This Girl is Exhausted

After graduating from graduate school, I spent a week in New York City. For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to visit the city that never sleeps. After sacrificing two years of my life to the intellectuals, fulfilling a lifelong goal seemed appropriate. Although, NYC is not a place you visit to clear your head, it offered me the distraction I was in desperate need of.

Despite an ambitious pursuit of employment, I had failed to reach my goal of landing a job before graduation. The fear of financial hardship was becoming difficult to shake. It would only be a matter of time before my savings ran out, and how would I pay for my place in the cities without a good job? Such questions would keep me up at night, as I obsessed about a problem that seemed to have no immediate solution.

I had reason to be frustrated. I had greatly underestimated the impermeable Minneapolis job market. I had applied for nearly every job I was qualified for, and despite the low response rate, I soon grew tired of the interview process. The interviews I had been on were disappointing and sometimes certifiably humiliating. One interview led me to a loft in Minneapolis. When I arrived early, I was shown to the waiting area, which consisted of two plastic kid’s chairs. Sitting low to the ground with my knees alarmingly close to my face, I begrudgingly thought to myself: this is not going well. The little dignity that I had preserved was robbed from me when I found myself awkwardly ignoring the fact that the owner’s dog was molesting the pant leg of my overpriced suit.

You have to be thick skinned to endure the Minneapolis job market – especially if you are applying for a creative job. I quickly learned that I was competing against hundreds of qualified applicants. Overwhelmed by job applicants, employers have little incentive to treat prospective employees well, call them back or even pay attention to them in interviews. I watched in awe as one overworked marketing manager communicated with her BlackBerry while conducting an interview with me. Through the interview I was distracted by my own urge to state the obvious: this is not a phone interview; I can see you.

My crash course in job searching has also taught me that phone interviews are nearly always requisite to face-to-face interviews. To survive phone interviews, you first have to recognize that they are not real interviews – they are a calculated screening process. Employers want to determine if you’re worth any effort beyond picking up a phone and dialing a number. The worst treatment is reserved for the phone interview. The employer is so disconnected from you that they hardly remember you’re a living, breathing, human being – who is becoming increasingly more fragile. Once, I was forced to recite my resume when a job recruiter confessed that he forgot to review my background before he misplaced my resume. Yep, it’s a humbling process.

As graduation approached, it became more difficult to accept the harsh reality that finding a job could take longer than I had expected. I developed weird habits. I became increasingly more interested in my cell phone. I would find myself staring at it, willing it to ring. Like a girl desperate for a call from a guy she knows will not call, I entertained thoughts of false hope. Perhaps there was something wrong with my phone? Should I call Sprint and demand to know why I was not getting job offers? In the end, I became resentful at my phone because its failure to ring represented the overall failure of the job search.

I had gone from hopeful to pessimistic, rational to irrational, sane to insane. My mother suggested that I listen to my intuition, which made me laugh. I had over thought things so much that I could no longer distinguish between a gut feeling and wishful thinking. I left one job interview so confident that I called my closest friends to announce that it was over; I knew I had this job. I could feel it my gut. When I was turned down a week later, I was baffled. I even pinched myself to see if I was dreaming. How could this be? They called my references; they asked me to send over my college transcripts. I inaccurately interpreted such requests as a done deal, but I was wrong.

Nothing seemed more appealing than jumping on a plane and escaping the emotional rollercoaster that had become my life. NYC offered just the cure I was seeking. The over-stimulating streets kept my mind occupied and off depressing subjects like money and unemployment. I attended Broadway plays. I ate street-vendor pretzels. I visited the center point of America’s heritage. However, I would find true solace in Greenwich Village. Strolling through the quant streets, I came upon a building that proclaimed the words “psychic” in the window. This is a sign, I thought to myself, forgetting the fact that I had recently started labeling nearly anything that happened to me as a sign. Regardless, I wanted to capitalize on the opportunity to look into the future. After all, the most difficult thing to accept in all of this had been the uncertainty of it all. If anyone was in need of an intuitive guide, it was me. I quickly convinced my two friends that they too needed to know their futures, and off we went to see the psychic.

