This Girl is Exhausted

Imagine my surprise. There I
was, indulging in a little Entertainment Tonight when all of the sudden my
boyfriend broke out in convulsive, uncontrollable laughter. For a few minutes,
I watched him roll around on the floor, displaying an awkward outburst of
gleeful hysteria. When he had somewhat contained himself, I demanded to know
what was so funny. His reply was unexpected. “You’re related to Dr. Phil
through marriage,” he proclaimed. What?

As it turns out, he was
right…sort of. More accurately, I am bizarrely linked to Dr. Phil. To clarify,
I am related through marriage to the Dahm triplets (yep, those Dahm triplets). And, according to Entertainment Tonight,
Erica Dahm married Jay McGraw, Dr. Phil’s son, recently. So there you have it,
I am forever linked to Dr. Phil.

Upon hearing the news, I immediately
called my sister to inform her that we were heirs to the McGraw estate. Of
course, that was an absurd statement. In reality, our connection to the
triplets is anything but personal. As you may have suspected, the Dahm triplets
and I are not exactly buddies. Okay, so they have failed to acknowledge my existence.
All I really know about them is that 1) their major claim to fame was
simulating incest in 1998 and 2) they are estranged from most of their extended
family. So why even mention our artificial connection in a blog?

The truth is that regular people
take pleasure in a celebrity connection, artificial or not. Want to test the
theory? Drop Johnny Lang’s name in the presence of a Fargoan and he or she will
likely reveal a far-removed connection to him. I’ve got a story of my own: my
friend’s cousin dated the pre-rocker but allegedly broke it of because he was “too
into this guitar.” True story, supposedly. The point is, even the most refined Americans
are somewhat fascinated by stardom – they just might be too refined to admit it. Very few
will turn down the chance to brush shoulders with fame. At the very least, a celebrity connection
makes for interesting, light-hearted conversation.

Unfortunately, just like we can’t
choose our families, we can’t choose the celebrities that we are loosely affiliated
with. We have to work with what we have been given. If I had a choice, I would
be related through marriage to the likes of Angelina Jolie or Madonna. I
certainly would not have hand-picked Playboy
playmates or a pompous television psychologist. But when you’re an average
civilian, you can’t be picky. I’ll pimp my diluted links to C-list celebrities
for all they’re worth.

Sometimes I admire her, but mostly I want to kick the back
of her chair. I am referring to my workaholic co-worker. The girl who shows up
twenty minutes early, stays twenty minutes late, abstains from fifteen minute
breaks and reduces her lunch hour all in the spirit of hard work. Perhaps you
know her. I have a strong inkling that she exists at more than one company. In
fact, for a short while I think I was
her.

I have worked at a lot of corporations, and it seems to me
that the hardest workers on the planet are ambitious females. And while hard
work is certainly a positive attribute, I am starting to wonder if we females
work a little too hard. I mean, I don’t recall signing any contract that
required me to refuse breaks that I am legally entitled to, work feverishly until 1 a.m. or dress up in a dog custom and
walk three miles in a parade…Yet, I have done all of these things.

While I was focused on proving
myself through hard work, my female colleagues were right by my side emulating
my behavior. Of course, what I realize only in retrospect is that I was putting
them in a terrible position. They had little choice but to follow my lead or
face the consequences of looking lazy or flaky. There was no time for golf
games, long lunches or leaving early on Friday. Work had to be done, and we
appeared more than willing to do it.

Of course, my intentions were strategic. I truly believed I would
be able to cash my ambition in for success. Surely my overzealous work ethic
would translate to corporate triumph and a long life of flexibility and
irresistible job offers. However, in my experience at one company, my working
hard actually produced negative results. Oversaturated with men who played a lot harder than they worked, the company constantly
assigned harder deadlines and tougher work loads to me and my female colleague.
At first glance, this appeared to be a compliment. We eagerly accepted the opportunity
to affirm our talents. By complete accident, we convinced the company that we
were capable of handling an impractical workload.

