception. It happens. To lesser quarterbacks, it happens a lot. The man is not yet 34 years old and is in seemingly excellent health. In my opinion, the book on Manning's legacy is far from closed.
Yes, it's true. I wasn't on the Saints bandwagon. But today's story should be about them. Who Dat? Nation is finally getting attention for something positive. People are talking about New Orleans in terms other than destruction, racism, and, that amalgam of them both, the Ninth Ward.
So, I'm gonna head down to the Big Easy, at least in spirit, and be happy for a city that has waited to taste victory for far too long. And, thanks to Drew, Reggie, and some other guy named Payton -- it's just as sweet as a beignet from Cafe Du Monde.
Nota Bene:
If, like Dockers, Coke, and CareerBuilder.com, Jason Sehorn had known that pants were optional at the Super Bowl, he might not have given up that touchdown in 2001. Just a thought...
No one could have predicted it. It was so unlike him. Something a less polished quarterback would do. Not Peyton. Not the golden boy.
So goes the story that people will be telling of last night's Super Bowl at water coolers around the world.
The questions abound as to the impact on Manning's legacy -- and what this means for Indianapolis' future. Can everyone just take a breath? He threw an interception. It happens. To lesser quarterbacks, it happens a lot. The man is not yet 34 years old and is in seemingly excellent health. In my opinion, the book on Manning's legacy is far from closed.
Yes, it's true. I wasn't on the Saints bandwagon. But today's story should be about them. Who Dat? Nation is finally getting attention for something positive. People are talking about New Orleans in terms other than destruction, racism, and, that amalgam of them both, the Ninth Ward.
So, I'm gonna head down to the Big Easy, at least in spirit, and be happy for a city that has waited to taste victory for far too long. And, thanks to Drew, Reggie, and some other guy named Payton -- it's just as sweet as a beignet from Cafe Du Monde.
Nota Bene:
If, like Dockers, Coke, and CareerBuilder.com, Jason Sehorn had known that pants were optional at the Super Bowl, he might not have given up that touchdown in 2001. Just a thought...
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Peyton's Place
Yesterday was a big day for pop culture media. Not only were this year’s Oscar nominations announced at 5:30 AM Pacific Time, but it was also Super Bowl Media Day – a Miami based circus with Peyton Manning in the center ring.
Over the past decade, Manning has become one of America’s most popular athletes. He has whored himself out to everyone from Visa, to DirecTV, to Oreo and, with the recent downfall of a certain unnamed golf wunderkind, he might just be the most likable guy in sports.
You see, Manning’s talent is immense and undeniable, but he remains a man, or, more precisely, a good ole boy, of the people. Unlike his stuffy New England counterpart Tom Brady, Peyton doesn’t take himself all that seriously. Not only does he don a Bjorn Borg sweatband to pound DoubleStufs with brother Eli and Donald Trump, but he happily displays his goofy “dance moves” in front of Justin Timberlake and the world in those insufferable Sony ads. While Brady comes off as a tool who is only interested in his chin dimple and getting home to Gisele, Manning is the loveable guy next door – a decent-looking doofus who happens to have a God-given gift.
I spent several years trying to hate Peyton. I labeled him a thorn in the Jets’ side and resented his talent. But in this almost perfect season, Manning has proven himself irresistible to love. Despite the inexplicable inward turn of his chest (don’t tell me you haven’t noticed), he is climbing the ranks on my favorite QB list. What I have found most impressive about Peyton is the grace with which he handles himself in front of the press. I have no doubt that this is a skill he picked up from his parents, Archie and Olivia.
This week has seen a deluge of articles on the Manning family, their relationship to New Orleans, and their undisputed NFL dynasty. Archie is so beloved in the Big Easy that, despite having one of the League’s worst records for a starting quarterback, he remains New Orleans’ favorite son. The family’s housekeeper spoke out recently about Olivia’s down-to-earth nature and class. In fact, Mrs. Manning recently hosted the wife of current Saints quarterback Drew Brees for a meal in her home. Baby brother Eli has managed to keep his wits and his cool despite playing in the most hot-tempered sports market on earth and Cooper Manning, who without a career-ending injury may have hit the NFL as well, is a community pillar and respected businessman.
Certainly it is possible that Peyton may one day suffer from a Tiger-like fall from grace, but I doubt it. One of the things I respect most about him is his loyalty to those who have gotten him to where he is today. He is utterly appreciative of his fans in Indianapolis and with good reason. He is the king of Lucas Oil Land. Think about it. Manning has single-handedly brought more excitement to the (pretty boring) city than anyone in history. Sure, Reggie Miller was fun to watch in his day. But the Pacers never came close to creating the kind of fervor that the Colts inspire nowadays. And, yes, others have made contributions to the team’s success. Dungy, James, Harrison, Addai, and Wayne have all had an impact. But these princes of the gridiron are almost afterthoughts in King Peyton’s Court. Afterthoughts to everyone but the king himself. Manning, unlike many of today’s egocentric players, always plays up the contributions of his supporting cast and plays down the almost supernatural efforts of his own.