This was not my first experience with psychics. Every year, my friends and I visit Winnipeg. It’s become tradition to eat at an outlandish restaurant called the Chocolate Shop, which offers substandard food and cheap tarot card readings. I personally enjoy tarot card readings because you can pick and choose what you want to believe. If I receive a positive reading, I tend assume that the reader is an intuitive genius who is connected with the deepest realms of the universe. If the reading is negative, I assume that the reader is an idiot who took my money. If the reading contains a hybrid of negative and positive comments, I simply assume that the reader got the bad stuff wrong.

I would follow the same formula of believe and disbelieve in my Greenwich reading. I was presented with two facts 1) I would have four kids 2) I would become successful. I quickly disregarded the comment about the kids, and zeroed in on her second prediction. “Does that mean I get a job?!” I asked with obvious excitement in my voice. “You’ll get a job,” she confidently responded. That was all I needed to hear.

I left the psychic feeling confident in my $20 glimpse into the future. I was unexplainably relieved. Why would a stranger’s assurance in my future change my attitude about my current situation? It would not be unreasonable to assume that I was so desperate that I was willing to believe anything or anyone. More realistically, the psychic simply stated a fact that was obvious to everyone but me. Of course I will get a job. Why wouldn’t I? I’m qualified and educated. When it comes down to it, my struggle had little to do with employment, and more to do with things not working out according to my schedule. Although it may not happen right away, things will work out for me. And if they don’t, I am fully prepared to demand my $20 back.

As an alumna of MSUM, I am supposed to hate Concordia. It’s an unspoken rule. Every student at MSUM would much rather be a fire-breathing dragon than an asexual cob of corn. My best friend is a Concordia alumna, and when she graduated, I was all-but required to attend the ceremony. Of course, I wanted to support her, but the process was particularly painful.  I found myself grimacing through the ceremony as I listened to the president declare Concordia College the best college in Minnesota. According to his claims, Concordia graduates were superior to those who had chosen other educational options. I felt personally attacked. I resisted a strong and compulsive urge to interrupt the ceremony by shouting, “you pompous fascist!”

It’s not so much Concordia that bugs me, it’s that damn ring. The ring is lame. I hate the ring. Because I grew up in the Fargo-Moorhead metro, I learned long ago about the mystical powers of the Concordia ring. Wear it to an interview and the prospective employer will be blinded by its beauty and hire you on the spot. Oh, please. If Concordia is, in fact, superior to any other educational institution in Minnesota, you’d think its students would resist such superficial logic. Perhaps this is the case, because up until recently I had never seen a Concordia ring up close. A few weeks ago, I was visiting Fargo and having a late dinner with a group of friends. I could not help but notice that one of my male acquaintances was sporting a gaudy maroon ring on his right hand. Dare I ask; is that the infamous Concordia ring? It was.  

So there I was, in the presence of the Holy Grail. I suppose I should have been humbled, but I wasn’t. I proceeded to mock the ring and the person wearing it. I mean, why would a 30-year-old man willingly wear the equivalent to a high-school class ring? Ironically, my friend was an official alumnus of MSUM; however, because 75 percent of his coursework was completed at Concordia, he could technically be considered a Concordia graduate, rendering him a technical ring-bearing candidate.

I hate to dispel a great myth, but the Concordia ring is not exactly an impressive accessory. It certainly does not posses any unique power nor does it guarantee employment. And while I am at it, Concordia is not a particularly competitive school, either on a nationwide or statewide scale.  It’s a fine college, perhaps a great college, but it simply can’t compete with institutions like the University of Minnesota, St. Olaf and St. Thomas. Concordia is a small, private school in Moorhead, MN. That’s the reality of the matter. How glamorous does that sound?

Concordia seems oblivious to its true status. Its perception problem has always perplexed me. To my knowledge, only a few schools are so credible that an employer will hire you solely because you attended them. Graduates of Yale, Harvard or Brown can flash a ring and get job. Concordia graduates? Well, they are not even in the same league. The real difference between a Concordia education and state school education can be summed up with a few additional zeros on a tuition bill. Despite this, Concordia maintains a nonsensical ego.  