Our disillusionment was short lived; it soon became clear
how unfair the situation was. While we were frantically trying to complete our
work on time, our male counterparts enjoyed deadline extensions that we were
never allotted. When we finally inquired about expectation inconsistencies, we
were told by our female boss that our demanding work load was attributed to our
gender’s keen ability to multitask.

I hate to be frank, but that is bull shit. Men are just as capable
of multitasking as women. Yes, I know, there are few scientific studies that
prove a supposed correlation between a woman’s thought process and her ability
to multitask. I don’t buy into that. After all, while employed as a server, I
once convinced an entire restaurant staff that I was incapable of mopping the
floor. For the next year, I smugly watched manager after manager mop the floor
because I was unqualified. Any idiot can mop a floor, but only a bigger idiot
will volunteer for additional work. Men’s multitasking ineptness is a pseudo stigma that has been given way too much credit. The
real problem is that no one wants to do more then he or she has to.

On the other hand, we women all too easily fall victim to a
thankless cycle where we feel lucky to be employed. As disheartening as it is, we
will not only work harder than we should, we often feel compelled to do it for
less pay. This is absolutely insane, especially considering that we are credited
for being multitasking gurus. There is no one more efficient than us, yet we continue
to undersell ourselves. Ironically, sacrificing Saturdays for the office may
not lead to a corner office with a view after all. On the contrary, it may lead
to an endless supply of more Saturdays at the office. Hi Jane, have you meet the
glass ceiling?

This brings me back to my frustration with my workaholic
co-worker. At some point, we have to take responsibility for reinforcing the
stereotype that continues to haunt us. If the majority of female workers are
willing to settle for little pay and insane work loads, it traps the rest of us
into that model. And I am really looking forward to taking a break. On the other hand, I am not advocating that anyone lessen the
quality of their work or their standards. But there is a difference between
producing excellent results and letting a corporation walk on your face. And
sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.

Being in a relationship is not that far removed from being a
member of a country club. Meshing with a significant other is a strange
alliance. It’s just like any exclusive club. An unwritten code of conduct is
drafted, breaking the rules will get you thrown out and a type of payment is
requisite. I call the latter a relationship fee. To clarify, I am not referring
to a long-term prostitution contract. This fee does not encompass anything of
monetary value. It’s metaphorical. It’s an unspoken tit for tat. Paying a
relationship fee constitutes participating in an activity or attending an event
with your significant other that you have absolutely no interest in. This
payment can be prolonged, but never truly avoided. It’s a bitch.

I have been guilty of putting my relationship dues in forbearance
for years, asking my boyfriend to attend functions that mean something to me
but not really wanting to participate in much that interests him. It seems that
my grace period is up. Last weekend I reluctantly went to a Sawyer Brown
concert at Country Music USA
in Sauk Centre, MN. Sawyer Brown is my boyfriend’s all-time favorite
band. After three years of avoiding these types of concerts, my participation
was all but required. It seemed that my payment was due.

I abhor country music, and I did not bother concealing my
indignant attitude on the night of the country music festival. As a
self-proclaimed city slicker and a huge supporter of independent music, I feel
out of my element simply listening to country music on the radio. Therefore,
the thought of attending a country festival left me in a state of anxiety. I dealt with this situation the same way any insecure person
would: I made fun of the locals.

At first, it was fun. I was being entertained by a young
cowboy exhibitionist who ran amongst the aisles of people wearing ass-less
chaps (you can’t make this stuff up).
For what felt like hours, I watched him diplomatically comb
the crowd, making sure to expose himself to all. Under these circumstances, I
could not help but have a good time.
When hillbillies act the way you would expect them to, it is
truly surreal. I was laughing so hard that I was almost crying. Of course,
around that time I got a little carried away.

I have been dating my boyfriend for three years, and he
should know that I am incapable of behaving properly at a country music festival.
Inspired by the streaking cowboy, I became dangerously giddy. It started
innocently with my impersonating the drunks who surrounded me and my friends
(who I brought along for emotional support). Unfortunately, several minutes
later I officially crossed a line.