So despite the overexposure and the chest concavity, I’m rooting for Peyton to nab his second Super Bowl ring. Besides, I really hate Jeremy Shockey.
Over the past decade, Manning has become one of America’s most popular athletes. He has whored himself out to everyone from Visa, to DirecTV, to Oreo and, with the recent downfall of a certain unnamed golf wunderkind, he might just be the most likable guy in sports.
You see, Manning’s talent is immense and undeniable, but he remains a man, or, more precisely, a good ole boy, of the people. Unlike his stuffy New England counterpart Tom Brady, Peyton doesn’t take himself all that seriously. Not only does he don a Bjorn Borg sweatband to pound DoubleStufs with brother Eli and Donald Trump, but he happily displays his goofy “dance moves” in front of Justin Timberlake and the world in those insufferable Sony ads. While Brady comes off as a tool who is only interested in his chin dimple and getting home to Gisele, Manning is the loveable guy next door – a decent-looking doofus who happens to have a God-given gift.
I spent several years trying to hate Peyton. I labeled him a thorn in the Jets’ side and resented his talent. But in this almost perfect season, Manning has proven himself irresistible to love. Despite the inexplicable inward turn of his chest (don’t tell me you haven’t noticed), he is climbing the ranks on my favorite QB list. What I have found most impressive about Peyton is the grace with which he handles himself in front of the press. I have no doubt that this is a skill he picked up from his parents, Archie and Olivia.
This week has seen a deluge of articles on the Manning family, their relationship to New Orleans, and their undisputed NFL dynasty. Archie is so beloved in the Big Easy that, despite having one of the League’s worst records for a starting quarterback, he remains New Orleans’ favorite son. The family’s housekeeper spoke out recently about Olivia’s down-to-earth nature and class. In fact, Mrs. Manning recently hosted the wife of current Saints quarterback Drew Brees for a meal in her home. Baby brother Eli has managed to keep his wits and his cool despite playing in the most hot-tempered sports market on earth and Cooper Manning, who without a career-ending injury may have hit the NFL as well, is a community pillar and respected businessman.
Certainly it is possible that Peyton may one day suffer from a Tiger-like fall from grace, but I doubt it. One of the things I respect most about him is his loyalty to those who have gotten him to where he is today. He is utterly appreciative of his fans in Indianapolis and with good reason. He is the king of Lucas Oil Land. Think about it. Manning has single-handedly brought more excitement to the (pretty boring) city than anyone in history. Sure, Reggie Miller was fun to watch in his day. But the Pacers never came close to creating the kind of fervor that the Colts inspire nowadays. And, yes, others have made contributions to the team’s success. Dungy, James, Harrison, Addai, and Wayne have all had an impact. But these princes of the gridiron are almost afterthoughts in King Peyton’s Court. Afterthoughts to everyone but the king himself. Manning, unlike many of today’s egocentric players, always plays up the contributions of his supporting cast and plays down the almost supernatural efforts of his own.
So despite the overexposure and the chest concavity, I’m rooting for Peyton to nab his second Super Bowl ring. Besides, I really hate Jeremy Shockey.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Tourists: Milk 'em for all they're worth...
I know what you're thinking..."She abandoned us." After months of begging for comments and insisting that we read her inconsequential thoughts on the world, she cast us aside in pursuit of better things. Maybe you're right. I'm not going to argue. But can't we put the past behind us? Winter Break shook me from my routine, but I'm here now and I'm ready for duty.
So...submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I hereby present: A Vignette.
If any of you are ever fortunate enough to go to Italy, think twice before ordering a latte. Rather, think twice before ordering a latte if you're looking for a caffeine fix. You see, ordering a latte in Italy will yield you a nice hot glass of steamed milk. If you'd like espresso with that, be sure to order a Caffe Latte. That's one Euro I'll never get back.
On that (EU Treasury) note, contrary to my cinematically derived notions, Italian taxi drivers do not all look like Robert De Niro. Many do, however, share his occasional gumption. As I sought a ride from Stazione Termini to the Trevi Fountain (yes, that same landmark of film at which Lizzie and Gordo shared a kiss in "The Lizzie Maguire Movie"), one driver quoted me a price of 30 Euros. Knowing that I was getting the tourist treatment, I walked away only to be pursued by another driver offering me a deal at 20 Euros. Still skeptical, I finally found a driver willing to abide by the law and the meter ("moneh b'vakasha," anyone?) and -- God bless him -- the total fare? 8 Euros.