Of course, Concordia graduates should feel proud of their school. After all, I am proud of my mine. But the Concordia ring illustrates more than pride. It symbolizes a pompous notion of superiority. It represents someone who has determined that entry-level positions are belittling. It presumes that employers will hastily hire the first Concordia graduate who applies. It’s not a desirable accessory. And contrary to popular belief, it does not warrant a competitive edge. Ask my ring-bearing friend: he sells furniture.

The Limited thinks I am freak, so does Express, Macys and Ann Taylor. I was not aware of my freakishness until last week when I was in immediate need of a power suit, and nothing fit.  For the past three weeks, I have engaged in a compulsively ambitious job search. In fact, my job search has transcended into a certifiable addiction. I can’t stop searching Web sites like Monster and Career Builder. I realized I had a problem when I started making budgets based on my expected, but still fictitious salary.

It’s possible that my job search is a bit premature. I won’t be able to start with any company until mid-May, but the uncertainty of graduation is proving to get the best of me. Plus, new technology makes the prospect of finding a job easier than ever. With a few clicks of button, it’s possible to apply for ten jobs in less than five minutes. The process is so simple, it almost seems imaginary. It’s all too easy to lose perspective and forget the idea behind the action. The more job descriptions I read, the more I became a high-powered executive in my head. Job searching became a fun game and a reprieve from homework. I continued to hit send until I ran out of companies to send anything to.

Distracted by the thrill of applying for jobs, I failed to forecast beyond that. When a company called last week to request an immediate interview, I was completely unprepared. I had spent so much time contemplating potential job titles and salaries that I forgot to finish my portfolio or purchase a suit. In my head I might have been a high-powered executive, but in real-time I was a job seeker who had nothing to wear and nothing to show in an interview.

The lack of wardrobe was a significant concern. My pervious employers maintained a very liberal dress code. My professional attire was limited to the summer season and consisted of bohemian skirts and sandals. Somehow I did not think that would make the right impression – especially in the dead of winter. I was in need of quick consultation, so I called my sister and begged her to meet me in the cities for some expeditious shopping.

I had only a few hours to find the perfect suit, but I remained confident. Between my sister and the helpful sales associates, I would surely find the right suit in no time. It was then that I encountered another rude awakening – I am a freak. No suit, and I mean no suit, in the entire Ridgedale mall fit me. My body is portioned in such an unusual way that the fashion industry refuses to acknowledge it. I am too tall, too small and virtually un-sizable.  

Through this grueling process, I also learned that I have no real perspective on my size. After grabbing what I thought was my size pants and a matching jacket, I emerged from the dressing room only to be greeted by horrified looks. “That suit is way too baggy on you,” the sales associate exclaimed. To me, the suit did not look baggy. In fact, it looked to be about the same size as all my other clothes, making my entire wardrobe too big for me. The sales associate convinced me to try a smaller size, which exposed my wrists and ankles. This problem continued despite the cut or label I chose.  

After visiting three major department stores and trying on hundreds of suits, I truly wanted to cry. I had come to mall with a budget in mind, but that was before I knew I was an un-sizable string bean. The first suit that fit properly, I planned on purchasing. As closing time emerged, my sister and I discussed the options. We agreed that I would have to purchase a larger suit and have it tailored. Because I had a limited amount of time to work with, the chances of getting it tailored before the interview were slim. Although, I had to plea, I finally got my sister and the sales associate to endorse the idea of wearing the suit as is to my upcoming interview.

By the time we left the mall, I felt insecure about every fashion decision I had ever made in my life. Furthermore, I was convinced that employers would judge prospective employees solely on how well their suits fit. Despite my qualifications, it was all going to come down to my suit. A feeling of disheartenment set it as I digested the shallow habits of our society. However, reality swung in my favor on the day of my job interview. Wearing an overly priced suit, I pitched my life’s work to a man wearing jeans.

