Here's a summary of all of the guys I've dated this year

As you might know from previous posts, I left my 7 year relationship over a year ago. Ya'll, the last time I was single, I was 21.

I think if I met me when I was 21,  I am quite certain I would have slapped myself in the jewels. Sometimes I see people at coffee shops and gas stations and Wawas who remind me of myself when I was 21 and all I can think is "Ew. Youths." So insecure, so know-it-all-y, so self-absorbed (she said on the blog in which she writes exclusively about herself...yes I see it now...)

Other than my skin having been smoother (only slightly), I am much more of a catch now. I was born to be 30, I'm certain of it. I'm better looking, more intelligent, more independent, more well-rounded, and less concerned about inconsequential things. I also have no desire to spend time around stupid jerks, so dating is much more fun. And I can afford better lipstick (relax, it's still Target brand), so I often feel really happy even if the date is a bust.

Of course I know all of this now, but when I was considering breaking up with my ex, I assumed I was grotesque, old, and undatable, that if I did date, everybody would be similarly grotesque. I figured being unhappy with my ex was better than being unhappy in the world of dating.

Well, breaking up with my ex did not relegate me to a life of sad spinsterhood (though weirdly, that sometimes appeals to me). So to give a little motivation to my homies who are only in relationships because they're afraid to be single, I've put together is a list of every man I've involved myself with since I broke up with my ex.

Now, an important disclaimer for those of you who are unseasoned in the world of dating. Lest my light-hearted list paints too rosy a picture, let's just be honest that the world of online and offline dating exposes you to some of the most debased scum to ever walk the earth. I know, because I have dated some of them. They have filled up my inbox with pre-fabricated messages like the human spam they are. You must be strong to date. You must be able to look at someone and say: NO, I will not spend an ounce of energy on you even though you are [cute/smart/sexy/interested/available/not a murderer] because you will undoubtedly make my life worse and being alone is better than letting you within range to piss all over my beautiful world. And you must also be able to say OKAY! I will reach out! Even though you are wearing those terrible shorts! And then steel yourself for an inevitable rejection from shorts-guy.

So that said, here is my list, in order from earliest to latest, including nicknames.

Rock star
29, guitarist in a semi-successful band
Relevant Details and Key Takeaways:
- When a man asks you to be their date to a party, the appropriate response is not, "Why?"
- One's own stock may be higher than initially anticipated. Rock star was out-of-my-league hot, and he was obsessed with me. That was surprising. I think it was this coat I wore one time.
- I can't ever be in a relationship with a professional musician because he might live on someone's couch, and I might fall through the cushions into said couch whilst trying to make out with him.
- Steaming up windows in a car is a real thing that happens.
- If someone is a good kisser, you should take advantage of it and make out all over town and in churchyards and in people's yards and inside farm equipment in the rain because life is too short to not spend it kissing a beautiful man.

We kissed once in college
30, lawyer
Relevant Details and Key Takeaways:
- Dating someone who can dance very well and will talk to you for hours is the absolute best, regardless of whether it is an ill-fated pairing.

Recently heartbroken high school friend
31, teacher
Relevant Details and Key Takeaways:
- Getting a guy to make out with you can be utterly formulaic in its simplicity.
- Some people just grab onto your heart regardless of how shitty they treat you. For example, if you see them on and off for 6 months and then they end things by just never calling you again, you might still pine for them against all reason and good judgment.
- I like weird things in a man: a physical flaw like a scar or a lisp or a crooked nose, how he moves around his house, feeling like we are equals, an embarrassing laugh. All of these things are turn ons.

Tiny redhead
30, law student
Relevant Details and Key Takeaways:
- With respect to gingers, re: the matching of carpets with drapes, the answer was 'almost.'
- You can tell how intelligent a man is by what he laughs at.
- However, you cannot predict how good they will be in the sack.

Hiker and biker
32, copy writer
Relevant Details and Key Takeaways:
- Sometimes you find a good man that isn't right for you, so you recycle him to your most deserving friend, and at our age that's a mark of true friendship.

No way
30, astrophysics doctoral student
Relevant Details and Key Takeaways:
- Sometimes someone will use fake pictures on an online dating site because they are ashamed of how they look, even if they look perfectly normal. Call bullshit (compassionately) on those people right away, because we can't date people who don't feel fuck-able exactly as they are.
- If you're ever on a date with someone who spends the time expounding on his largely unexamined views about boring topics instead of getting to know you, just leave after 45 minutes.
- Always be direct and honest when rejecting someone, first because that's how you avoid becoming the human scum you loathe, but also because you might run into the person the next FIVE WEEKENDS IN A ROW.

Guy who was over a foot taller than me
37, union organizer
Relevant Details and Key Takeaways:
- Sometimes you can have a lovely date that goes on for hours and hours and yet you've forgotten everything by morning.

Guy who went ahead and dated nearly every single woman I know in Philly
32, environmental engineer
- Sometimes it's fun to date the same guy as all your friends because then you are all in agreement about what bars to avoid lest you all run into him together. (You also have the option of ambushing him all together at his favorite bar, which could be fun.)

Crazy P
37, AIDS activist and strategist
Relevant Details and Key Takeaways:
- In some cases, telling a woman that you can't hear what she's saying because someone hacked off a bit of your ear with a machete once is a successful strategy in endearing you to her.
- How to preempt a kiss you'd rather avoid by using the sneak attack hug strategy: pivot, hug, run away waving and yelling "bye!" while he's stunned, standing there running away and wondering what just happened.

Best guy
36, Telecom person
Relevant Details and Key Takeaways:
- Sometimes someone is older, wiser, and more wonderful than you and despite how badass you are, you realize there are qualities of his you are not yet deserving of. Maybe in 5 years?

The Dry Saltine
31, nurse practitioner student
Relevant Details and Key Takeaways:

- Sometimes you will nickname someone "Saltine" and put them in your phone that way, and then when they call, you assume it's a French prostitute calling.
- Some people will bail at the slightest whiff of uncertainty or doubt. That's sad if you like each other, but you can't date someone you have to convince to want you, so you'll just have to find a way to get over it.

All of these people brought out different parts of me and in doing so made me realize how complex I am, which is exciting and sometimes overwhelming. But it's better than the small life I was living before out of fear of being alone. So we'll see what happens with the Saltine. Stay tuned.

Women in Their Forties and Why I Love Them

Two summers ago I went to visit my sister in LA. Usually when I go out to see her it's only for a few days, but this time we were both in lucky situations that afforded us more time together: I was in graduate school and enjoying a nice long vacation, and she was unemployed. And, she was newly pregnant which meant that I saw her several more times that year between holidays, baby showers, and births. So the moral of the story is that I went from seeing my sister 1-2 times a year to seeing her 5 times in one year.

Now, full disclosure, my sister and I have a complicated and evolving (and thoroughly enriching) relationship. She has always had her shit together careerwise whereas my career has been, um, a "journey." My sister is a decade older than me, worked in commercial banking for 13 years in New York and LA, and, at my age, was an assistant vice president at one of the largest banks in the world. Yeah.

I remember she used to get mad at me for not buying nice enough things for myself (nearly everything I own that is nice was given to me by either my sister or my brother), for drinking wine out of jam jars, for just generally faffing about and acting young and aimless all the time (such is the curse of a youngest child - to faff about aimlessly). My sister was always overly concerned with whether I was on track - if I was hitting all of the right marks at the right time to maintain her same schedule of success.

But then she got laid off and pregnant, and because of that I got to spend 5 wonderful visits with her and her friends, all smart, well-educated, beautiful women in their very late 30s (now 40s). All were in the middle of big transitions - terrifying, risky, destablizing transitions. Here are some shorts I picked up along the way:

1) One day my sister and I were taking a hike with her friend - let's call her Sara. Sara is also very smart and successful with bullet points on her resume indicating than she has worked for Google, has an MBA from Columbia and is just an all-around badass. I always saw my sister and Sara has such formidable friends - so professional, so ambitious, so career-driven, and very successful. So imagine my surprise when both women, both of whom were at the time laid off from prestigious organizations, agreed that although they missed their jobs, working was so overrated and that if they could just go to yoga everyday, go out to lunch, and hang out with their kids all the time they would be happy.