Later on that day while wandering the Villa Borghese, essentially Rome's Central Park, I saw a jogger donning a C.C. Sabathia t-shirt. My point in sharing this tidbit with you? Good taste is international.
Since I've segued into sports, I'm sure you're all itching for my two cents on the NFL playoffs. Against my better judgment, I find myself rooting for Peyton -- overexposure and all. The Saints bandwagon is just a little too crowded for me.
Lest you think I've no sympathy for the swampiest city, N'awlins will get to take credit for the Mannings either way.
To close, in the spirit of my last post and just in case you were wondering, today I'm wearing a new pair of Levi's 632 high rise skinny jeans (Urban Outfitters). Take that, AllTumbleDown...
Arrivederci, Y
So...submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I hereby present: A Vignette.
If any of you are ever fortunate enough to go to Italy, think twice before ordering a latte. Rather, think twice before ordering a latte if you're looking for a caffeine fix. You see, ordering a latte in Italy will yield you a nice hot glass of steamed milk. If you'd like espresso with that, be sure to order a Caffe Latte. That's one Euro I'll never get back.
On that (EU Treasury) note, contrary to my cinematically derived notions, Italian taxi drivers do not all look like Robert De Niro. Many do, however, share his occasional gumption. As I sought a ride from Stazione Termini to the Trevi Fountain (yes, that same landmark of film at which Lizzie and Gordo shared a kiss in "The Lizzie Maguire Movie"), one driver quoted me a price of 30 Euros. Knowing that I was getting the tourist treatment, I walked away only to be pursued by another driver offering me a deal at 20 Euros. Still skeptical, I finally found a driver willing to abide by the law and the meter ("moneh b'vakasha," anyone?) and -- God bless him -- the total fare? 8 Euros.
Later on that day while wandering the Villa Borghese, essentially Rome's Central Park, I saw a jogger donning a C.C. Sabathia t-shirt. My point in sharing this tidbit with you? Good taste is international.
Since I've segued into sports, I'm sure you're all itching for my two cents on the NFL playoffs. Against my better judgment, I find myself rooting for Peyton -- overexposure and all. The Saints bandwagon is just a little too crowded for me.
Lest you think I've no sympathy for the swampiest city, N'awlins will get to take credit for the Mannings either way.
To close, in the spirit of my last post and just in case you were wondering, today I'm wearing a new pair of Levi's 632 high rise skinny jeans (Urban Outfitters). Take that, AllTumbleDown...
Arrivederci, Y
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Skirting the Issue (or...In the Jeans?)
Here it is folks, another middle of the night post from your (hopefully) favorite insomniac law student. My sleep schedule is so messed up right now, I hope that my circadian rhythms don't get thrown out of whack. Note: I don't actually know what circadian rhythms are, but they sound important, so I'd like them to stay regulated.
Anyhow, as many of you know, after a five year hiatus, I've recently begun wearing jeans again. The decision to do so was sort of spur of the moment, semi-prompted by my costume for Law Revue, as I'd long ago come to realize that what we wear doesn't define our relationship with religion. And, while I still believe that fervently, I find myself laying awake tonight contemplating jumping (modestly, of course) back on the skirts bandwagon.
Don't get me wrong, I love jeans. They are infinitely more comfortable than most skirts. (The years that I spent telling people that I found jeans uncomfortable, I was clearly deluding myself.) Wearing jeans makes getting dressed in the morning much, much easier. Jean skirts just don't have the same level of versatility. Plus, jeans look awesome. They are the deserving MVP of fashion and, if I do go back to skirts full-time, I will miss them dearly. And yet, I still find myself missing my skirt-wearing self.
I know that we should not wear our true selves on our sleeves, or in this case, our hemlines, but in the past weeks, I have felt myself changing in multiple ways that I am not particularly fond of, and I am wondering if my wardrobe change is a partial culprit. At this point, I must STRESS that none of what I write here is a judgment of the choices of others. I wish, wish, wish that I were a strong enough person that I did not require an outward reminder of the kind of person that I want to be, but alas, it seems that I am too weak for that. The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of outlines, exams, and study groups. I have barely made time to eat, much less go to shul, daven, do any kind of substantive chesed, or learn. And, for the first time in my life, my day-to-day social circle is not made up of individuals for whom these things are concerns. I absolutely love my law school friends. They are a group of unique, kind-hearted, smart, witty, and passionate individuals from whom I am constantly learning. But, for the most part, they are completely unfamiliar with the insular world in which I have been coddled for the past 23 years. It has been all too easy for me to slink into this law school world -- a world that is new, exciting, and fun -- and relegate my yiddishkeit to the back burner. I do not feel as though I am being duplicitous. I speak openly with my friends about kashrut, shabbat, and other aspects of my life -- when appropriate. But when the conversation doesn't take a decisively ethnic turn, I am finding myself all too happy to pretend that my religious life is just one of the many aspects of my self -- rather than the central aspect of my being that it truly is. The worrisome thing is that all this pretending is leading me to realize that I have cast aside some things that are important to me for the sake of fitting in.