I don’t like MySpace; I think it’s lame. This statement
surely renders me an anomaly among my peers. Although I have tried, I simply
cannot find a purpose for MySpace in my life. In fact, I find it a bit
alarmingly that this whole MySpace movement is strikingly similar to the 1994 chat-room
phenomena – you know when half the country realized they did not need physical
friends because they had thousands of virtual ones.

From a design and functional perspective, it’s hard to believe
that MySpace has achieved its paramount success. After all, the interface is cumbersome
and unattractive and the server is exceptionally slow. During its infancy, the
site was hardly a cause for excitement. In fact, it was nearly exclusively used
by independent artists as a networking tool. MySpace has since transcended into
a conglomerate monster, attracting thousands of users for one reason – its
ability to create image.

On an intuitive level, I can understand why MySpace appeals
to the masses. It’s a tempting public relations tool that allows everyday
individuals to control and strategically disseminate messages about themselves.
Browse through the site and you’ll find thousands of people attempting to cultivate
a sort of cyber image. Page after page reveals polished pictures and good times
among friends. The generic message is always the same: I am fabulously fun and gosh darn it, people like me.

That’s all fine and good, except that it’s hardly a
reflection of reality. The majority of MySpace personalities have undergone
some serious airbrushing. Using the simple technology, any character defect can
be addressed and quickly spun into an asset or eliminated all together. MySpace
encourages people to be whatever they want to be, not what they actually are. Maintaining
this cyber persona is unoriginal and sad.

Serving as the poor man’s publicist, MySpace allows users to
brand a public image in the hopes of achieving some superficial status. If the
efforts are successful, the user will compile an impressive list of “pretend”
friends – cyber buddies who will post comments or annoying graphics on your
personal page. I suppose having 1,269 pseudo friends may slightly boost one’s
self-esteem, but it’s a bit depressing to think that these relationships lack substance
and quality.

Call me old fashion, but I prefer interacting with humans on
a sincere level; I have no need to create my better self via the Internet. I
appreciate phone calls and meeting for coffee. I enjoy late nights and deep
conversation. After a crazy day, I want to be able to vent to a close friend. I
like living in the real world in real time; and therefore, I don’t think I will
ever find it necessary to reserve my space.

Since New Year’s Day, it’s been all over the news. Beware! The
obscure St. Paul
raper prowls the east side of the city, praying on the vulnerable. A
54-year-old woman and 13-year-old girl are among his victims. It was just another
headline until it dawned on me: I work in east St. Paul.

Until then, I enjoyed working in my downtown neighborhood,
which maintains both historic and interesting qualities. Unlike its pretentious
sister city, St. Paul
captures an accurate portrayal of civilization. Middle-class workers walk among
the high-powered executives. Coming from a working-class background, I find the
balance refreshing. I never thought the area of town was unsafe, not for a
minute.

Let’s get one thing straight, I am tough – well, I like to
think I am anyway. My bad-ass credentials include living alone in downtown Fargo – above a morgue of
all places – for four years. My apartment building neighbored the Salvation
Army and Labor Ready. I lived in an area of town many would consider unsafe, yet
I can only recall one time when I truly feared for my safety. While I encountered
bums nearly everywhere I went, I quickly learned that they were nothing more
than a public nuisance. Sure, they may urinate in your elevator or pass out in your basement,
but at heart they are gentle souls. It is much more realistic to be afraid of
the cognizant.

When I first moved to downtown Fargo, my dad gave me a can of mace as a
precautionary measure. I am sure he slept better knowing that I could severely obstruct the vision of anyone who intimidated me with the push of a button. I, however,
felt less safe carrying the mace. It made me unnecessarily paranoid. I became
suspecting of everyone who passed me by. After living downtown for
three months, I realized that a confident strut and a highly held head ensured my safety much more than
insecurely fumbling with the mace in my pocket.

Back in St. Paul,
the setting sun symbolized the approaching five o’clock hour. I would soon be
walking to my car, which was parked four blocks away in an unlit church parking
lot. I longed for my displaced mace. Although, the media was buzzing about a
potential serial rapist, it could not report information of any real value. The
police were truly baffled and were unable to provide basic details, such as the
attacker’s physical description. It was even possible that there were two
attackers. The only thing the media could report was a disturbing common
denominator: all attacks occurred in alleys. So there I had it — watch out for
alleys and all men everywhere. Whew! I felt relieved.