I was sitting directly in front of an older,
highly intoxicated gentleman. He was teasing me with his ridiculous arm
flailing. Disillusioned by his
drunken stupor, he seemed convinced that by repeatedly moving his arm in a
half-circle motion, he had the power to conduct the band. He was begging to be
mocked, so I started doing an impression. All was fine until a member of his
group turned around to be greeted by my inappropriate interpretation of arm-flailing
half circles.

Suddenly it occurred to me that I could very well get my ass
kicked at Country Music Fest USA.
How would I explain my black eye to my job? Could all be forgiven if I simply
said in a genuine voice that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery? Somehow my rollicking fun became perplexing and
scary. As I was contemplating fight or flight, my boyfriend leaned over to me
and whispered something like: You’re on your own with this one. He was joking…I
think.

Luckily, the subject of my mockery was a happy drunk and
could care less about the girl sitting behind him. And if that cowboy is one of
the five people who read my blog, let me just say, I am really sorry. I was
simply paying my dues to my relationship. I was in an environment where I
clearly did not belong. My behavior was obviously childish, but I will forever believe
that the ass-less chaps made me do it. How does that song go? That’s my story
and I am sticking to it.

“We are losers!” I announced to my boyfriend. Certainly the
situation seemed dire. We were eating hot dogs in my apartment watching TBS
movies, essentially downsizing the traditional dinner and movie date. Plainly
said, we were broke. Both of us had been aggressively pursuing employment for
weeks to no avail. No one, it seemed, was interested in hiring either one of us.

My boyfriend was attempting to relocate within a few
counties of me. Our long-distance relationship was taking its toll. Neither one
of us could afford the high price of commuting 200 miles one way each weekend. Because
I live on the outer fringe of a metropolis, deciding on a desirable work
location was nothing short of a convoluted algorithm. His living on the wrong
side of the city could easily wedge a 70-mile gap between us. Still,
considering our current situation, such a distance hardly seemed unmanageable.

My employment search was a little more complex in that I already had a job. However, living on the part-time wages it provided without the
support of my graduate assistantship (which is only offered during the school
year) was wishful thinking at best. Against all odds, I was determined to find
temporary, part-time employment relevant to my field. I later understood the
magnitude of my unrealistic expectations.

Early in my job search I was fairly confident, perhaps even
cocky. After all, I was experienced with the prospect of finding work. In fact,
persuading an employer to hire me is usually a task I can accomplish. My weaknesses
reside in other areas, such as playing well with others. Because of my practical
job experience, I assumed that I would be invited to numerous interviews.
Despite my optimism, it soon became evident that any bragging rights I had
earned from previous jobs were not applicable. My situation rendered me an
undesirable candidate. As it turns out, very few employers want to hire someone
part time for three months.

The voice of reason (and many friends) urged to me to suck
up my pride and wait tables for a couple of months, using the words “it’s only
temporary” as a euphemism. However, I am a stubborn German and nothing can distract
me from my goal – even sound logic – when my mind is made up. I kept trying to
shove square pegs into round holes, putting in resumes to almost any paying
internship that offered communications experience. Still no calls came in. I
was dumfounded. I even momentarily suspected the works of a conspiracy theory.
Could it be true that the world was out to get me?

Finally my financial standings broke my stubborn ego. I put
any dreams of playing career girl for the summer aside. When challenged, eating
almost always trumps status. I solidified the culmination of my job search by
calling a friend and announcing my plans to work in a coffee shop. I was
humbled, tired and ready to reason with whatever seemed reasonable.

Meanwhile, my boyfriend was enduring a similar beating from
life. After a company offered him a job, he put in his notice at his apartment.
Disappointingly, the deal fell through when the company could not offer a substantial
wage. Facing homelessness, he finally decided to find an apartment in Fargo and commit one more
year to his current employer.

That’s the funny thing about life. The minute I accepted the
fate I had been so desperately trying to avoid since April, opportunity knocked
at my door. A few days ago I got a call from a small entrepreneurial company –
possibly the only company in the world that was offering stimulating part-time
work. After a three-hour interview, I can predict somewhat confidently that
this one might work out.

