Someday, and probably soon, I'll have more to say on the subject. But for the moment, I just wanted it out there--in writing, in public.
I finished my master's degree yesterday.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 6, 2012
Jumping Over the Lazy Dog
A life of leisure. Haste makes waste. A rolling stone gathers no moss.
Laziness is, and is not, something Americans sympathize with. I don't think I need to give you too many examples to prove my point.
I have long described myself as a "champion procrastinator." This is not to say that things don't get done. (Until well into grad school, I could count on one hand the number of times I submitted an assignment late; an instance during the second grade is particularly painful, having left a diorama on the bus.) Math homework was chronically completed minutes before class. I cringe at the hubris it took to start certain essays the night before the due date.
But procrastination is not necessarily the same as laziness. They're related, or possibly correlated, but my personal brand of procrastination is characterized by a strong push to get it done before the bell. If you're lucky, you'll have a talent for getting most things right on the first try--or at least, right enough to get a good grade. I remember writing a high school paper on Sinclair Lewis's Main Street based solely on Amazon preview pages. And getting an A. Yes, I was too lazy to get the book and start the assignment promptly; but I still managed to write something decent, and something on time.
Though I had a successful undergraduate career, I never really managed my procrastinator's nature; I merely developed ways to cope with it. For a long time, I've only been saved by my equally strong sense of timeliness: though I rarely submit something early, I also hate being late. My mom likes to remind me that I was born on my due date--politely punctual, not unfashionably early.
It's pretty ingrained. Both my parents love (?) to leave things until the last minute, whether it's signing a permission slip or scheduling vaccinations or arranging a major international trip. Again, it all gets done. I've come to trust that. But it makes other people, people with the planning gene, kind of uncomfortable.
Now, out in the real world, I find myself falling into the same patterns. My job demands an attention to detail that does not bode well for a procrastinator. That talent for doing things mostly right on the first try has helped, but I'm noticing a few items fall through the cracks, and that makes me feel crappy.
And I feel lazy. Not just putting stuff off--not wanting to do it.
That's become an increasingly familiar feeling over the last few years: the latter part of grad school was full of it. I felt so pressed for time and energy, between a full course load and teaching and research, that I never felt like I could do a decent job of anything. It made me apathetic and unresponsive. I tossed out professors' comments unread, since I "knew" they hadn't seen me at my best. Why bother, I figured. I got lazy. No one cared, and no one was affected except me.
So with my current employer, I'm hoping my former love of positive faculty feedback will kick my butt into high gear, as it did in college. I'm not expecting a cure, but it I want to want to excel. Any laziness, any delay, does affect others now. We only get so many chances to impress. And I've been coasting.
Time to buckle down. Nose to the grindstone. Shoulder to the wheel.
Update: If I had seen this beforehand, I wouldn't have bothered.
Laziness is, and is not, something Americans sympathize with. I don't think I need to give you too many examples to prove my point.
I have long described myself as a "champion procrastinator." This is not to say that things don't get done. (Until well into grad school, I could count on one hand the number of times I submitted an assignment late; an instance during the second grade is particularly painful, having left a diorama on the bus.) Math homework was chronically completed minutes before class. I cringe at the hubris it took to start certain essays the night before the due date.
But procrastination is not necessarily the same as laziness. They're related, or possibly correlated, but my personal brand of procrastination is characterized by a strong push to get it done before the bell. If you're lucky, you'll have a talent for getting most things right on the first try--or at least, right enough to get a good grade. I remember writing a high school paper on Sinclair Lewis's Main Street based solely on Amazon preview pages. And getting an A. Yes, I was too lazy to get the book and start the assignment promptly; but I still managed to write something decent, and something on time.
Though I had a successful undergraduate career, I never really managed my procrastinator's nature; I merely developed ways to cope with it. For a long time, I've only been saved by my equally strong sense of timeliness: though I rarely submit something early, I also hate being late. My mom likes to remind me that I was born on my due date--politely punctual, not unfashionably early.
It's pretty ingrained. Both my parents love (?) to leave things until the last minute, whether it's signing a permission slip or scheduling vaccinations or arranging a major international trip. Again, it all gets done. I've come to trust that. But it makes other people, people with the planning gene, kind of uncomfortable.
Now, out in the real world, I find myself falling into the same patterns. My job demands an attention to detail that does not bode well for a procrastinator. That talent for doing things mostly right on the first try has helped, but I'm noticing a few items fall through the cracks, and that makes me feel crappy.
And I feel lazy. Not just putting stuff off--not wanting to do it.