On my walk to my car, I began to entertain an anxiety-inspired logic
that makes little rational sense. After nearly passing an alley, I would quickly
turn my head to face it. I tend to engage in the same behavior when I suspect
someone is in my apartment at night. I muster up enough courage to turn on the
light then enjoy a sense of relief when I see that no one is there. It was all
a figment of my over-reactive imagination.

Of course, this logic is fundamentally flawed in that it assumes your biggest fear does not exist. It’s more of
a see-I-knew-everything-was-okay strategy. It leaves no room for a plan b. So,
you can imagine my fear when I passed one alley, swiftly turned my head and was
greeted by a well-dressed man standing on the edge of the alley, perfectly
positioned to grab the first unsuspecting woman who walked by. I nearly jumped
a foot.

After I had successfully passed the alley, the well-groomed,
potential raper began to follow me. I began considerding all the helpful emails I received over the years,
detailing what to do in the event of an attack. I could scream fire, pee my
pants, kick him in the balls, or simply make my body as heavy as dead weight.
In the end, I chose to cross the street to determine if he was indeed following
me. My peripheral vision confirmed his veering off and I let out a long sigh of relief.
In retrospect, I realize that the man in
the alley was, in fact, someone just standing innocently in an alley — not the
raper/serial killer I had concocted in my head.

As it turns out, my downtown Fargo residency hardly renders me tough. The
truth is, I never had to be tough in Fargo,
and to say otherwise is ridiculous. When living in Fargo, I could trust my surroundings. I
trusted people in general. Now, when a strange man greets me at a stop light, I give
him a look that suggests I have a machete in my backpack. Of course, I am
bluffing. But that is not the point. The point is that I can no longer afford
to be Minnesota
nice. And that’s a luxury I really miss.

I have my dream job. I work in a trendy neighborhood in a
downtown metropolis. I report to a newly renovated building that boasts tons of
character and artistic flare. When I come in to work, I immediately go to my
very own office with a – albeit small — window. The company that I work for sells
a unique product, and therefore, attracts national media attention without
aggressively pursuing it. My work day is consumed with challenging and
interesting advertising and public relations projects. My dream job only has
one small flaw, I hate it.

When I was job searching last summer, I was looking for
little more than temporary employment that would pay the rent and – if I was
really lucky – fortify my resume. Just when I was ready to throw in the towel
and wait tables, I was offered a job at Company X (a.k.a. my dream job). Because
the position seemed to promise endless potential, I arranged to stay on part
time during the fall semester.

I knew something was wrong with the company about two weeks
into my employment. I was outside enjoying some fresh air (okay, a cigarette)
and met a girl that worked at a neighboring coffee shop. Familiar with Company
X, she asked me if I was the newest hire. I admitted that I was, and she gave
me a sympathetic smile and asked how it was going. I replied that it was going
fine. She nodded and using her best read-between-the-lines tone, she simply
said, “good luck.” I understood immediately that she had information I did not
- and it wasn’t good. I translated her encrypted warning effortlessly: get out,
girl.

I would work for Company X for six months before I realized
that its corporate culture was having an unhealthy effect on me. It was the
same story: high expectations, substandard pay, a ridiculous work load and no
benefits. This was familiar territory. I was certainly accustomed to less-than
desirable work conditions. However, in the past I have always been able to tune
them out and focus on the more positive aspects.

With Company X the situation was distinctly different. I
found myself physically reacting to the job. I developed a very specific sleeping
disorder – if I had to report to Company X in the morning, I would not be able
to sleep the night before. At night I would find myself consumed with anxiety,
feeling sick to my stomach and alarmingly awake at four in the morning. Although
I was unable to diagnose the problem, one thing was clear – my Company X dilemma
was more complicated than low pay and high job expectations. But if the problem was not monetary, what was it?

