Last week, I went to visit my old stomping grounds where Mother Goose lies six feet under and the Green Monster eats hard balls. That's right: Boston, home of the original Tea Party minus those insufferable bags.
As I sat on the plane flying across country, I wondered if my East Coast nostalgia would mushroom into full-fledged heart pangs. After all, I'd spent eight years of my life--nearly all of my twenties--roaming the narrow, one-way streets, eating my weight in J.P. Licks, and hanging out in Coolidge Corner.
Turns out I was happy to be back in Beantown once again, especially since I was able to see many New England friends. But Boston no longer felt like home sweet home. I even got lost twice, like an honest-to-goodness tourist. Sure it was nice to indulge in walks down memory lane, but by the end of my jam-packed week, I was ready to click my heels three times and head back to San Diego.
Luckily, I got home just in time for SoCal's outbreak of swine flu. Nothing like a little pandemic to ruin calm reflection.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Friday, April 17, 2009
Wear and Tear
According to style dictators Stacy and Clinton, it's important to dress age-appropriately. In other words, if you're 40, get your ass out of Wet Seal, put down the fairy dust, and grab yourself a cute blazer with a tapered waist, pronto.
But the smarties over at Harvard might disagree. "Most people," a Newsweek article says, "try to dress appropriately for their age, so clothing in effect becomes a cue for ingrained attitudes about age. But what if this cue disappeared? [Harvard psychologist Ellen Langer] decided to study people who routinely wear uniforms as part of their work life, and compare them with people who dress in street clothes. She found that people who wear uniforms missed fewer days owing to illness or injury, had fewer doctors' visits and hospitalizations, and had fewer chronic diseases—even though they all had the same socioeconomic status. That's because they were not constantly reminded of their own aging by their fashion choices."
Okay. So maybe I still shouldn't don any purple micro-minis. But at least now I can finally wear my Dharma jumpsuit.
But the smarties over at Harvard might disagree. "Most people," a Newsweek article says, "try to dress appropriately for their age, so clothing in effect becomes a cue for ingrained attitudes about age. But what if this cue disappeared? [Harvard psychologist Ellen Langer] decided to study people who routinely wear uniforms as part of their work life, and compare them with people who dress in street clothes. She found that people who wear uniforms missed fewer days owing to illness or injury, had fewer doctors' visits and hospitalizations, and had fewer chronic diseases—even though they all had the same socioeconomic status. That's because they were not constantly reminded of their own aging by their fashion choices."
Okay. So maybe I still shouldn't don any purple micro-minis. But at least now I can finally wear my Dharma jumpsuit.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
My Dentist Sucks
Today when I was at the dentist, I brought some editing work with me, thinking I could make the most of my time while waiting for the doc. I swear that office reception area is like the physical manifestation of some unsettling celebrity womb--all warm and dimly lit, with available copies of Essence, Out, and Rebook, and a TV on low-volume continuously playing Armageddon.
So twenty minutes later, I'm sitting in a private room, trying to edit pages with my red pen, when my dentist finally arrives. He's there to check out the state of my bruxism (i.e., the gnashing and grinding of my teeth down to stubs) when he casually looks over my papers.
"How are your studies going?" he asks.
"This? Oh, this isn't studying. I'm just doing some editing work." In other words, I'm not a college student.
Unfortunately, he only half gets it. "Ah. So what was your major in college?"
"English." Then to try and drive the point home: "But it's been a while since I was in school."
"Did you get good grades?"
Now I'm confused. "Did I get good grades?"
"Mm hm," he says.
"Um. Yeah. I guess so." Why the fuck do you care?
Okay, so I'm agitated. Normally, I would be flattered by anyone mistaking my age by say, 10 years, but this time was different. This time, it felt condescending, and I wasn't digging the power play. Maybe aging does have its benefits. But while I wait for the deep wrinkles to set in, I'd just like to say, "My dentist sucks."
So twenty minutes later, I'm sitting in a private room, trying to edit pages with my red pen, when my dentist finally arrives. He's there to check out the state of my bruxism (i.e., the gnashing and grinding of my teeth down to stubs) when he casually looks over my papers.
"How are your studies going?" he asks.
"This? Oh, this isn't studying. I'm just doing some editing work." In other words, I'm not a college student.
Unfortunately, he only half gets it. "Ah. So what was your major in college?"
"English." Then to try and drive the point home: "But it's been a while since I was in school."
"Did you get good grades?"
Now I'm confused. "Did I get good grades?"
"Mm hm," he says.
"Um. Yeah. I guess so." Why the fuck do you care?
Okay, so I'm agitated. Normally, I would be flattered by anyone mistaking my age by say, 10 years, but this time was different. This time, it felt condescending, and I wasn't digging the power play. Maybe aging does have its benefits. But while I wait for the deep wrinkles to set in, I'd just like to say, "My dentist sucks."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