They say that hindsight is 20/20. I tend to disagree. In the
past couple of months I relearned how hard finding a job can really be. My
memory was clearly skewed by my inflated ego, which was incorrectly reporting
that in the past employment came effortlessly to me. This is simply untrue; I
have always had to work hard and prepare thoroughly for interviews. This frustrating
experience literally tore my pomposity to shreds. It also reminded me of where
I came from, and how important it is not to lose touch with that notion.

Along with accepting my career fate, I had also accepted
that my boyfriend and I would live no where near each other anytime soon. Again, fate proved to be testing me. This
week my boyfriend interviewed for a possible job promotion and relocation
opportunity in the Cities. Luckily, he found out before he signed a lease in Fargo. These past few
events have inspired me to put down my cynical conspiracy theory and instead
have faith in a new credence: things work out when they are supposed to.

Sometimes I hate being an adult. When I first started
college at MSUM, I was seventeen years old. The idea of accumulating debt didn’t
faze me. My financial aid check seemed like an early Christmas present.
Although I read the fine print and knew financial aid was not free money, it sure
felt free. I was not required to pay anything back until I graduated and as
freshman, that seemed like an eternity away.

It took me five years, but I finally graduated from college with an average
amount of student loan debt. Unfortunately, graduate degrees are much more
expensive than undergrad degrees. By next year, I anticipate that my “average
amount of debt” will grow into a figure that is abnormally large. I am starting
to wonder if I will become an overeducated homeless person.

It’s not that I am irresponsible with money. In fact, I am
quite the opposite. Growing up in household that was always concerned about
money had an affect on me. My family’s financial situation often seemed dire. During the 1980’s things were particularly
hard. Reaganomics
was not kind to blue-collar workers like my dad. Being a union member, he was required
to strike often. For weeks my dad would be without work and then finally find a
project that would last a few months. To compensate for the lack of steady
income, my parents saved money like they would never have it again. This was a
successful strategy. Even in the hardest of times, my family never had to take
a check from the government.

Throughout my childhood, I took many mental notes. I
observed the importance of a savings account and the evils of credit card debt.
Even as a kid, I could understand the fiscal value of spending less than you
make. Growing up, financial common sense was embedded into me, and the biggest
component of that was being somewhat prepared for the unexpected.

My parents never condoned splurging on anything except
education. Neither my mom nor my dad attended a four-year university –- and both
think that their lives would have been drastically different if they had. In
their eyes, the value of education was priceless. Therefore, my sister and I
were always enduring endless lectures about the importance of going to college
and “making something of ourselves.”

In the 1990’s things changed for the better. My dad had
finally found permanent work and starting making a steady and moderate income.
By the time I entered college my parents made just enough money for the
government to assume that they could contribute largely to the funding of my
education, but not enough to actually be able to so. It’s the middleclass
paradox, and I am certainly not the only one to be screwed by it. Opportunity was, of course, available to me, assuming I
was willing to go into debt.

The older I get the more perspective I develop on my
financial situation. Sometimes reality comes to me out of nowhere. I will be
enjoying myself at the park on a nice day when all the sudden a voice whispers,
you’re going to have to pay back all your
student loans. This thought causes me great panic. I am tempted to rock in a
chair, stare catatonically at the ceiling and repeat the worlds, “oh my god.”
Because that won’t solve anything, I end up asking myself ridiculous questions
that I can’t possibly answer. Will I get a good job? Will I make enough money? Will
I die in shallow, unmarked grave because I could not even afford a tombstone
and a proper burial? Can I marry a rich old man and still keep my dignity?

Because I don’t have the means to change my financial
situation, I resort to the one thing I can change – my perception on my
financial situation. I address my debt with clever euphemisms. To demonstrate, I
am not in a significant amount of debt. To the contrary, I have invested a
significant amount of money in myself. Changing the negative word “debt” to
“investment” helps somewhat, but deep down I know that if my “investment” does
not pay off, I will surely die from emaciation.