After much contemplating, I determined that the root of the
problem was corporate genetics. The work culture is tainted by an ego ridden
owner whose temperament is volatile at best. Because I can’t exactly change the
owner of the company, I am literally unable to improve the situation. I am
trapped in a corner – and I don’t do well with entrapment.

The owner of the company, Mr. X, is comprised of a lethal
combination of sensitivity and an inflated ego. He does not want employees as
much as he wants hostages. He wants control. He shows his manliness by yelling
at waitresses, employees and contractors. You know, people who can’t yell back.
In addition, verbally abusing his girlfriend has become a type of office
protocol. With his iron fist and intimidation tactics, he keeps everyone in the
office guessing. The employees warn each other in a whispered hush not to make
him mad.

To maintain his ego, Mr. X requires a daily regimen of
compliments, preferential treatment and ass kissing. The problem is that I
would sooner die than kiss his ass – really, sooner die. Ironically, as much as
I abhor Mr. X, he seems rather fond of me. I know because when Mr. X is in a
good mood, he talks in baby talk…and he does that around me a lot. Nothing
makes me feel more professional than my boss expressing himself in
three-year-old tongue.

Every day I come to work and can’t escape the fact that I
work for someone who I think is truly awful. I work for someone who I have zero
respect for. I work for someone whose presence I would not tolerate if we met
under different circumstances. And one day, I came to work and realized I was
working for a company that I no longer believed in. Although, I once thought it
was impossible to do, Company X has crossed my ethical line. They have pushed
me too far. I have gotten to a point where no amount of experience or pay could
convince me to continue working there. With my work situation feeling
strikingly similar to an abusive relationship, I put in my notice.

When it comes to landing the perfect job, corporate culture
matters a great deal. In fact, I would argue that the morals and values of an
organization are everything. While I can’t help but feel disappointed that my
dream job was more like my corporate nightmare, I have gained priceless
insight. Next May I will once again be looking for a job. But this time, it’s
different. This time it’s not a finite opportunity that I will leave within two
years. This time it’s my career. What was important to me six months ago is no
longer a top priority. I am looking for an employer who provides inspiration and
innovation. I am looking for a company that cares about corporate culture. My
experience has taught me that a high profile job in a hip office is worth
nothing, absolutely nothing, if the corporate culture is lacking.

I was one of those people who exited high school and never
looked back. I literally left my own graduation ceremony early and bid a
blissful farewell to the four most unfortunate years of my life. In other
words, I hated high school. To me, the experience seemed like daycare for
teenagers. The environment was stifling, superficial and lame. By default, high
school is designed to discourage any type of individualistic behavior, and this
non-conformist wanted out.

Despite my ill feelings towards high school, I embraced
college. I loved the atmosphere, the learning, the discussion…and the fact that
it was acceptable to swear in papers as long as you had a really good reason.
It was in college where I made my long-lasting friendships, discovered my
talents and figured out what I wanted to be when I grew up. Coincidently, I question the character of anyone who claims that
high school was the best four years of his or her life.

It’s been a long time since I have contemplated high school
or the people I attended it with. That is until last Saturday night when I got
the most unusual call from an old classmate. We lost touch over six years ago
when her life went one direction and mine went another. She chose to have kids
before she could afford them emotionally or financially and married the first bum
that did not seem bothered by baggage. I, by contrast, chose a different path
and pretty soon lack of commonality dissolved our shallow friendship.  

She claimed that the reason for the unexpected call was to
catch up, but really she just wanted to complain. Catching up requires a
sincere dialogue in which both people contribute equally to the conversation. No,
this was a carefully scripted monologue and my role was to listen to her whine
about the terrible life she had cultivated.

For a while, I played the role of the good Samaritan. I
patiently listened to her tragic musings, but after about an hour both my
patience and my empathy were wearing thin. I suddenly had a revelation. This
entire conversation was completely selfish. For six years I had not so much as sent
this girl a Christmas card. I did not attend her wedding, yet I was listening
to her tails of so-called justified infidelity. Surely the task of listening to
her insanity should fall on her maid of honor or another wedding attendee, but
not me. Worse yet, by merely participating in the conversation, I was encouraging
her to make follow-up calls. Just how many Saturday nights did I want to
sacrifice for her self-absorption? I was left with little choice but to interrupt
her melodrama and end the conversation with a final suggestion that she seek
help.