UM WHAT? Isn't that the exact opposite of what my sister, feminism, and capitalism has told me my whole life? I always thought I was a slouch for only wanting to work an 8 hour day. And here it turns out that the most ambitious people I know, the women who I wished I was more like, the ones who I thought depended on their work to give their lives meaning admitted that working wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Maybe they both felt jilted from being abandoned by organizations they had labored for for years. Maybe they were drunk. I don't know. But what I do know is that my 37 year old sister and her friend were both wise, and as a result more confused, about what was best for them. I take a great deal of comfort in this. I liked that, nearing 40, they allowed themselves to be ambivalent. Because ambivalence creates the space to explore.

2) My sister has two friends, let's call them Vania and Brooke who met in college. Vania and Brooke are best friends and lived together for probably close to 15 years. Until they decided to get their own apartments. I think it must have been much worse than a divorce because you're both still in love with each other. It reminded me of when Lisa, my roommate of about 5 years, moved from Brooklyn to Israel and I walked around New York like a ghost, as if I had no other friends and no purpose. When I told my friend Julia that Lisa had moved to Israel she gasped and said, "but you guys are like married...how will you live without each other?" So the the best thing about Vania and Brooke is that they remind me that the most important relationship in your life can be the one you have with your best friend.

One time my ex-boyfriend called me his best friend. It was awful, like someone you didn't want to marry proposing to you. And I didn't return the words, because my true best friends had known me since I was a teenager - was he seriously as committed to me as they were? As intimate? As unconditionally offered?

No.

So I just sat there and smiled at him, flattered but not at all convinced. I think I said something mildly lame like, "Awww. I like you too."

3) When my sister doesn't want to do something, my first response to help her get out of it is to weave a web of elaborate lies to explain away and cover her true feelings about why she doesn't want to do it so as to spare the feelings and disapproval of all the people impacted by her decision. "Just say you're sick" or "blame it on me" or "tell them you're tired but you're excited to see them next week" or "blame it on the pregnancy" I advise her. But then she just looks at me and says, no, that's too complicated, I'm just going to tell the truth and if it hurts their feelings, oh well. Because when you're almost 40, you're not afraid of being honest with people. You ain't got time for that.

In short, we don't have crystal balls to show us what our lives will be in ten years - our futures are unknowable in so many ways. So I recommend the next best thing, and, if you don't have a crazy sister like I do, get yourself a friend ten years your senior and just sit back and listen.

Suddenly Single at 29

This past fall, I broke up with my boyfriend of seven years.

Sometimes when I say it it still sounds insane. Who breaks up with their boyfriend of seven years when they are in prime marrying age? => THIS METALLY-DERANGED PERSON, RIGHT HERE <==

Sometimes I feel like the dumbest person alive.

Actually, I don't feel that way, but my cousin told me that I was "literally the dumbest person he had ever met" after I told him about the breakup. I'm still trying to decide if that's better or worse than my other cousin who asked me if my ex-boyfriend dumped me because I was using too many drugs. Thank god for family, during these difficult times.

I won't go into all of the blood and guts of our breakup - and believe me, at the time, it gutted me like a fish. And thank god it did, because I needed to see my guts on the table, rifle through them, and seriously figure out what was there. That sort of life reckoning was long overdue.

I had been with my ex-boyfriend for the better part of this decade. You won't see a ton of whining on this blog about how sad and lonely I was in my 20s. Because I had a boyfriend who was obligated to provide me company, and love, and support, even when he didn't.

But now I'm 29, and I'm on my own.

Actually, the question that sticks in my head about all of this is not "why did you break up with your ex-boyfriend, whom you loved, whom you might have married, with whom you wanted to have babies, whom your family liked, with whom you had planned your past, present, and future?" That question has a deeply complicated, layered answer. But really, the only layer that matters is the simple one: I wanted to. Even though I couldn't always put words to why that was the case (though sometimes I did put words to it, mostly four letter ones), a little part of me knew I wanted to be without him.

Instead, the question that gnaws at me is, "why did it take you so long?"

I knew something was "off" in my relationship - I knew it for a long time, for years and years. I couldn't verbalize it, or maybe I didn't want to, or maybe I did, but I convinced myself that I should just feel lucky that I wasn't alone or with an abuser (for some reason, my mind could only see three plausible options for my life: either I could unhappy and coupled, unhappy and alone, or victimized; that I could be in a happy relationship felt unfathomable for some reason). I was afraid of admitting to myself that there was something wrong in our relationship, because it implicated me and implied that I had fucked up by investing so much into it. And the more deeply entrenched I got, the more the consequences of of my mistake seemed to balloon. I became even more scared about ending it. But still, a little part of me knew.

I had a zillion conversations with my ex-boyfriend to forge a path ahead and to try to relieve my doubt, but it just bore down deeper until a voice as loud and clear as the one that comes out of my own mouth screamed, YOU STUPID BITCH, ARE YOU FUCKING BLIND? THIS IS WRONG. GET OUT OF THIS NOW.

And I was all, FUCK YOU, INNER VOICE! HOW DARE YOU JUDGE MY DECISIONS, YOU ASS-HATTED WHOREMONGER! And then like literally 2.5 seconds later I was like HOLYFUCKINGSHIT, YOU'RE TOTALLY RIGHT. I'M SORRY INNER VOICE, IT IS I WHO IS THE ASS-HATTED WHOREMONGER.

Here's some free advice about your inner voice - and I mean the real one, not that charlatan inner voice who tells you do stuff like rob the guy you just made out with: If you're ever battling your inner voice you will lose, because that bitch is crazy - like "biter" crazy. You can put up a good fight, but ultimately she rules you. And that's a good thing, because she knows what you want better than you do. She's like a benevolent dictator.

I realize now that the question, "why didn't you do it sooner?" has a simple answer too: "because I couldn't." Leaving a very long term relationship takes courage, clear eyes, and a sober accounting of your life and what you want out of it, separate from what you think others want for you. I didn't have that courage or clarity at 24. I don't think a lot of people do.

But more than all of those things, confidently making a big decision takes the ability to listen - really listen - to the guidance of your inner voice and to trust it to lead you in the right direction. Learning this is the greatest lesson of my 20s and, unfortunately, you only learn it from being fucking miserable for a long ass fucking time.

29

Today I am 29. 

29. 

In comparison to 28, whose look has such lovely, soft curvature, 29 just feels sharp and severe. Something about the typography of odd numbers, I think.

I thought it apropos to take a look at Glamour's list of 30 things to have and know before you turn 30 (a) because who doesn't love a good list and (b) because it kind of feels like the kind exercise in taking stock that birthdays cause you to do when you get older.

Before I do that, however, here is a list of my own of things that have already happened to me today that are wonderful and amazing, even though, I'm not going to lie, I might be going through one of the hardest points in my life right now (and not because of aging, for sure, but that does play a part).

1. My friend Cara, who I have known since first grade, looked at me and said, "oh, you're only turning 29?" Technically, this happened yesterday, but who's counting? Certainly not Cara ;) 
2. My 2-year-old niece reminded my sister it was my birthday this morning. There are literally no words to describe what it feels like to find that out.
3. My cousin, with whom I used to be incredibly close with and have since fallen out of touch with due to some difficult family circumstances, called me at 5:15 AM from London to wish me and chat. I got the chance to tell her how much I missed her and how good it felt to hear her voice. Had she not forgotten about the time difference and had I not been so delirious with lack of sleep, I probably would have kept those things to myself. I'm so glad I didn't.
4. I got to hear my best friend's voice.
5. I looked down at my toes and realized that my pedicure from two weeks ago still looks baller. 
6. I looked in the mirror and realized that I look so much better than I did 10 years ago.
7. I had two work related calls and realized how much smarter I am now than I was last year.
8. I was neither angry nor hurt but instead totally bemused that my dad forgot my birthday.
9. I sat at a booth alone eating lunch and did not feel sad or alone because I am, and have always been, good company for myself.
10. It's only 3pm and I have been showered with birthday love from the people closest to me, the people who love me, the people who like me, people who just barely know me, and the people who only remember me. I know people hate on birthday Facebook posts and texts, etc, but they are a fabulous reminder of all of the energy you put out into the universe over the years and how it all can come back to you, even if only in small gestures. Did Iggy Araujo, a high school crush, have to take 30 seconds and me a Facebook message this morning? Absolutely not. But he did, and like I said above, he's never seen me look better. BLAM-O!