I know that things will work out, but knowing and believing
are sometimes two worlds away. I have tried the best I can to tip the odds of
success in my favor. Although, when it comes to my future, I want an absolute
promise. I want a clairvoyant to approach me on the street, put her hand on my
forehead and say with 100 percent certainty that things will work out for me. I
want to be told that I will make a comfortable living and will have the ability
to donate large sums of money to my favorite charities –- despite the fact that,
currently, my only favorite charity is me. Until that happens, I will keep trudging my way towards the American dream with my fingers
crossed.

Smoking is so not
cool anymore. This was not the case when I was 13 years old. Then it was
considered a quick and easy way to achieve a tough and rebellious status. I
wanted to be tough, so I smoked Marlboro Reds – which immediately upgraded my
status to bad ass. I often wish I would have paid more attention in DARE, but
the truth of it is “just say no” did not seem too appealing to my teenage self.
I remained an unconvinced nonconformist who proudly smoked throughout high school.

As it turns out, the
Surgeon General’s Warning was right: smoking really is addictive. I should
know. I have yet to kick the habit. The problem is that I love smoking almost
as much as I hate it. This may sound a bit paradoxical to a non-smoker, but I
am certain that any smoker or former smoker can relate. Modern research offers
a million reasons to quit, and they are quite convincing, but something inside of
me is still holding on to a small and irrational hope that science will one day
create a healthy and nice smelling cigarette. Actually, Philip Morris will
probably accomplish this daunting task long before science does, but whatever.

Sometimes I wish
that smoking would become illegal. If smoking was outlawed, I would be forced
to quit despite myself. Before political activists within the blogging
community attack me, let me say that I know this would be a huge infringement
on civil rights, and no, I really
don’t want that. What I really want is someone to fulfill my unrealistic desire
to become immediately and painlessly relieved from my addiction.

Of course the idea
of quitting without suffering through cravings and crazy mood swings is wishful
thinking at best, but smoking encompasses a perplexing element: it causes
logical people to think illogically. For instance, when I was 18 someone told
me that someone told her that as long as you quit by the age 25, you would
suffer no long-term consequences. Your black lungs would again be pink, and
your body would effortlessly deem the whole experience null and void. Although, this is probably the most unscientific
claim I have ever entertained with consideration, I remain attached to it. For
years I have been telling myself that I will quit at 25. However, I now find
myself in a terrible dilemma — I will turn 25 in August.

Just thinking about
quitting smoking brings on anxiety. I have been rewarding myself with cigarettes
for years. I literally will have to reprogram my brain if I want to be
successful in my efforts to quit. Smoking is a habit that nearly no one would
partake in if it was not incredibly powerful. Every time I light up in public
(outside naturally) I am reminded that my habit renders me a social deviant.
When people give me disdainful looks, I shrug my shoulders and apathetically
agree with their low opinion of smoking. Silently I am saying: yep, I know; this is
so stupid.

I was actually in
favor of Fargo-Moorhead’s smoking ordinance. How could I blame non-smokers for not
wanting to be around secondhand smoke? I don’t want to be around smokers either.
Even in bone-chilling weather, I choose to take my habit outside. I refuse to smoke in my house or around
specific people who I am quite certain will judge me harshly, i.e. my
boyfriend’s mother. Of course, this does not make me a star smoker; it only
suggests that I am truly ashamed of my habit.

Many people cite
health benefits as their main motivation for quitting. I disagree. I find peer
pressure much more effective. Living in
a society that is disgusted by smoking can break a person down. As a smoker you
are an easy target for ridicule. As a result, even a nice, law-abiding smoker like
me has to deal with the negative stigma the habit begets. For example, when I
was just out of college and working for a young, high-tech company, a co-worker
casually asked me if I was smoking in the bathroom. It was a small company, and
I was the sole smoker. Therefore, when someone smelled smoke, the fingers
naturally pointed at me. (As a side note, I later learned that many closet
smokers existed within the company and to this day suspect a conspiracy.)

I was, of course, humiliated
by this accusation. This was my first job out of college. I was finally a
professional, yet I was being accused of engaging in behavior so childish that
I once received in-school suspension for doing it. I was not sure how to asses
the situation. Should I laugh or be seriously offended? In the end, I did both.