The most awkward aspect of the conversation was that she
still expected me to be 18 years old. She wanted to talk to my teenage self but
unfortunately that person had since grown up. We were living in two different words.
As I listened to her reminisce about the good ol’ high-school days, I become
increasingly uncomfortable. Over the past six years I have grown into somebody
else. I have had the opportunity to experience life and those experiences have
rendered me a different, wiser person. For me high school does not symbolize the extent of my
potential. I am just beginning to realize my potential. For her, though, the
memories of high school serve as a coping mechanism to deal with a life that
highly dissatisfies her.

Her phone call opened up a Pandora’s box of memories. Curiosity
inspired me to pull my old yearbook from storage and look at the faces of my
childhood. Despite the countless pictures autographed with the acronym BFF,
these people have absolutely no place in my adult life. Thumbing through the
pages, it seemed obvious that the most interesting people were rejected by the institution
of high school. I wondered if the nerdy yearbook editor was a hotshot writer in
New York City.
I also wondered if the prom queen became a trophy wife who passed the days by
shopping and gossiping about soap operas.  

Through this short walk down memory lane, one thing became
clear – I have earned myself a pretty cool life and I should be grateful. It’s
unfortunate that my former classmate is so unhappy, but it’s also not my
problem.

In case you have not gotten the memo, the 80’s are creeping
back into style. Leggings, oversized sweaters and large belts are making an
appearance on runways across the globe. I got the memo last summer but refused
to accept it as fashion truth. Instead, I credulously assumed that a few
garments inspired by the 80’s would appear and then quickly go away. My logic
seemed to make sense. The 80’s were painfully atrocious, and I was confident
that the American public would refuse to reinstate this trend. I was wrong.

During the 80’s, the whole world seemed to be abusing drugs.
What else could explain an entire culture dressed in legwarmers, spandex and
more headbands than you can shake a stick at? I blame drugs for this trendy
disaster. And I can forgive that. Everyone makes mistakes. But why are we willing
to rekindle 10 years of bad hair days?

A few weeks ago, I realized 80’s fashion was making a profounder
impact than I originally anticipated. I was watching a popular sitcom and
noticed that a young character resemble me in my 80’s childhood. Her hair had
an alarming amount of volume, her earrings were enormous and she was wearing a
sweater that exposed her left shoulder. Once I witnessed the fad on network
television, I knew it was over. The 80’s are coming back and there is nothing I
can do to stop it.

Still, I figured I had time to prepare. According to my
calculations, it would take six months for this in-vogue tsunami to hit Minnesota. Again, I was
wrong. As it turns, this plague is moving much faster than I originally
anticipated. Today, I received confirmed reports that the 80’s are the
rage of Uptown Minneapolis. Apparently the hipsters sold out with nearly no
resistance.

So it’s official, spandex, black lace, big belts and ankle
boots are once again cool. It’s a shame. I am simply not ready to wear the ridiculous
clothes of my childhood. In fact, I refuse to participate. Yep, I am
protesting. The last time I dressed this outlandishly, I was 12 years old and trying
to woo a boy five inches shorter than me to go to the sixth grade dance – and
he’s now in prison. In the spirit of maintaining my maturity and composure, I
won’t dress like my sixth-grade self. I am sitting this trend out. Take that
Marc Jacobs!

Last semester, I found myself enthralled in an interesting
project. I was required to prepare a mini thesis, and I choose to research
sexually provocative ads and the technology boom. At first glance, these
concepts seem to have very little in common, but I assure you that they are correlated. Due
to an abundance of messages and communication channels, consumers have become apathetic
to advertising messages. Therefore, the advertising industry uses sexually provocative
ads more increasingly to achieve consumer attention through shock. That’s the
theory in two sentences or less.