Alright here goes folks: Let's see how much Ravina has to get done this year!

According to Glamour:

By 30, you should have:

1. One old boyfriend you can imagine going back to and one who reminds you of how far you’ve come.

Under my belt I have one of each, and am working on cultivating another. (Riddles anyone?)

2. A decent piece of furniture not previously owned by anyone else in your family. 

Define decent. And by furniture, can I count a table I use as a footstool? And what if it wasn't previously owned by family, but rather was found discarded by the side of the road? Actually, the answer is no either way you slice it. Damn. Point Glamour!

3. Something perfect to wear if the employer or man of your dreams wants to see you in an hour.

Yes. And to be honest, they both make me look a mix of tough and hot.

4. A purse, a suitcase, and an umbrella you’re not ashamed to be seen carrying.

Check, check, and check.

5. A youth you’re content to move beyond.

Yes, because down to my core, I think I am only getting better.

6. A past juicy enough that you’re looking forward to retelling it in your old age.

It's got it's juicy moments, but I'm actively looking for juicer ones.

7. The realization that you are actually going to have an old age—and some money set aside to help fund it.

Yes, but I could use a little more. 

8. An email address, a voice mailbox, and a bank account—all of which nobody has access to but you.

Um, I have these in multiples. How the hell else would I be able to flee the country in a desperate but necessary escape? I've seen enough spy movies. Now all I need is the combination to a train station locker, and I'll be all set. 

9. A résumé that is not even the slightest bit padded. 

Ha! Yeah right! This is an idiotic item on the list. Guess what? Smart girls know how to pad their resumes. Do I ever promise things I can't deliver on? No. I don't have to do that anymore. But I'll go ahead and admit that my resume is more than "slightly" padded.

10. One friend who always makes you laugh and one who lets you cry. 

My closest friends know they must do both as a prerequisite for friendship, and know that I will also do both.

11. A set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill, and a black lace bra. 

Yes, no, and I prefer red.

12. Something ridiculously expensive that you bought for yourself, just because you deserve it. 

No, but if I did, it would most certainly be an experience rather than an item.

13. The belief that you deserve it. 

Oh, I do.

14. A skin-care regimen, an exercise routine, and a plan for dealing with those few facets of life that don’t get better after 30. 

Yes, yes, and is this code for gray pubes? Because I have no plan for dealing with that.

15. A solid start on a satisfying career, a satisfying relationship, and all those other facets of life that do get better.

Sorry Glamour, I think you strike out again. I only know a charmed few who have all of these under their belt by 30, and I am certainly not one of them.

By 30, you should know:

1. How to fall in love without losing yourself. 

I think so, but this is an absurd statement, Glamour. Someone who has lost herself doesn't know it until she finds herself again - or finds herself for the first time. That's the thing about love - when you're lost, you rarely know it.

2. How you feel about having kids. 

I mean, if you haven't seen my nieces, (a) I'm sorry, because you're life is not complete until you've met them, (b) they're amazing - of course I want some kids, and (c) not right now, please.

3. How to quit a job, break up with a man, and confront a friend with-out ruining the friendship. 

Yes, because one thing I have in spades at age 29 is courage.

4. When to try harder and when to walk away. 

Still a mystery.

5. How to kiss in a way that communicates perfectly what you would and wouldn’t like to happen next. 

God, I hope so, but how do you know?

6. The names of the secretary of state, your great-grandmothers, and the best tailor in town. 

Yes, because she's my hero. No - does that make me terrible? As for tailors, I'm still on a quest for a good one in Chicago, but I can tell you where to go in NYC and Champaign and who to avoid in Little Rock.

7. How to live alone, even if you don’t like to. 

Yes: the answer is lots of parties, lots of wine, and lots of music. And potentially cable. 

8. Where to go—be it your best friend’s kitchen table or a yoga mat—when your soul needs soothing. 

Yes, and my soul has needed a lot of soothing lately, so I am happy to report that I have a lot of places to go.

9. That you can’t change the length of your legs, the width of your hips, or the nature of your parents. 

Why would I want to change any of those?

10. That your childhood may not have been perfect, but it’s over.

Totally moot. Childhood is never perfect, and for better or worse, it's never totally over.

11. What you would and wouldn’t do for money or love. 

Turns out there isn't much I'll do for the former, and there is a lot I'll do for the latter, and that I am reassessing both of those facts of my life. 

12. That nobody gets away with smoking, drinking, doing drugs, or not flossing for very long. 

Actually, I know a lot of people who got away with doing those things for a very long time and are still wonderful, productive, fabulous, inspiring people, rotting gums and all.

13. Who you can trust, who you can’t, and why you shouldn’t take it personally. 

You never know who you can trust. That's what trust is - it is the absence of knowing, and doing it anyway. It is a sweet, beautiful risk. 

14. Not to apologize for something that isn’t your fault. 

Sometimes this realization reaches me a little too late.

15. Why they say life begins at 30!

Good god I can't wait until I'm 30. I definitely know why they say that life doesn't begin at any point between 20 and 29!

The crazy thing is that even though I am going through a personal crisis right now - one of the hardest of my life, certainly - I am so happy to be 29.

When I started this blog, it was a reaction to the fact that, at 24, I had no idea how to live my life. I didn't know what I wanted, how to get it, why I was so unhappy all the time, why I didn't have any control over my life, why I didn't feel equipped to make big decisions, blah blah blah. And I can honestly say that with the greater part of my 20s behind me, I AM SO BALLER NOW, I CAN HARDLY STAND IT. And the best part is that I KEEP GETTING MORE BALLER (BALLER-IER, if you will). 

So yeah, I'm going to go ahead and say that even though life sucks right now, I just can't stop feeling like 29 is just going to be my year.

(And if it isn't, I'll just start lying about my age - who says I can't make 29 last a couple years extra? See?! Always have a Plan B: another lesson learned in the 20s.)

BOO-YAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Unemployment

The best part about being unemployed is getting drunk in the middle of the day. I should know. I, like many of my fellow 20-somethings, have been unemployed. I am unemployed right now. In fact, I have been unemployed twice this year. BOOYA.

Okay, it's not because I am a bad employee or because I got laid off. It's because I'm in a wonderful relationship that has, in the past year, required quite a bit of moving to different cities for his job. What dummy agrees to be unemployed twice in a bum economy for a man? --->THIS DUMMY<---- But let's just get this out of the way: I love my boyfriend, he's worth it, I'm glad we moved, etc. etc.

All that aside, being unemployed is the pits, especially for someone like me who is overeducated in something not entirely marketable. It's about as fun as online dating: you scour the internet for someone who might be a good fit for you; you make first contact; most of the time they never contact you back, but if they do, most likely you will just sit across from each other at a table trying to make yourselves seem cooler than you are, and then, after going through all of that, you will most likely be rejected anyway. At least with dating you get a free drink for trying.

So, here it is fellow unemployed people of our 20's: Ravina's Guide to Being Unemployed

1. The best thing you can do when you are unemployed is to find a friend who is either unemployed or underemployed. This turns daytime drinking into a fun, social, urban activity rather than a sad, pathetic means of blunting your emotions and feelings of inadequacy. These are some strategies to make friends that have worked for me:
- Stalk strangers in a coffee shop
- Stalk your neighbors (love you Laura!)
- Pretend to sell something on Craigslist and then when they come to pick it up, invite them in for a cup of tea (I haven't tested this one out, but we'll see how it works this weekend when I try to "sell my desk")

Whatever strategy you choose, make a friend, preferably one that poo poos sobriety.

2. Find a series on Netflix that you like let it be your go to. I chose Friday Night Lights last time I was unemployed. It was like having a little voice on in the room while I was applying for jobs. Does it make me sound crazy that I need fake TV personalities talking to me while I conduct internet searches? Sure, okay, fine. But then, you should see me without them...

3. If you are financially able, hold out for a job you think will get you somewhere. I took one of the first jobs I was offered when I was unemployed last time, and it turned out to be kind of a bust. It turned what seemed like 4 months of wasted time into 12. Hullo? That's 8 months of good drinking, down the drain!