Considering all the
negative effects of smoking, both socially and physically, I can’t help but
wonder why I still do it. Certainly my family is not the culprit. My parents are
health nuts who eat organic fruit, and my sister is a doctor. As far as my
family is concerned, I am an enigma. So I where did I go wrong? I can only
assume that I am a walking testament to the immense power of peer pressure. And if that is the case, I openly welcome
society’s negative opinion on smoking. After all, if peer pressure got me into this
whole mess, it has the potential to get me out.

You’re never too old for a spring break. At least that’s what
I told myself while booking a flight to San
Diego. I had originally planned on spending my break
at home indulging in the guilty pleasure that is reality TV. However, after my
sister announced that she was heading to Napa Valley
for a week, sibling rivalry proved to get the best of me. Upon hearing her
exciting news, I craved some of my own. I called my boyfriend immediately and
informed him that I wanted to go to California
more than anything else in the world, adding that he could come too if he
wanted. A few days later our trip was scheduled.

I make an honest attempt to travel to a new city at least
two times a year. I get giddy just thinking about leaving the tri-state area.
My expensive travel obsession can easily be blamed on my restricting childhood.
Most normal families take a vacation over the summer. My parents, being the
lake enthusiasts that they are, did not find it necessary to leave Minnesota – ever.
Instead, they chose to spend every available weekend at the lakes. Being a
minor meant I had to come along. Don’t get me wrong, as an adult I love the
lakes, but spending time there as child felt comparable to corporal punishment.

Ignorance is bliss, and maybe I would have never realized
what I was missing if my peers were not there to enlighten me. In elementary
school, returning from summer break always left me in a state of jealously. With
summer fresh in their minds, my friends would recap recent adventures at Disney
World, the Grand Canyon or Yellowstone. I, on the
other hand, was left with the formidable task of sensationalizing my redundant weekends
spent in a cramped trailer with my family. When compared with my friends’
vacations, mine seemed like a hillbilly nightmare – certainly nothing to brag
about.

By the time I was 18, the farthest I had traveled was Wisconsin. I immediately
committed myself to traveling as much as possible. The first major city I
visited – that was not Minneapolis – was Chicago. My friends and I
discovered cheap airfare departing from the cities. Upon returning home, I felt
sophisticated, urban and cultured. I had unofficially joined an elite group of
travelers. I had finally arrived as an avid explorer, and I intended on proclaiming my new status to all. Finding creative ways to casually slip the subject of my trip into conversations became the new focus of my life. I would say things like, “Oh, this pizza tastes
so much like this awesome pizza I had in Chicago,”
to anyone polite enough to listen.

Of course, when you pretend to be an experienced traveler,
you run the risk of being exposed by the real thing. My bragging came to a screeching
halt a few days after my trip. In an absurd attempt to impress a boy I liked, I declared over
coffee that I had jetlag from a recent travel adventure. I then feigned a
mysterious persona by pensively looking at my coffee cup. Unfortunately, I made
a few critical errors with that statement (1) The only thing I knew about jetlag
was that people got it after flying (2) I was not tired at all; I was just
trying to discreetly drop Chicago
into the conversation.

As luck would have it, my coffee mate was a reputable traveler, and my incognito musings failed to
impress him. He was much too busy laughing at the fact that I thought my one hour
flight, taken two days ago, would result in jetlag fatigue. The jig was up. I
was certainly not a traveler of the world. Who was I kidding?

Since then, I have made a lot of progress. I find myself
loving what was denied to me as a child. I have visited many cities throughout the
United States and Canada,
appreciating each one for different reasons. In addition, I have had the opportunity to further expand my horizons and travel abroad. I can’t help but wonder if a
different childhood experience would have stifled my ambition to travel. I
always felt like my parents were depriving me of the world, but I now see how
they were really preserving it for me. Everywhere I travel is viewed through a
childlike lens. Each city is fresh, new and exciting. Nothing is mundane. And because
I am adult, I am not obligated by law to bring my parents.