That's become an increasingly familiar feeling over the last few years: the latter part of grad school was full of it. I felt so pressed for time and energy, between a full course load and teaching and research, that I never felt like I could do a decent job of anything. It made me apathetic and unresponsive. I tossed out professors' comments unread, since I "knew" they hadn't seen me at my best. Why bother, I figured. I got lazy. No one cared, and no one was affected except me.
So with my current employer, I'm hoping my former love of positive faculty feedback will kick my butt into high gear, as it did in college. I'm not expecting a cure, but it I want to want to excel. Any laziness, any delay, does affect others now. We only get so many chances to impress. And I've been coasting.
Time to buckle down. Nose to the grindstone. Shoulder to the wheel.
Update: If I had seen this beforehand, I wouldn't have bothered.
Aug 31, 2012
StALaGU
References to my folks have cropped up here before. Even the theme of parental sacrifice. But lately my thoughts about parenthood and family have taken a new turn--in large part, I think, because now I am Starting to Act Like a Grown Up.
This is not the first time I've had that thought. When I filed my own taxes (age fourteen). When I gamely agreed to move overseas (age sixteen). Left home (seventeen). College (eighteen). Teaching (nineteen). Corporate world (twenty). Starting grad school (twenty-two). Moving in with a boy (twenty-five). Leaving grad school (in twenty days).
Not every major life event has made me feel like this. Graduating high school and college did not feel particularly adult. Instead, they were rituals that emphasized youth, and left me pretty burnt out. Likewise, ending my first long-term relationship did not make me swell with pride, though it was a necessary step in my maturation. Moving back to Boston for my graduate program seemed like a step backwards, since I was returning to the city of my adolescence. It wasn't, but it definitely felt like a retreat, not an advance.
This time, this instance of Starting to Act Like a Grown Up, is somehow different. Though there are major life events involved--getting a Real Job, the boy and I talking about Spending our Lives Together, moving into our Own Apartment--these I take as symptomatic of a larger change, rather than the trigger.
I think the actual trigger, whatever started me down this Path to Adulthood, is twofold: money, and biology.
Which is where parenting comes in. My day started with reading this on The Billfold. The title made me expect something else, but it ended up being about the crushing guilt that comes with asking parents for help when it isn't strictly needed, when it's for something that's ultimately selfish. As kids and teens and young adults, many of us probably didn't give a second thought to asking our folks for stuff we wanted; our needs were already being met (I hope). And like the article's author says, even now--if I really needed something--I have no doubt that my parents would take care of it. It's a safety net, born of a biological imperative to care for one's children, that shouldn't be taken for granted.
Part of the long process of Starting to Act Like a Grown Up, for me, is becoming self-sufficient. Or at least, not directly relying on the previous generation. This very 20th century paradigm is shifting, given the recession's impact on my age bracket, prompting millions to move back home. But the old values are hard to change, and I for one definitely tie my personal financial independence to adulthood.
I've borrowed money from my folks in recent memory, after I'd been unemployed for a while... and by "borrow," they mean "pay us back when you're putting us in a Home." I also lived with them for three months after graduating. They've paid for dental appointments and my mattress and every plane ticket for Christmas break. Perhaps most significantly, they paid for my undergraduate education, giving me a debt-free head start.
I've borrowed from my older sister, when my stipend check was late. That time, "borrow" meant "pay me back, in actual dollars," which I did. In many ways, she is the very model of fiduciary responsibility: she had a high paying internship throughout high school and college, giving her the kind of means most teens dream about. She was able to pay for her first car, not a beater, in cash. She had a CD, not just a savings account, before she was seventeen. She buys her own plane tickets for Christmas break.
And I've let my boyfriend cover a larger share of the rent between paying jobs. Countless trips to the grocery store. Fancy anniversary dinners.
These are not proud moments.
On the other hand: I'm, like, 85% sure that I'll be able to look back at those moments with some measure of happiness. They are reflections of familial and romantic love from the people I care about most. (Not to leave out my younger sister! She was always generous with her emotional support, and was definitely too young for me to ask for anything else.) I was sick to my stomach with every bank transfer, but I take that as a sign of my own love for them in return. I don't want to cause them any hardship, even if they can afford it. They don't want to see me in hardship, either. Money and biology. Together forever.
Now that I'm solidly back on my feet, and should remain so for the foreseeable future, I am relieved that I don't have to call on that safety net anymore.
Money's no longer an problem; instead, it makes things possible.