4. Cold calls. This is seriously my favorite part about being unemployed. I call random people at different organizations and see who will have lunch with me. It turns out, everybody wants to have lunch with someone they don't work with. Some people will even give you whiskey out of a coffee mug in their office at 10 am, so I highly recommend it. Sometimes this turns into a job, sometimes into a hangover, but hell, it's always better than sitting on your ass a home or stalking potential friends at a coffee shop.

Okay, but seriously now. There are two important things a twenty-something must know if they are unemployed: First, you need to make sure you don't spend all your money. If you don't have a support (family, significant other, etc.) who can float you, you need to find a way to make a little bit of cash. So be brash - find consulting jobs or tutor or bartend, but watching your bank account drain away is seriously the most depressing thing in the world, so mitigate that process. Having a little bit of money gives you a sense of freedom, and that's important when it feels like it's raining down shit all around you. Second, you might be kind of special in your own way, but in the grand scheme of things, you're probably not that special. You're not going to find a job that gives you free reign to solve the world's problems, and challenge you unendingly, and give you independence, and mentoring, and not require you to work that many hours, and pay you obscenely. Sorry. Most likely it's not in the cards. So be smart about your job search, and not snobby. If you get a decent job, take it. Work out the rest later. Work-life balance is for people with children, not people who want to leave at 5 everyday to make their spin class.

A final note about unemployment: try to enjoy it. You can either sit around and dwell on how awful your lot in life is - believe me, I have done plenty of that - or you can take it as an opportunity to reassess your career goals and just chillax for a while. Work will always be there, but, as I'm finding out faster and faster, your twenties won't always be.

Everyone's talking about 20-somethings

If being an ethnic minority has taught me anything, it's that there's nothing more comforting that realizing you've been made into a stereotype.

But I'm not talking about being Indian - no, no. It turns out that, according to the mammoth New York Times Magazine piece, I am a typical 20-something:

Have you gone back to school to pursue another degree?
- Yes.
Have you ever done Teach for America?
- Yes.
Have you moved almost every year since college?
- Yes.
Are you in an untethered romantic relationship?
- You bet.
Are you slouching toward adulthood at an uneven, highly individual pace?
- Define "adulthood."

There are a few areas where I don't quite fit the mold: I've never moved back home, I've been largely financially independent from my family since after college, and I have almost no debt. My credit is decent, I own a car that I bought with my own money, and have been in a relationship with the same person for nearly five years now. So by a lot of measures, my life is quite stable.

For these reasons, I don't fully buy the argument that our 20s is a new stage in psychological development. Don't get me wrong - I've gone through a lot of psychological changes in my 20s (at age 18, I didn't cry in public; now, I can cry in front of anyone, anywhere, for literally any reason - try me). But I just don't buy that I've been inclined to spend the vast majority of my 20s faffing about because my brain has developed just so.

I think this because despite the so-called representative sample this Dr. Arnett character seems to have compiled from college towns across America to corroborate his "emerging adulthood" theory, myself and many of my friends who suffer from this quarter-life shitstorm (which Robin Marantz Henig calls a "transient epiphenomenon" whatever the hell that means) are downright spoiled. I know for a fact that, though I've never taken him up on it, if I called my dad tomorrow and told him I was poor, unemployable, and homeless, he would take me back. And this is precisely why I've been allowed to do whatever I want for my whole "adult" life - live a holier than thou life in rural America; date cretins; get master's degrees in wholly unmarketable fields. I've done it all with no regrets and no debts.

So my (albeit unexamined) guess is that only those of us who can afford to carelessly futz our way through our 20s do so, something pointed out by Kimberly Palmer's letter to the editor and that people who are not blessed with middle class parents might not.

Now, don't get me wrong. I appreciate the difficulties associated with being middle class and educated (I hate the way I sound right now). Having too many options and too many big decisions to make is what drives me to keep this blog alive. That said, I'd be interested to know which kids whose parents booted them out the door the minute they graduated have really caught the whole "the world has limitless possibilities" bug.

And one more thing before I get off this rant: WTF is up with the Magazine's choice of photos representing life as a 20-something? They asked a bunch of 20-something photographers to capture what their life was like using iPhones. This is ostensibly what we can learn from the collection: We're all hipsters and we all have fucking iPhones.

I much prefer the Atlantic's collage, which, although they're all pictures of the same girl, seems a little truer to life. I also liked their response to the piece (thanks Kelso).

Lemon out.

Kate Goldwater's AuH20 on CNN

Birthdays

Okay, so I started this post back around my birthday - my 25th. Several months have since passed, and I still find myself telling people I am 24 and thinking it is true. I wonder why this is, because I wasn't so fond of being 24 either. My boyfriend oftentimes has to remind me of my true age, something I'm also not particularly fond of. Am I going to be one of those 42 year olds who tells everybody their 28? Quizas, quizas, quizas.

I would have happily vomited all over myself in public if it meant that I wouldn't have had to turn 25. It would be well worth the humiliation. When I began this post, I had nothing good to say about turning a year older, and I still really don't. I've come to terms with the fact that every birthday after 21 is just another step in a downward spiral over which I seem to be losing total control. I'm over that, but I still envy people who really celebrate their birthdays, choosing instead to honor their new number; Hell, I'm still hanging onto 24, even though I'm now closer to 26.

My boyfriend recently celebrated his birthday (he is slightly older than I) and complained that though he is approaching 30, he hasn't done anything with his life. Though I look pretty accomplished on paper, I feel much the same way. (I was recently informed that, according to my resume, I had been "a busy girl.") However, I am back in school; I still don't really know how to do anything; I don't know (or perhaps I don't remember) how to think; I still look awkward in most of my clothes; and I still don't know what I want to do with my life.

About that last one: I had a student (I teach college freshman) ask me the earlier this year, "What do you want to be?" and the only thing I could think was "When do people stop asking me that question?" You would think after some point people just stop asking, but they don't. If it's not my dad, or my boyfriend, or my sister then it's my 18 year old student. The worst part is that I have spent the last seven years trying to figure that out and though I'm getting closer, I have no respectable answer. To my student, I responded, "A badass," which only got me unenthusiastic laugh, but at least it got her off my back.

There are good things about getting older; I recognize that. Getting older means you get to have deeper relationships with people. I recently realized that I have known my best friend Tasha for 12 years; and my other best friend / roommate extraordinaire Lisa for 8 (some say we're practically married). And it means I have been in a relationship with my boyfriend for about 3 and a half (don't get me wrong, there are some months that I'd rather not count). I don't fight with my sister every time I talk to her anymore (though we still have our fair share of brawls). My dad now listens to me before he inveighs against all of my decisions. And my brother actually asks me for advice every once in a while. I consider those relationships accomplishments because managing and maintaining them feels like a full time job that I know is time well spent. And, it is true, the richness of these relationships develops only with time. Getting older is a necessary component.

But it also means that I need to start making real decisions, ones that matter, ones that have a real bearing on my future, ones I feel far too immature (and frankly far too young) to make. Do I want to get married? When? Babies? Where should I raise them? Do I want to have a job that requires me to work all the time? Where should I settle? How far from my family? How important is my career? How many years to I want to spend at my next job? Should I move somewhere to be with my boyfriend? Do I have to start actually thinking about someone else's needs when making decisions? Does he think about mine?

I fear even discussing many of these quesions. Many of them are the things I whisper to myself late at night like a crazy person when I know no one is listening. But I remember Lisa's sage, if harsh, advice. GROW UP.

While I don't feel as though my 20s are coming to a close (hey, I'm still buying used furniture off of craigslist), in a sense I feel as though some of the adventure (and concurrent stress) that was supposed to characterize the decade for me is beginning to fade into a flurry of fear and excitement regarding...could it be...stability????

26 is going to be a tough one. I can already tell.

Here's To One Decade At A Time

Sometime in my early twenties, I stumbled upon a little gem online and despite the increasing depth of the internets, Google still manages to find it for me - hidden in the comments section of a blog I still adore. Even if it failed to do so, I have the precise location of where I wrote this in my old journal accurately memorized. The author had written this message in a card he gave to his sister, who had just turned twenty years old, and she ended up cherishing it forever:

You have entered the most turbulent decade of your life. These are the years you'll experience your greatest loves, your greatest breakups, your greatest victories and your greatest hardships, all of which will lead you to the greatest decades of all: the ones in which you'll know yourself.