In the morning there are a million reasons to be crabby. Everything seems much more intense before 10:00 a.m. On this particular morning, my running late served as the culprit. Absentmindedly misplacing my keys only exacerbated this problem. Before I knew it, I was dashing down the hallway at an Olympic speed and screaming obscenities in my head. My audacious race against time paid off. Though severely out of breath, I managed to make the 8:07 bus.

I am an advocate for public transportation. What’s not to love? The bus is eco-friendly and offers me a healthy alterative to road rage. Instead of dealing with traffic, I can kick up my heels and read Newsweek. In my opinion, the best part of the bus is the people who ride it. On any given day, the bus offers a random sample of those who populate the city. Most Minnesota cities are relatively homogenous, and my city is no exception to this rule.  However, the bus attracts a variety of people who vary in ethnicity and financial status. For at least twenty minutes, I can fool myself into believing that I reside in a cosmopolitan area.

My friendly feelings towards the bus did not apply on this morning. I was lacking in sleep and officially crabby. I had been up only two hours and already I had decided that this would be a bad day. I was looking forward to relishing in self pity when I noticed a mentally disabled man sitting across from me, smiling for no reason. Because I was irritable, I had a hard time comprehending why anyone would smile at this hour in the morning. I attempted to demystify him by rudely staring.  

I found myself fascinated by his demeanor. He appeared deeply entrenched in a euphoric state of mind. What the hell could be making him so happy? He eventually felt my stare and looked up, cheerfully greeting me with a hello. He then asked me if I was enjoying the beautiful sunshine. I was completely flabbergasted. Even though it had been overcast for days, my self-absorption prevented me from noticing the sun. I was living in Minnesota in the dead of winter and I missed the sun completely! Surely something was wrong with me.  

This brief encounter inspired some thought on my end. For a moment, I was envious of this man. His mental illness was visible to the entire world, and yet, he was completely oblivious to his shortcomings. Despite himself, he was content. While he sat effortlessly enjoying serenity, I digested the irony.  Most sane people spend years in yoga classes trying to achieve that level of peace.

In a desperate attempt to detach from discontentment, I have spent my fair share of time in a downward facing dog pose. Yet my efforts have never proven successful.  Of course I comprehend the word contentment in theory, but my application could use some work. No matter what I accomplish in life, I always manage to want more. And even though I have the luxury of concealing my shortcomings, I spend a generous amount of time obsessing about them.

I hardly think that I am alone in this way of thinking.  Most people of sound mind fall for the cliché grass-is-greener-on-the-other-side paradox — even though they know it’s bull s***. Sitting on the bus, I found myself pondering a provocative question: who is really mentally ill in this scenario, him or me?

During my time as a
graduate student, I have struggled with a little dissonance. I often find my
professional self conflicting with my academic self — particularly when it
comes to writing research papers. While
I enjoy numerous forms of writing, I have yet to acquire a taste for scholarly
writing. There are unwritten rules in the academic world, and if you fail to adhere
by them you will be dubbed the village idiot by your colleagues.

My struggle begins
with my background and training. I am accustomed to writing for a client or
customer, not for a professor. These two things differ considerably. When
writing for an audience it is imperative to be simple, concise and somewhat
entertaining. These elements are embedded in me. It is my job to engage the audience,
to captivate them in some way. There are a million ways to achieve this goal. I
prefer to write casually, implement humor and omit confusing, intellectual
metaphors. This is my framework, and I try not to deviate off track.

One of my first assignments
in grad school was to read an article written by a public-relations-practitioner-turned
scholar. The author’s main point was relatively elementary. She argued that an
employee who disagrees ethically with an employer has limited options. What I
summed up in a sentence took the author four pages to convey! The concept was
simple, but the author’s reasoning was unnecessarily cluttered with convoluted
terminology, making it a cumbersome read. I had to wonder why she felt
compelled to take this approach. In the professional world this type of
articulation would not fly.

After reading a few
more scholarly articles, I had my answer. Scholars are required to take a
simple concept and inflate it in the most complex way possible. That is the
first rule of scholarly writing, and it’s an important one.

To help unlock the
mysteries of this formal writing style, I have created a completely partial,
don’t-try-this-at-home manual outlining the basic six rules for writing like
scholar.