It makes life-stuff, biology-stuff, possible. It's made my live-in gentleman and I more comfortable talking about What's Next. Now we don't have to participate in that popular narrative, postponing marriage because of the recession (whether or not that's actually happening at large). We can talk about our retirement accounts. We can cautiously make future plans to buy a house, or at least move to a bigger apartment, and to get a dog. My partner and I can think about making a our own family one day. A day that's becoming more and more real.
Most of us aren't bodhisattvas or wandering sages or the Great American Rail-Riding Hobo. Tangible, material, physical things are important facets of our lives, whether you have the means to get those things or not. Whether you want to get them or not. Making families. Making relationships. Making meaningful careers. You can do them on a shoestring; your golden parachute can fail. Your body can work with you or against you. But money, and biology, are going to do their thing.
And right now, for me, their thing is turning Erin into a Grown Up.
This is not the first time I've had that thought. When I filed my own taxes (age fourteen). When I gamely agreed to move overseas (age sixteen). Left home (seventeen). College (eighteen). Teaching (nineteen). Corporate world (twenty). Starting grad school (twenty-two). Moving in with a boy (twenty-five). Leaving grad school (in twenty days).
Not every major life event has made me feel like this. Graduating high school and college did not feel particularly adult. Instead, they were rituals that emphasized youth, and left me pretty burnt out. Likewise, ending my first long-term relationship did not make me swell with pride, though it was a necessary step in my maturation. Moving back to Boston for my graduate program seemed like a step backwards, since I was returning to the city of my adolescence. It wasn't, but it definitely felt like a retreat, not an advance.
This time, this instance of Starting to Act Like a Grown Up, is somehow different. Though there are major life events involved--getting a Real Job, the boy and I talking about Spending our Lives Together, moving into our Own Apartment--these I take as symptomatic of a larger change, rather than the trigger.
I think the actual trigger, whatever started me down this Path to Adulthood, is twofold: money, and biology.
Which is where parenting comes in. My day started with reading this on The Billfold. The title made me expect something else, but it ended up being about the crushing guilt that comes with asking parents for help when it isn't strictly needed, when it's for something that's ultimately selfish. As kids and teens and young adults, many of us probably didn't give a second thought to asking our folks for stuff we wanted; our needs were already being met (I hope). And like the article's author says, even now--if I really needed something--I have no doubt that my parents would take care of it. It's a safety net, born of a biological imperative to care for one's children, that shouldn't be taken for granted.
Part of the long process of Starting to Act Like a Grown Up, for me, is becoming self-sufficient. Or at least, not directly relying on the previous generation. This very 20th century paradigm is shifting, given the recession's impact on my age bracket, prompting millions to move back home. But the old values are hard to change, and I for one definitely tie my personal financial independence to adulthood.
I've borrowed money from my folks in recent memory, after I'd been unemployed for a while... and by "borrow," they mean "pay us back when you're putting us in a Home." I also lived with them for three months after graduating. They've paid for dental appointments and my mattress and every plane ticket for Christmas break. Perhaps most significantly, they paid for my undergraduate education, giving me a debt-free head start.
I've borrowed from my older sister, when my stipend check was late. That time, "borrow" meant "pay me back, in actual dollars," which I did. In many ways, she is the very model of fiduciary responsibility: she had a high paying internship throughout high school and college, giving her the kind of means most teens dream about. She was able to pay for her first car, not a beater, in cash. She had a CD, not just a savings account, before she was seventeen. She buys her own plane tickets for Christmas break.
And I've let my boyfriend cover a larger share of the rent between paying jobs. Countless trips to the grocery store. Fancy anniversary dinners.
These are not proud moments.
On the other hand: I'm, like, 85% sure that I'll be able to look back at those moments with some measure of happiness. They are reflections of familial and romantic love from the people I care about most. (Not to leave out my younger sister! She was always generous with her emotional support, and was definitely too young for me to ask for anything else.) I was sick to my stomach with every bank transfer, but I take that as a sign of my own love for them in return. I don't want to cause them any hardship, even if they can afford it. They don't want to see me in hardship, either. Money and biology. Together forever.
Now that I'm solidly back on my feet, and should remain so for the foreseeable future, I am relieved that I don't have to call on that safety net anymore.
Money's no longer an problem; instead, it makes things possible.
It makes life-stuff, biology-stuff, possible. It's made my live-in gentleman and I more comfortable talking about What's Next. Now we don't have to participate in that popular narrative, postponing marriage because of the recession (whether or not that's actually happening at large). We can talk about our retirement accounts. We can cautiously make future plans to buy a house, or at least move to a bigger apartment, and to get a dog. My partner and I can think about making a our own family one day. A day that's becoming more and more real.