I shared it with my best friend, and then with my brother, on their birthdays. Though I found it after I had already entered my twenties, it made my heart swell as though it had just taken a deep breath of relief. It comforted me and gave me much hope. Hope for those greatest of loves and victories, and hope, too, for those lessons learned from the greatest of breakups and hardships. Most of all, I wanted that tiny flicker of light at the end of this long decade to get bigger - I wanted to know myself.

I'm not sure I feel much different at 25 than I did a few years ago. Different than 19 and 21? Of course. The amount of time that I spend drunk out of my mind has decreased dramatically. But being 23 and 24 feels like it was just... seven days ago. It's almost as if I'm disappointed that I don't know myself better at this point (ridiculous, I know), but I think I've proven myself to be the type who has terribly high expectations of ...well, everything.

When I was younger, I often imagined what I would be like when I grew up. And when I got into writing myself birthday letters, those daydreams and fantasies manifested themselves into full blown predictions and desires captured in my loopy scrawl and sealed into envelopes for years at a time. When I turned 16, I read a letter I wrote to myself at 12 years old that wanted future me to have a stereo and CDs and be "cool". Turning 23, I read a letter from 20 year old me which was emo as all heck... something about love and crying and goodness knows what. The one I liked best was the letter I wrote to myself on my 16th birthday for an older me at 20. I was cute and charming, almost funny. I spoke to myself like I was my own friend. And sometimes, I think I forget that: I am my own friend.

It seems that even the farthest reaches of my over-active imagination could only ever see me at 20, at the oldest - for I never wrote a letter to an older me after that. On the eve of my birthday last Friday, I kind of wished that I had a letter to look forward to in the morning. I suppose imagining 16 and 20 were kind of easy - 16 being smack dab in the middle of all that was to be dramatic teenagedom, and 20 being on that cusp of almost-adulthood. I'll admit that when I was 21 or so I saw myself at 27, but only because that was the age at which I always thought I'd be getting married. And being 27 sounded really cool to me because I was reading the blog of someone who was 27 at the time and gee, I just thought she was the neatest thing ever. But what of 25?

Right now it kind of feels like no-man's land, and fuzzy at best. I finished school just about a year ago now, but my ties there are still strong enough to make me feel connected (plus, I miss my life in my campus city SO DAMN MUCH) to the point where I say that I "just" finished school. I'm working a full-time 9 to 5 gig, but I don't really feel that it's "me" quite yet. I kind of know deep down that I won't be there forever and that I'm ultimately looking for something a little... else. I moved back home; and after living on my own for five years I have to admit that it feels funny, to say the least. See? Not a student, but not really an adult. Even if I were to have imagined myself at 25, my letter would have been so lofty that upon reading it I might have actually burst into tears. Perhaps I should be glad that I could never figure out what my mid-twenties were supposed to be like.

And I guess that's it right there - it's not really supposed to be anything, but it's everything all at the same time. It's love and loss. It's winning and not. It's good, it's bad. It's all-you-can-eat Japanese with your family one night, getting dolled up for a club only to be thrown out later for being obnoxiously over-intoxicated the next, and geeky, cheery goodness at Medieval Times the following. Looking back at my youth (gosh, that makes me sound old, but I didn't know how else to say it), I can confidently state that I did most of my "growing up" in my twenties - and will continue to do so.

So here's to the lack of birthday letter and to realizing that I had no idea what was to come. As much as I have an idea of who I'd like to be at this point in my life and who I am already, I've gotta say that at the very least, I'm pretty happy. And very grateful. Here's to those next decades, the ones in which I know myself, but in the meantime, here's to the rest of this decade now - whatever it may be.

Cheers.

How to Cope with Your Quarterlife Crisis

by Elena Vasquez

Welcome to the Real World full of deadlines, bills, limited vacation time, mortgages, and student loans. 401Ks and credit scores suddenly define who you are. We replaced juice boxes with half price margaritas and our lunch hour with a quick lunch at our desk. Many of us still look forward to that midday “recess,” whether to indulge in coffee or the latest office gossip. The promise of freedom in the Real World seems more like an urban legend. In reality, it feels like we are all still smiling awkwardly behind a mouth full of braces.

Many call the awkward phase from an individual’s twenties to early thirties, the Quarterlife Crisis. This is the time when people transition from adolescence to adulthood. Suddenly a new population fills the work force, and, in most cases, they have no preparation whatsoever with balancing a checkbook, taking care of a household, or investing their paycheck.

In college, there were plenty of classes to choose from, but most colleges didn’t offer “how to be a grown-up”; therefore, most recent graduates are left to fend for themselves and maybe surf the web in hopes of finding some helpful hints using Google.

Read the rest here:

http://www.tooshytostop.com/index.php/2009/04/02/how-to-cope-with-your-quarterlife-crisis/

Grad School: The Cure for the Common Quarter-Life Crisis

Okay, I started this post in the beginning of the school year when I was still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed; still able to do my work without my eyes falling out of my head; still marginally happy about my decision to go back to graduate school.

Oh how times changed. That was all before the institution of the weekly emotional breakdown. It happened like clockwork on Friday at about 6pm and, if I didn't do anything about it, lasted through the weekend. During this time I did any number of things including but not limited to crying, whimpering, looking at pictures from years past, eating my feelings (the only reason I know how to bake cookies), picking fights with my boyfriend, accusing him of things he probably did not do, and of not doing things he probably did.

If you tack the stress of finals on the end of the breakdowns, that pretty much sums up first semester for me.

Graduate school has, however, done some fabulous things for me. First and foremost, it has given me a purpose - a real reason to get out of bed in the morning. And, other than Sunday brunches and kicking other people's asses in yoga class (yeah I know it's a ludicrous concept), I was lacking a purpose.

Now, I know that sounds ridiculous, but it's true. No more floating through life waiting for something interesting to come along and challenge me. Now I get slammed with interesting shit ALL DAY. I can't outrun it! I spend my days examining the relationship between capitalism and democracy (or, as I have begun to intentionally mistype it just for a giggle, democrazy). Reading Chomsky and Bagdikian and Mills and pondering (I'm always pondering these days) what is to be done? ALL THE FUCKING TIME.

Which brings me to the second wonderful thing about graduate school: vacation.

I have spent the last month vacating and allowing cable TV and wine to obliterate any intelligence I may have gained in the last four months. The word "vacation" has never been so laden with meaning for me as it has in the last month, as I have felt totally and absolutely vacant. As in "The brain has exited the building."

Now, it has come to my attention that us 20 somethings have a slightly misconstrued view of what vacation is, so I thought I would take some time to clear it up for all of us. Let's start with what vacation is not:

Rule #1: A family vacation is no vacation at all.

The idea of a family vacation is oxymoronic. Intead let's call it a family trip; an outing; an annual reminder of why you don't all share one house anymore. I don't care how much you love your family; I love hanging out with my family - they're hilarious and fun and we all eat and drink well, but hanging out with them or going somewhere with them is not vacation. It's a different beast altogether.

Rule #2: Setting aside five days for vacation guarantees only one day of actual relaxation.

It always takes me at least 2 days to entirely unwind from my real life, and then I invariably start thinking about real life in the two days before I leave, so I really only forget the rest of the world and relax for about one day. This "real" relaxation should not be confused with "apparant" relaxation (such as when I watch 6 hours of Top Chef followed by 2 hours of Queer Eye reruns). So remember, if you're planning a vacation, think big, or rather, long. (That's what she said!)

Rule #3: Vacation means you have to leave the house.

My best friend Tasha called me a few weeks ago and told me that she used one of her vacation days that day. And I said, wow - you don't often take vacations so that's a big deal. What are you doing? And she said, well, I've already cleaned my floors and made breakfast and now I'm looking some stuff up on the computer. And then I said, Tash! That's not a vacation. Because it's only vacation if you leave the house. (Which was really just my way of getting to her drive 40 minutes from her home to come visit me because I was too lazy to leave the house - Note to self: write new post on new and creative ways to manipulate your friends). This rule was difficult for me, as I spent nearly a full month in my dad's house watching TV wondering why I didn't feel relaxed. It isn't until you get your ass up and go somewhere else that you actually started to relax (unless, as it turns out, that place is New York, in which case you can only relax if you decide to hide from all of your friends).