Just to be clear, wearing skirts is not particularly important to me. I do not think that skirts are inherently more "tznius" than pants. And I certainly do not think that they are ANY kind of indicator of religiosity or commitment to halacha. But, I am wondering if I, in my compromised state, perhaps need the outward symbolism of the skirt to nudge me back to where I want to be religiously. Perhaps, if I recommit myself to putting a skirt on in the morning, I will be more conscious of other decisions that I make throughout the day. At the very least, I will be doing one thing, albeit a superficial one, to put Judaism in my mind as I set out into the world. I am disappointed that I find myself needing this particular prodding, but I am trying to be proactive in preventing an even more severe deviation from the lifestyle that I love and that I am committed to.
To end, I have to say that all of this makes me feel awfully hypocritical. I do not want to be a part of something that perpetuates the message that "you are what you wear." Nothing could be further from what I believe. Do you think there are other, more substantive, choices that I could be making? I really do want to hear from you. Most of you reading this are my nearest and dearest and I value your thoughts. So, spill.
Thanks for listening/reading and, as always, thanks for your friendship.
Much love, Y
Anyhow, as many of you know, after a five year hiatus, I've recently begun wearing jeans again. The decision to do so was sort of spur of the moment, semi-prompted by my costume for Law Revue, as I'd long ago come to realize that what we wear doesn't define our relationship with religion. And, while I still believe that fervently, I find myself laying awake tonight contemplating jumping (modestly, of course) back on the skirts bandwagon.
Don't get me wrong, I love jeans. They are infinitely more comfortable than most skirts. (The years that I spent telling people that I found jeans uncomfortable, I was clearly deluding myself.) Wearing jeans makes getting dressed in the morning much, much easier. Jean skirts just don't have the same level of versatility. Plus, jeans look awesome. They are the deserving MVP of fashion and, if I do go back to skirts full-time, I will miss them dearly. And yet, I still find myself missing my skirt-wearing self.
I know that we should not wear our true selves on our sleeves, or in this case, our hemlines, but in the past weeks, I have felt myself changing in multiple ways that I am not particularly fond of, and I am wondering if my wardrobe change is a partial culprit. At this point, I must STRESS that none of what I write here is a judgment of the choices of others. I wish, wish, wish that I were a strong enough person that I did not require an outward reminder of the kind of person that I want to be, but alas, it seems that I am too weak for that. The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of outlines, exams, and study groups. I have barely made time to eat, much less go to shul, daven, do any kind of substantive chesed, or learn. And, for the first time in my life, my day-to-day social circle is not made up of individuals for whom these things are concerns. I absolutely love my law school friends. They are a group of unique, kind-hearted, smart, witty, and passionate individuals from whom I am constantly learning. But, for the most part, they are completely unfamiliar with the insular world in which I have been coddled for the past 23 years. It has been all too easy for me to slink into this law school world -- a world that is new, exciting, and fun -- and relegate my yiddishkeit to the back burner. I do not feel as though I am being duplicitous. I speak openly with my friends about kashrut, shabbat, and other aspects of my life -- when appropriate. But when the conversation doesn't take a decisively ethnic turn, I am finding myself all too happy to pretend that my religious life is just one of the many aspects of my self -- rather than the central aspect of my being that it truly is. The worrisome thing is that all this pretending is leading me to realize that I have cast aside some things that are important to me for the sake of fitting in.
Just to be clear, wearing skirts is not particularly important to me. I do not think that skirts are inherently more "tznius" than pants. And I certainly do not think that they are ANY kind of indicator of religiosity or commitment to halacha. But, I am wondering if I, in my compromised state, perhaps need the outward symbolism of the skirt to nudge me back to where I want to be religiously. Perhaps, if I recommit myself to putting a skirt on in the morning, I will be more conscious of other decisions that I make throughout the day. At the very least, I will be doing one thing, albeit a superficial one, to put Judaism in my mind as I set out into the world. I am disappointed that I find myself needing this particular prodding, but I am trying to be proactive in preventing an even more severe deviation from the lifestyle that I love and that I am committed to.
To end, I have to say that all of this makes me feel awfully hypocritical. I do not want to be a part of something that perpetuates the message that "you are what you wear." Nothing could be further from what I believe. Do you think there are other, more substantive, choices that I could be making? I really do want to hear from you. Most of you reading this are my nearest and dearest and I value your thoughts. So, spill.
Thanks for listening/reading and, as always, thanks for your friendship.
Much love, Y
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