Because I spent so much time researching the topic, I found this
video from the Dove Campaign for Real Beauty interesting. In fact, I find the
whole campaign fascinating. Dove’s marketing gurus have created a campaign that
is shocking, provocative and positive. It’s refreshing to see a beauty product demonstrate
some creativity in its marketing approach. Watch the video and judge for
yourself.

About a year ago I was
dinning with some friends at a fast food restaurant. It was late at night and
only a few people were scattered throughout the lobby. I was telling a story about
a girl I knew who had authentic five o’clock shadows. I was not trying to be
mean, but because of the obvious abnormality, the story had a certain appeal to
it. As usual, I was talking too loudly.

The next thing I knew, a
drunk (and perhaps mentally ill) lady who was dinning at a nearby table was
verbally attacking me. Although, I was talking specifically about ladies with man
hair, she somehow managed to blame me for ruining Easter (not just hers – the World’s).
Well hello to you too, I thought. I
tried to be polite and emphasized that it was not my intent to offend her or
anyone else. My efforts were futile. She either would not or could not hear me.
She ended her diatribe by pointing directly at me and saying in a deeply
serious voice: “it’s people like you who are responsible for the war in Iraq.”

Those words remain
entrenched in my brain because they were so preposterous. How could I, a sole
civilian, bear the responsibility of the Iraq war – a war that I have never supported?
But perhaps more alarming was the deliverance of the message. This lady
looked at me with sheer abhorrence, and
I knew that no matter how absurd or unfounded her comments were, she believed
them wholeheartedly.

After she stated her closing
comments, my friends and I said a few choice words of our own and quickly left
the restaurant. When we stepped out into the parking lot, things went from bad
to worse. The only car in the parking lot that did not belong to me or my
friends was an old Buick plastered with NRA, Pro-Life and Jesus bumper
stickers. I felt my blood go cold. Obviously this car belonged to the woman
dinning in the restaurant. She was not mentally ill as I suspected; she was a
fundamentalist. And I certainly would have preferred the former.

I won’t lie; fundamentalists
scare the hell out of me. These are people who lack critical thinking skills to
the point of insanity. Fundamentalists bomb abortion clinics but are unable to
see the contradiction. Entire groups of fundamentalists have committed suicide
because a meter in the sky predicted so-called Armageddon. I certainly do not
understand their logic, but their power has a presence in history. After all, fundamentalism,
in part, convinced an entire country to engage in the atrocity that was the Holocaust.

Standing in the parking lot,
I had reason to be scared. I am not sure what I thought would happen. A part of
me thought it was ironic that someone who vehemently supported the NRA would
credit a young girl who had never shot a gun in her life with starting a war.
Another part of me was concerned that she and her husband would emerge from the
restaurant, tranquilize me with sedatives, shove me in their trunk and take me
to a remote location where they would begin the brainwashing process. I decided
not to gamble with fate and drove home quickly.

I was reminded of this whole
ordeal while watching the news a few weeks ago. Apparently religious
fundamentalists who support violence in the Middle East
are suddenly news worthy. In one interview a Southern couple talked candidly
about celebrating the violence between Israel
and Lebanon
because it symbolizes the beginning of Armageddon. I was alone at the time, but
I found myself saying out loud: You’ve got to be kidding me!

Questions immediately
invaded my brain. How could a country as progressive as the United States encompass
people who think so backwards? Did these people not go to school? Were they
brainwashed by some bi-product of the Kool-Aid cult? And why the hell are they
on the news? Their illogical comments sent shivers up my spine. It was
unsettling and disheartening. While I am certainly not a religious person, I
hardly think that Jesus would refuse to make a second appearance because the Middle East was not in an adequate stage of turmoil. That
may sound blasphemous to some, but to me it makes sense.

To deconstruct a subject as
complicated as war and put it into meaningless black and white terms seems
dangerously elementary to me. But in the past, I have always been able to label
such remarks as “crazy talk” and go about my business. That is until I hear the
mainstream news projecting such asinine comments. Now I’m begining to wonder if
this illogical ideology has somehow developed into a mainstream belief.