Most of us aren't bodhisattvas or wandering sages or the Great American Rail-Riding Hobo. Tangible, material, physical things are important facets of our lives, whether you have the means to get those things or not. Whether you want to get them or not. Making families. Making relationships. Making meaningful careers. You can do them on a shoestring; your golden parachute can fail. Your body can work with you or against you. But money, and biology, are going to do their thing.
And right now, for me, their thing is turning Erin into a Grown Up.
Aug 30, 2012
Do They Make Mental OxiClean?
Out with friends.
"Erin, I did a bad thing."
"Oh?"
"But I can't tell you."
"...Okay."
"Well, I just went along with it. It was really [friend who sort of looks like a young, and more Armenian, Billy Mays]."
Liberal application of gentle hectoring and less-gentle alcohol reveals:
"We started a book club and specifically didn't invite you."
Oh.
Let's back this up a bit.
One of my favorite compliments I've ever received--and I secretly loathe myself for it--was when a guy I loved-to-hate said I was the smartest person he knew.
This was patently false, but just the fact that he could say it tickled my deep wells of inferiority complex.
So when Armenian Billy Mays told me I couldn't join their book club "because you're too smart. You'll judge us. You probably have a secret blog at The New Yorker or The Atlantic," it was easy to laugh. But it also resonated with the unpleasant part of me that relishes the perception of my intelligence, but also fears that I come off as an unlikeable knowitall. A fear which, in itself, sounds hopelessly self-aggrandizing.
No one wants to be that guy. There was a kid who lived in my freshman dorm who was so unbearably full of himself that my future roommate, a dramatic writing major, seriously considered submitting a play entitled "Shut the Fuck Up, [Name of Insufferable Dude]." We still quote it from time to time.
I constantly corrected people, growing up. My older sister on her spelling and pronunciation--made doubly cruel after her dyslexia diagnosis, which I used as an excuse to compound my efforts with extra condescension. The parents of a childhood friend are still aloof, ever since I shared my eighth grade standardized test scores. (And their daughter is no dummy: she just finished her MBA.) To this day, I catch myself volunteering needlessly obscure factoids about, well, whatever topics come up. This has made a favorite on pub trivia teams, but I definitely worry that it affects my reputation negatively in other areas.
"Did you know that Heinz's first product wasn't ketchup, but horseradish sauce?" "Lewis Carroll's real name was Charles Dodgson." "Actually, in women, it's called the 'Electra complex.'"
So I try to stop. And I'm enthusiastic about other people's accomplishments, and opinions, and stuff going on in their lives. I'm pretty sure I'm very nice. At least most of the time.
So thank you, Armenian Billy Mays, for your compliment. We were having fun, and I genuinely laughed. But excluding me still played into a profound insecurity, and forced me to revisit a part of my personality that makes me cringe--especially when other people notice it.
PS: I don't have a secret New Yorker blog. This is my secret blog.
"Erin, I did a bad thing."
"Oh?"
"But I can't tell you."
"...Okay."
"Well, I just went along with it. It was really [friend who sort of looks like a young, and more Armenian, Billy Mays]."
Liberal application of gentle hectoring and less-gentle alcohol reveals:
"We started a book club and specifically didn't invite you."
Oh.
Let's back this up a bit.
One of my favorite compliments I've ever received--and I secretly loathe myself for it--was when a guy I loved-to-hate said I was the smartest person he knew.
This was patently false, but just the fact that he could say it tickled my deep wells of inferiority complex.
So when Armenian Billy Mays told me I couldn't join their book club "because you're too smart. You'll judge us. You probably have a secret blog at The New Yorker or The Atlantic," it was easy to laugh. But it also resonated with the unpleasant part of me that relishes the perception of my intelligence, but also fears that I come off as an unlikeable knowitall. A fear which, in itself, sounds hopelessly self-aggrandizing.
No one wants to be that guy. There was a kid who lived in my freshman dorm who was so unbearably full of himself that my future roommate, a dramatic writing major, seriously considered submitting a play entitled "Shut the Fuck Up, [Name of Insufferable Dude]." We still quote it from time to time.