Rule #4: Take a man/Don't take a man
Don't get my wrong, I love going on vacation with my boyfriend. He is sweet and wonderful and we have a fabulous time. And it's of course nice just to shake things up a little. But I'm going to offer my plug for going on vacation either alone or with your friends. Not because your man puts a damper on your fun-having abilities, but rather because being selfish and gluttonous is part of vacation and if you're planning on getting married you can't just up and leave when you feel like having some alone time. So let's get that shit out of the way when it's still kosher.

I am only now just ending my vacation and beginning to feel purposeless once more. And so I welcome my impending nervous breakdowns and mental torture with open arms like they're old friends. I have even been reteaching myself how to read in anticipation of the new semester. And slowly weaning myself off of cable.

Oh Fine Living Network reruns...I'll miss you the most.

The Girl Effect

I am vexed.

Okay, so as a disclaimer, I never meant for this little blog to be particularly political, but I can't help myself today because I am mad. Please comment, as I hope to inspire a commensurate level of angst amongst you ladies. This is partly in response to Megha's post about pregnancy planning amongst women in their 20s, though largely unrelated to the questions she was posing.

A few days ago I found out an organization formerly known as CRACK has set up shop down in the Gulf Coast. For those of you who haven't heard of CRACK, now packaged as "Project Prevention" and sometimes as "Positive Prevention," this organization and its coterie of employees are stationed all over the country, bribing drug addicted women with $200-$300 cash to get sterilized. That's right, they hand out cash on the spot to addicts. As a journalist from the Hartford Courant notes, "why not just skip a step and hand out rocks of crack?" Barbara Harris, the organization's founder contends, "If they spend the $200 on drugs, they spend it on drugs. It's none of our business what they do with the money we give them." And, it should come as no surprise, that their services and their green are targeted toward poor, black women. Their organization takes no interest in directing these women towards treatment clinics where they might recover from their addiction; rather they are specific in their goal of sterilizing drug users. Perhaps you've seen the billboard ads: "Don't let a pregnancy ruin your drug habit" and "Addicted to drugs? Get $200!"

Ms. Harris used to talk about "crack babies" as a scourge on the taxpayer, the government, and society in general, and she discussed her efforts as a favor being done for each of those groups. But recently she has begun to frame the effects of her work as benefiting the addict whom she is paying off. No longer does she advocate for punishing addicted mothers or compare them to dogs (as she did in a 1998 interview: "We don't allow dogs to breed. We spay them. We neuter them. We try to keep them from having unwanted puppies, and yet these women are literally having litters of children"). Instead, she appears sympathetic to women, choosing instead to lament the cycle of shame that plagues drug-using women whose children are taken away from them. But don't be misled by her rebranding; this is still a woman who once advocated jailing women who exposed their fetuses to drugs. Her and her cronies have had some success, as evidenced by prosecutions of drug using pregnant women for fetal homicide here in Mississippi and several other states, most notably Regina McKnight's case in South Carolina. Don't get me wrong - I'm fine with people being punished for breaking the law, and if a person is addicted to illegal substances, then fine the hell out of them and sending them on to mandatory treatment. But to charge a woman with homicide based on behavior that a man can engage in without the threat of any comparable penalty stinks of sex discrimination to me. But I digress.

I bring up this discussion of CRACK (sorry, I refuse to call them by their new euphemism), not because it is a novel topic (actually, they are quite well documented by the press here, here, here, here, here, well...you get the point); not because they have made a widespread impact in poor communities; and not because I see them as a primary target for advocates of pregnant women. Rather, I bring it up because I see this organization's efforts and its rebranding as part of a wider movement that is troubling to me and to which I am in part complicit. I think all women, especially us 20-somethings of reproductive age, ought to pay attention to it.

First, there are the racist and eugenicist foundations of the work they do. It's pretty obvious that CRACK is trying coerce black communities to stop reproducing. Yes, I know people walk into their offices on their own free will, but there is something inherently coercive about enticing someone to perform an act by promising to immediately feed their addiction.

And yet, while I am disgusted with these practices, I allow the same type of population control to perpetuate in less easily observable, though equally egregious, forms in my own movement. I have little to say when a pro-life protester tells me that abortion is "black genocide" when I know that the abortion rate amongst black women is three times that of white women in the U.S. As any good PR person will tell you, the most effective pieces of propaganda are reflective of the truth. Similarly, it is a problem that clinics in poor neighborhoods are advocating long term birth control solutions such as the Depo Provera (the shot) or IUDs to women more often than health care providers in middle class communities. And that my doctor's office in the Delta who served only the poor, black community in the town, handed out free birth control like they were breathmints, without requiring so much as a consultation with a nurse or doctor.

Please don't misconstrue what I say; I think it is important for all communities of people regardless of income level or race to have access to birth control and all methods of family planning, and there should be no shame in accessing those services. And I understand that many accept that family planning services are targeted toward poor communities because having lots of children keeps you and your children poor. But at what point are our "choices" forced upon us? There is a fine line here, and I hope me and the movement to which I have dedicated myself is on the right side of it.

In negotiating my feelings about this issue, I find myself shifting my attention to the side of the spectrum of choices I always supported but largely ignored in my actions: a woman's choice to carry her pregnancy to term. Under this umbrella fall issues such as affordable and good quality pre- and postnatal care, adequate and affordable childcare options, prenatal education, SCHIP, autonomy over how and where to birth, pregnancy prosecutions and other pregnancy discrimination issues such as forced leave or lightened duty, paid maternity leave and family leave. I am waiting for the day when my movement will actually become active around these issues and support women through every stop on their reproductive road trip, not just the ones under constant attack. (I should say, that there are organizations out there that are active advocating on behalf of pregnant women; my complaint is that securing those rights is not a widespread goal of the reproductive rights movement at large, and yet it is central to our ideology.)

The reason I posted this on this blog rather than just sending an angry email to my friends, is that believe that pregnant women are becoming more and more vulnerable to attacks on their rights, and that this trend transcends race and class. A couple quick facts:
- The C-Sections rate has risen over 50% in the last decade. Studies have shown that if you are on Medicaid, you are more likely to have a medically unnecessary c-section (hospitals and doctors can bill more for a c-section than they can for a vaginal birth). They also show that if you give birth on a weekend you are more likely, regardless of race or income level, to birth via a medically unnecessary c-section, suggesting that your OB/GYN is more concerned about making his or her tennis match than spending the time on a vaginal birth. Accounts suggest that many of these c-sections are coerced, and hospitals have procured court orders to force c-sections. This happens in public and private hospitals alike.
- Pregnant women who use drugs and live in states with fetal homicide laws (which allow for the prosecution of people responsible for the intentional or unintentional termination of a fetus), as discussed above, are being prosecuted for homicide if their babies are stillborn and traces of drugs are found in their bloodstreams. Women are avoiding necessary prenatal care and maternity care for fear that they will draw attention to their drug use and be thrown in jail.
- As my coworker told me firsthand today, in most of the country, it's impossible to get a job if you're showing a pregnancy. Women's rights organizations have taken this on, and have been successful in prosecuting cases in which women have been fired or forced on maternity leave. But it still remains a fact that walking into an interview with a belly full of baby is enough to convince employers that employing you is just not worth the risk.
- If you already have a job and get pregnant, you can sometimes be forced into early leave or unrequested light duty, even if you are able to perform your normal job functions.
- And if you're not convinced, what's leading cause of death for pregnant and post-partum women? Murder. Try exercising your rights to things like child support with that threat hanging over your head.

There are plenty of other instances in which pregnant women are denied basic rights. I wanted to highlight these few, because, though I enjoy the fluffiness of this blog, I also know that the women who read it, though few in number, are smart, concerned, and generally enlightened. So I thought I'd put it out there, both as an item to stir up some conversation, and to make sure we know what sorts of things our generation of childbearers are up against.

For more info about advocacy on behalf of pregnant women, visit my friends at National Advocates for Pregnant Women.

What is the #1 Thing 20-Something Women are not supposed to talk about? Babies!

Hello Lovely Ladies,

Happy 4th!

As an ardent admirer of the the smart and insightful women who contribute and participate in this blog, I'd like to first say thank you helping me feel a little bit less crazy and ridiculous as a woman in my 20's! Appreciate it...