1. Entertaining
   the Reader is a No-No
   This rule both shocked and disappointed me. My pieces were always
   written for someone, and it was my job to at least try to construct my
   point in an entertaining way. However, in scholarly writing keeping the
   reader’s attention is not mandatory; in fact, it’s a sure sign that you
   are on the wrong track. Ironically, the driest papers receive the highest
   marks.

2. Be Verbose, be Very Verbose
   Due to the boring nature of your piece, it is necessary to state arguments
   over and over again. Because your mission is to conjure up a slew of data
   and chuck it at the reader, it’s integral to use repetition generously.
   Otherwise, the reader will likely miss important concepts. You are not a
   broken record; you are a scholar! Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

3. Jargon
   is Lauded
   I
   remember learning all about jargon as an undergrad. In that context, it
   was referred to as a negative thing, which all good writers should avoid. After
   all, above all else, you want the reader to understand the message. This
   is not the case in scholarly writing. You are writing for intellectuals.
   Anyone who does not understand the terminology is shamelessly
   simpleminded.

4. Big Words for Big Minds
   Unless your reader is constantly reaching for the dictionary, you have
   failed to do your job. This is an optimal opportunity to embrace your
   pompous side by using a plethora of academic words. To demonstrate,
   substitute “finish” with “culminate,” “complete” with “consummate” and
   “vocabulary” with “lexicon.” Touching up on your Latin can only help you.
   Replace “therefore” with “ergo” for brownie points.

5. Ambiguity
   is a Commodity
   It’s
   important to keep the reader constantly guessing where you are going with
   the piece. Don’t be a whore with your thesis statement; withhold it from
   your readers as long as humanly possible. This keeps them in a state of
   confusion, which your academic friends will surely appreciate.

6. Don’t Take Sides
   Out of
   all the rules, this one is the most practical. However, I am used to
   representing something, so the idea of not taking a side is completely foreign
   to me. Sensationalism may add a lot of flare to a media release, but it
   will surely decrease the value of your paper. Scholars don’t have
   opinions; they have data.

Ever since I was little, I have enjoyed writing. When I was old enough to consider a career, the choice seemed obvious. I would go to school to become a journalist. However, by the time I entered college I had developed opinions — strong ones — on almost every subject imaginable. I simply did not hone the neutral perspective that is required of all good journalists.

I quickly revamped my career choice, transitioning effortlessly into the advertising and public relations profession. As it turned out, sensationalism and propaganda came easily to me. All my life I had been spinning certain truths in an attempt to make my actions appear benign, even altruistic. I was a natural persuader. Why not make a career out of it?

Although receiving paychecks for my craft is a relatively novel addition to my portfolio, I assure you that I have been engaged in pro-bono work for years. I launched my first public relations campaign when I was eleven. Inspired by the hit teen series, The Baby-Sitters Club, I decided to test my entrepreneurial skills. With the help of a friend, I launched my own Baby-Sitters Club. I advertised by saturating my small town with flyers that disclosed my phone number. Pretending to understand the value of phone etiquette, I answered all inbound calls to my house: “Hello, baby-sitters club, may I take your appointment?” This confused many of my parent’s friends who assumed that they had the wrong number.

Unfortunately, my business adventure flopped. Only one prospect turned into a client…and she was certifiably crazy. Looking back, Child-Protective Services should have intervened. The only recollection I have of her kids is that they were insubordinate, neglected and unclean. Ironically, that description is synonymous to the condition of her house, which we were required to clean, as well. After a month of working without compensation, my parents forced me to quit. I reluctantly went back to enjoying the sixth grade free from distraction.

Of course, I have evolved since then as a professional. However, my first grassroots experience in the work world is not that far removed from my first internship. In both cases I was an ignorant fledgling feigning expertise and working for free. During my short career, I have taken numerous uncalculated risks and many of them proved to be bad decisions. However, I don’t regret taking them. I learned a lot from falling on my face, and I am a better employee for it today. I genuinely enjoy what I do. I love the art of persuasion. Some people spend years pondering what they want to do when they grow up, but not me. I knew I wanted to dedicate my life to hype.