I constantly corrected people, growing up. My older sister on her spelling and pronunciation--made doubly cruel after her dyslexia diagnosis, which I used as an excuse to compound my efforts with extra condescension. The parents of a childhood friend are still aloof, ever since I shared my eighth grade standardized test scores. (And their daughter is no dummy: she just finished her MBA.) To this day, I catch myself volunteering needlessly obscure factoids about, well, whatever topics come up. This has made a favorite on pub trivia teams, but I definitely worry that it affects my reputation negatively in other areas.
"Did you know that Heinz's first product wasn't ketchup, but horseradish sauce?" "Lewis Carroll's real name was Charles Dodgson." "Actually, in women, it's called the 'Electra complex.'"
So I try to stop. And I'm enthusiastic about other people's accomplishments, and opinions, and stuff going on in their lives. I'm pretty sure I'm very nice. At least most of the time.
So thank you, Armenian Billy Mays, for your compliment. We were having fun, and I genuinely laughed. But excluding me still played into a profound insecurity, and forced me to revisit a part of my personality that makes me cringe--especially when other people notice it.
PS: I don't have a secret New Yorker blog. This is my secret blog.
Still
Previously, on The Foggiest Idea:
It's starting to settle down, now that I know I'll be in a stable situation. And in many ways, it's an enviable position: good benefits, nice surroundings, friendly colleagues, a lauded establishment. And it's in academia, so it's sort of in my field, broadly. It won't look like a total blip on my resume.
Still. There's always a "still," if not a "but" or a "notwithstanding." Still, this is not where I anticipated being, when I graduated college more than five (!) years ago. I know this is becoming the catchphrase of my generation: this is not what we were promised.
I don't want to complain. My rent is paid; my retirement accounts are set up. I can take my gentleman caller out to dinner without sweating the bill. We took a two-week vacation overseas. Finally, for the first time since freshman year of college, I am sleeping through the night without anxiety dreams on a consistent basis.
Still. Most other hires at my level are younger than me, some fresh out of school. I'm still young, but I'm getting to the age where my peers are throwing around titles like "project manager" or "assistant director" or "esquire" or "coordinator" or "doctor." Mine a challenging job in many respects--again, usually in a good way--but it's decidedly a position for someone who's starting out, whose career is just beginning.
Okay, that's not entirely true. There are some people who've been here, in this role, for decades. Largely middle-aged women who appreciate the stability and respectability. One of my colleagues has been working this job for almost fifty years, without the desire for promotion (to my knowledge). That's not a reflection of her abilities or drive; it's a great gig for someone with her particular needs, and she's accrued so much vacation time, it's unreal.
And I know of at least one recent hire who has a PhD. From this very institution. She must be loving that.
Still. On balance, things are good. It's a comfortable set-up. And it'll afford me some necessary breathing room, while I sit still and figure out the next step.
- I got a job. Nothing too glamorous, but with a prestigious institution--and it paid my bills.
- Then... that job ended. The contract was only for six months. But they hired me back as a temp, so more bills were paid.
- A week later, I got another job, in another division of that institution. I've been there a couple of months.
It's starting to settle down, now that I know I'll be in a stable situation. And in many ways, it's an enviable position: good benefits, nice surroundings, friendly colleagues, a lauded establishment. And it's in academia, so it's sort of in my field, broadly. It won't look like a total blip on my resume.
Still. There's always a "still," if not a "but" or a "notwithstanding." Still, this is not where I anticipated being, when I graduated college more than five (!) years ago. I know this is becoming the catchphrase of my generation: this is not what we were promised.
I don't want to complain. My rent is paid; my retirement accounts are set up. I can take my gentleman caller out to dinner without sweating the bill. We took a two-week vacation overseas. Finally, for the first time since freshman year of college, I am sleeping through the night without anxiety dreams on a consistent basis.
Still. Most other hires at my level are younger than me, some fresh out of school. I'm still young, but I'm getting to the age where my peers are throwing around titles like "project manager" or "assistant director" or "esquire" or "coordinator" or "doctor." Mine a challenging job in many respects--again, usually in a good way--but it's decidedly a position for someone who's starting out, whose career is just beginning.
Okay, that's not entirely true. There are some people who've been here, in this role, for decades. Largely middle-aged women who appreciate the stability and respectability. One of my colleagues has been working this job for almost fifty years, without the desire for promotion (to my knowledge). That's not a reflection of her abilities or drive; it's a great gig for someone with her particular needs, and she's accrued so much vacation time, it's unreal.
And I know of at least one recent hire who has a PhD. From this very institution. She must be loving that.
Still. On balance, things are good. It's a comfortable set-up. And it'll afford me some necessary breathing room, while I sit still and figure out the next step.
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