Because I'm a snively marketing person, I've also decided to use you women as a focus group or audience for my own benefit....

I'm taking an introductory Anthropology course this summer - and I've been charged with taking on my own research assignment from an anthropological point of view. I'm thrilled! (No really, I am.)

I wanted to share my abstract with all of you and get a general feel for your opinions, thoughts, questions, comments, love notes, anything in general in reaction to it. I think it's especially pertinent to 20-something women and would love to hear what you think.

I've apprehensively decided to approach the whole topic of child-birth. (which I believe makes all twenty something women batty in one way or another...) I really want to understand this, what it means to different women, of varying backgrounds, goals, and beliefs. Even if you're not a New Yorker, hope this topic strikes a chord with you and elicits a response!

It's not a totally brilliant abstract, yet. I know that I'm leaving out many other external influencers, but not sure what all of them are yet...This is me trying once again to make sense of my world as a twenty something. I really appreciate your time and response. Be brutally honest. Thank you ladies!!


Abstract:

"Do you want to have children?
Yeah sure, I'll get to it ... later."

Abstract:
Today's world has afforded women more options and more opportunities than generations of women before us. We can travel all over the world, with whomever we want, live with men or women, have children or not have children - so many options. Many sociologists would say the biggest driver of all this change, globally, is the education of women. Women everywhere are now educated to high levels, in a variety of fields, especially in urban environments. Many interesting questions emerge from all of this - but mainly I'm interested in the attitudes and values educated women have concerning childbirth and childrearing.

To date, I've been surrounded by talented and highly educated women (undergraduate degrees and beyond) in business related fields. Most are charging ahead professionally. However, I hypothesize that there is a distinct correlation between higher education levels of women and beliefs about delaying childbirth, specifically in New York City. Women believe that they need to fulfill their professional goals first, and put their personal life plans on hold. New Yorker women plan (or in some cases, do not plan) to have children after age 35. Despite being highly educated, maybe these women are not accounting for biology. Biologically, there are increased risks for many diseases and disabilities for newborns with mothers over age 35. I wonder how many women know this or really believe it? What is their threshold for success? Is it worth it to become President or head of your firm, and then have a risky pregnancy? Does having a family mean success? If not, what does?

Using a survey methodology to test attitudes of educated, working female New Yorkers and second hand research, I will analyze this question in greater detail.

Wedding Woes?

Weddings--they're all romance right? Flowers, champagne, candles, and happily ever after, preferably occuring during a glowing sunset. Weddings are for the young...or are they?

I never thought getting married would make me feel old. I'm 25, I still feel like a teenager sometimes. I whine and throw tantrums--though maybe that's just the result of hanging out with high schoolers all day...But I'm reading the other posts, and in some sense, I've settled a lot more than the other wonderful women who post here. I have someone who is going to be a constant in my life and maybe that is what makes me feel old.

Is being settled a mark of adulthood? Or maturity? Or boredom? Or escape? Or...just another phase? I realize, with a month left til THE DAY, that I'm no longer going to have the freedom to have purple bedcovers, or my own closet space, or to go out whenever I want. There's another person to consult, a schedule to mesh with, and while I can't wait in some ways, in other ways I am grieving singlehood.

My dream for my 20s was to travel the world, to escape the Midwest. Well, I'm a teacher for the 3rd year in a row, I live in Columbus, and I'm marrying a man who still must complete 2 years of schooling...so there won't be any traveling for awhile. No glamour in that sense. But I am reveling in not being alone. This year has been tough but never lonely. I love that I now have someone to ride on airplanes with and someone to bake for and someone to tease, someone who peels my shrimp for me and who loves to drive (I really don't like driving!).

Can you tell my mind is back and forth and back and forth?

The latest wedding crisis revolves around 20 somethings. Oddly enough, we've gotten the most "rejections" on our invitations from 20 somethings (it does feel like a rejection, even if it's not! :-) ) Now why is it that our peers won't come to the wedding? For a few, it's monetary reasons. For others, I get the sense that it just wasn't that important to them, which strikes me as odd. Then it set me thinking. Maybe weddings aren't that important to 20 somethings. We've grown up with a divorce rate at 50% in this country. We get invited to several wedding every year. Our salaries, never high to begin with, are stretched. We can see the pictures online or watch the movie. If we can experience the wedding digitally, it's not like we really missed it, right? Or are we missing something?

Maybe in the end that is what connects this post. Feeling like something is missing--that glamorous job, or all that traveling, or those single nights, or my friends. Something that your 20s was supposed TO BE. Maybe these years drive us crazy because they are full of way too many expectations. (Cough cough Gary and the ten year plans) And we're looking backwards thinking they haven't been fulfilled and looking forward to a shifting landscape as we figure out who we are.

Bring on the champagne!

The Switch

So I have figured it out. I am living in a state of permanent limbo. Mentally and emotionally, I am still a child. Indecisive, poor, non-committal, and easily bored. These are not the main characteristics of a 25 year old--at least I did not attribute these characteristics to someone in their mid-twenties. But of course, that was when I was not in my mid-twenties.

My boyfriend and I had a big fight about a month ago. During our reconciliatory talk in which he begged for my forgiveness he said he realized he didn't make the "switch" he needed to be a gold star boyfriend (the gold star is, of course, my addition and I have since made a gold star system to monitor his behavior). I was too angry to sympathize with him at the time, but I can divulge here that I am having trouble making a switch of my own. Not in the girlfriend department of course, but in the grown-up department.

Only seven years ago, 25 year-olds were adults. In my mind, there was a great divide between myself and the 25 year-olds I knew. They had jobs instead of mid-terms, steady boyfriends instead of random hook-ups, framed paintings instead of recycled drinking posters, and furniture that their colleges didn't provide for them. They were grown ups.

Well, I am 25 now and I can say that it is all one big farce. All of you who are seven years older than me are liars! Yes, when I was 18 your framed Monet prints implicitly whispered I am what you are working towards and I'm worth it. Now those wall hangings are saying: I am the ugly print your mother bought eight years ago at a garage sale and I feel sorry for you that you couldn't afford anything better.

So, I have learned that 25 years of living does not a grown up make. I still buy lunch specials and try to make them last for two meals (eat your heart out you stupid New York Times article about "poor" 20 somethings in New York). I still have no clue what I want to do with my life. And I still don't own more than $1,500 worth of personal property, Monet print not included.

I can’t help but feel inadequate because of my inability to make “the switch.” This inadequacy is exacerbated by visits home. The last time I went home and told my extended family about my graduate school success, my Auntie Popol frowned at me and said, "This is not where I thought you would be at this age. You should own something, like a house." I figured I wouldn’t tell her that the commitment to buying a mattress gave me acid reflux for a week. But really, a house? And what the hell does “this age” mean anyway?

The problem is that everyone else seems to know what being 25 means but me.

The comradery of Salman Rushdie

I remember quite distinctly a time when Ravina and I read alternate chapters of the Salman Rushdie's neverending saga "Shame." We were freshmen in college and seemingly brand new friends. It was for an English Literature course with the ominous sounding, pointy browed and totally unapproachable Professor Guarav Majumdar. His unapproachability was not at all a result of his being intimidating, but more so by the fact that he was intimated by almost any human contact that we avoided approaching him.

I tell this story fondly to almost anyone who will listen. I can almost imagine myself gleaning some lesson-to-be learned from it for my kids (really, the lesson is, if you can find a friend to share reading books with, go for it). Of course, I wouldn't say that to my children, maybe someone else's kids if I want them to be failed intellectuals. But I digress.

I am scared these days. Scared and overwhelmed by the notion that my life with be filled with anecdotes from age 18-21. I am scared that like those assholes whose lives peaked in high school, my life peaked in college. I have been mourning the loss of a good anecdote lately. I think it is safe to say that the daily grind of entry-level work does not lend itself to the feelings of comradery that keep these stories so close to my heart. Sure, there is always that special friend who does really cool things like travels around the world and they might have a good anecdote, but I resent that person anyway.

There is a certain loneliness associated with our 20s that has really come as quite a surprise. In light of boyfriends and even best friends close by, I am living a life of caveats. Yes, you can get into a great graduate school, but you have to leave the life you worked so hard to start liking.
Yes, working is great since you replace homework with happy hour, but you still have to go there everyday and look moderately normal (unless, you worked in homeless shelters like I did and in that case the rule is DRESS DOWN!). Yes, you can have a boyfriend, but you will spend all of your 20s following each other all over the world and then resent each other for it.

There seems to be an inherent isolation brought upon by a looming separation on the horizon--keeping even the best of friends isolated from each other. Case in point, I had no idea Ravina hated her 20s this much until she started this blog. All of a sudden, we are adults, expected to make decisions we previously relegated to our parents. We are buying used mattresses and IKEA furniture to dillude ourselves that we aren't really as sedentary as we really are. The problem is that if I long to stay in the cocoon of my college comradery, then this whole decade seems to be against my natural will. The caveat is that it goes on nevertheless.

The Ten Year Plan

Two years ago, I had to take a seminar on time management to maintain my Arkansas state teaching license. I was particularly bitter about this, because the class had nothing to do with how effective a teacher I was. I might have been able to demonstrate some actual competence in teaching - really prove that I deserved my salary and the continued good graces of the Arkansas Department of Education - had I simply been observed in my classroom. However, when judged on my ability to manage my life, I failed miserably at every exercise, embarrassed myself in class, and began to see what my friend Amanda was talking about when she told me I multitasked like a man. (There were several men in the class. None of them multitasked worse than I did).

My co-worker Gary led the seminar and assigned us monthly readings from books called things like The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People and Getting Things Done: The Art of Stress-Free Productivity and other horrors. I was doing terribly by the second meeting, and it was clear that, as a modus operandi, I preferred and was predisposed to procrastination over productivity.

But the absolute pinnacle of my inability to manage my life came during our final assignment. Gary had been threatening that we would at some point be tasked with creating our five and ten year plans. Up until that point I was convinced it would become some optional project assigned on the last day of class; I thought maybe because we had spent more time than alloted in the syllabus practicing things like to-do list-writing and task prioritization, that maybe there simply would not be time - like what used to happen to the last unit in tenth grade English. But then again, this was a class about time management, and Gary has apportioned the time well despite straying slightly from the syllabus.

The idea of a five or ten year plan terrified (and still terrifies) me. When the day finally came, I asked Gary if he could model an example, and he started to laugh, realized that I was serious, and then denied my request. He told me to do my best and left me to my own devices.

I didn't even try to write the five year plan. It was too soon. Planning to achieve something in five years meant having to be working toward it now, and I certainly was not in a position to accomplish anything that soon.

So I moved straight onto the ten year plan. I wrote "TEN YEAR PLAN" at the top of the page, played with my pencil some, then observed with envy the speed and ambition with which my colleagues wrote their responses. I was foolish to assume that because we were all just about the same age, the others in the class would be equally lacking in goals and plans. But watching this high strung group of 20 somethings scribble furiously without pause put me ill at ease and I shifted, noticeably, in my chair. I jotted a few things down that I might want to do some day, hoping I would be allowed to pass when we shared as a group.

Gary asked us to go around the room and read either of our plans. My nemesis in the class, whom I barely knew but managed to loathe with irrational ferocity, volunteered to go first. "Well, I want to go to Yale to work towards a PhD in English Literature, focusing on post-feminist readings of the classics. If I want to publish in my first year, I will need to start emailing professors this month to secure a research position. I have to take my GRE at the end of the month and complete my applications within the next month. After I publish in the first year, I plan to spend the summer researching at Oxford, the grant for which I'll have to secure next fall, making it even more crucial to pair with a distinguished scholar this summer. I hope to finish my doctorate in 4 years and publish two major works in the process. I plan to secure a job after my fourth year, and finish my dissertation shortly thereafter." I may not have gotten it word for word, but that certainly captures the drama.

Now, I have trouble keeping my facial expressions to myself in general, but after hearing that, I think I might have actually buried my face in my hands and moaned. I half-listened to a few other people's plans, many of which included new career paths, higher education, marriage, babies, and location changes.

When my turn came, part of me wanted to pass, but I had already reacted so badly to others' plans, that I thought it would be even more embarrassing to forfeit my turn. So I sat up, cleared my throat, and read my ten-year plan:

TEN YEAR PLAN
1. Learn French.
2. Improve my Spanish.
3. Get my PhD in something.
4. Own a cat.
5. Flip an apartment.
6. Build something.
7. Publish an essay.
8. Learn to ride a bike.

After finishing, I was afraid to look up. Most people in the group probably thought I was playing around and not taking the exercise seriously. They were partly right; I didn't believe that people actually lived their lives this way and thought the exercise was a little stupid. I mean really, who actually sticks to these things?

But my classmates were also wrong - it wasn't that I didn't try. There is a side of me - greatly exaggerated whilst I was a teacher, spending as much time as I did planning out even the most minute details of each day - that very much wanted to be that person: a person who not only had a plan, but who sought and found comfort in having a plan. It was this side of me that forced me to read the self-help book chapters Gary would prescribe, in hopes they would eradicate the comfort I habitually found in the certainty of my uncertainty.

And yet, another part of me was perfectly proud of my plan. Its flexibility, its ability to accommodate adventure and personal growth and change all made me want to catch the eye of my enemy and stick my tongue out at her. My plan is a million times more awesome than your plan. In fact, I am a million times more awesome than you.

And, after a year, my feelings have not really changed. There is a great tension between my desire to plan nothing and keep my options fully open and my desire to construct for myself an ambitious and well-laid path. This tension does not seem to want to go away. It refuses to let the knots at my shoulder blades loosen, to let my breath slow and deepen, and to allow me to gently resign to either fate. It is pleased to have successfully evicted from my soul the confidence of my college years and to have cultivated in its place an unabating feeling of doubt.

Most of all, it enjoys watching me constantly bewilder myself, evermore amazed by the nonsensical things that I convince myself are a normal part of life. In the end, I regard the way I am currently living my life and planning my future much in the way I regard dogs walking on three legs: it's not done well, but I'm surprised to see it done at all. And I suppose that's okay for now.

I mean, I like those dogs.

Welcome and why I hate my twenties

I've been duped.

Upon turning 20, and then subsequently 21, I was assured by many 30 and 40 somethings that their twenties were certainly their favorite decade. Now, after having barely survived my first four years of it, I'm convinced that all of these people, during their teens, and thirties, and forties, were subjected to varied forms of unspeakable torture, and only then could they conceivably claim that their twenties were the best years of their lives. It is also possible that some might not remember much of their twenties or are, in fact, still 19. I gladly entertain any of those explanations.

So I am four years in and still waiting for the good stuff. And part of me thinks, "I have six more years for it to get good." And the more vociferous part of me thinks loudly, "HOLY CRAP, I WOULD RATHER EAT GLASS THAN PUT UP WITH SIX MORE YEARS OF THIS BULLSHIT."

These are the things that my twenties were supposed to guarantee me:
1. Fun.
2. Freedom.
3. Independence.
4. Development of some career goals.
5. An expansive "network."
6. Maturity.

I can safely say that I have less of all of those things since entering my twenties. In fact, here is the list of things to anticipate that I would distribute for those new twenty somethings foolishly looking forward to the ten years ahead:

1. Hangovers that last two days.
2. Directionlessness and the "quarter-life crisis" (I have had several already at this point.)
3. Living on a budget.
4. Changing jobs, haircuts, boyfriends, and apartments every six to twelve months and exhibiting an acute fear of committing to any of them.
5. Your first gray hair. And then the 10 after that, which suck a lot more than the first.
6. Feeling that, despite a decade having passed, you don't act that differently than you did when you were 14. And you still get zits.

Anyway, after having complained to many of my friends about how difficult and un-fun life in our twenties can be, I have begun to realize that I am not the only one suffering from the anxiety that invariably comes with a period of life characterized by instability, frequent change, and incessant decision-making. In fact, for the many of us who thought it would be all Cosmo's and sample sales, I'd say most of us feel downright bamboozled.

So I decided to start a little blog dedicated to airing frustrations or showing appreciation for our twenties. I fear I lack profundity, and I am not a brilliant writer, but I am hoping that others willing to contribute will fill those gaps. Spread the word to anyone you think might be interested in reading or contributing. Comment liberally, and email me if you'd like to author an post.