C'est la vie? C'est MA vie

GAWD I hate this whiny bitch. I mean, it could be because the writing isn't that good (let's call it repetitive in an uninspired way and uninspired in a repetitive way) or it could be because technically I haven't been 23 for 27 days or it could be that I very actively made life choices to avoid living my way into these cliches. (Fear is an excellent motivator.) But the part that really gets me is the cheesiness at the end. Seriously? Neither you nor your audience deserve this coddling, and you haven't for nearly two decades. Get your shit together. Or at least take on your shit with a fresh approach.

Speaking of dealing with metaphysical angst in new and exciting ways, the Picasso Museum reopened here in Paris after an (unexpectedly long) five year renovation. (Now that's what I call a transition.) Picasso,"the insider who was always an outsider," lived in Paris for most of his adult life and though I've never seen a curator call him Parisian, he was certainly in conversation with these enclaves of otherness that populated the city of lights (all the way from gas to electric) in the 20th century. And it's kind of funny that we associate artists like Picasso and Hemingway and Stein with this City when their experience was probably closer to an occupation than an immersion. They hung out with other expats and did expaty things and sure, they patronized local businesses, but cafe creme and vin rouge do not a Parisian make.

And I'm really no different. There is a constant struggle...struggle is the wrong word, it implies that my life is hard...a constant tug between blending in and embracing the aspects of my otherness that make Paris all the more exciting. When I see a picturesque alley curving into a softly lit corner, can I take a picture? Do I want a picture? Should I pretend that this is normal, or feed my own aesthetic delight? At the end of the day there are no wrong answers, and the choice is really mine to make what I want of the experience.

And here's the secret: that is not a condition particular to Parisian photo ops. As a member of the universe's most coddled generation I feel like, much to my disappointment, it might be necessary to remind my peers that 23 (and 22 and 24 and all the way up, as high as you care to go) is not an incurable disease. Your early 20s are not an illness or temporary psychosis or punishment. This epoch of our lives is a boundless realm of opportunities, which can either be squandered whining and watching netflix or experienced at the hands of the world that exists beyond the triple locked doors of our tiny apartments. (Note: there is in fact room for both, it may even be a necessity, I'm not ruling it out)

Well you make it sound so easy...like I have complete control over my own destiny, like I'm the only one to blame if shit's not going the way I want it to...Well...yea! A little extreme, but hate to break it to you sunshine, all the excuses people have been making for you are now being showered upon the next generation of over/under achievers. So put on some Sara Bareilles, and then some Beyonce, dust yourself off, and be honest with yourself about your life. Acknowledge the things that make you happy. Revel in them. Change the things that don't. Yes, CHANGE! You can do it. Relatively young dogs learn new tricks all the time. ALL the time. And once you accept this challenge the frightening yet empowering truth comes out, which is that your life is not a circumstance of the universe or voo doo or your neighbors who have really loud sex while you're trying to sleep. It's just you. So make the most of it.

Netflix in moderation. Responsibility in gross. It's called growing up.

The Cinderella Fallacy

From among the battery of lies that Disney brainwashed us with in our youth, this is one of the most frustrating. The commitment to happy endings in that animation studio was upsettingly Utopian and these days the simple elegance of the animation and the sweet songs are only just enough to prevent the stories from ringing completely hollow. But despite their irrelevance to reality, the anti-feminist whims of Disney are part of our cultural catalouges and we must, therefore, confront them.

But it is not Cinderella's inability to complete simple tasks without the assistance of rodents, magic, or men that gets my goat. It is the fairytale's governing principal that when the clock strikes twelve, everything will disappear. That in twelve swings of a pendulum everything we have that brings us joy will taken without cause but with great consequence.

I suppose she didn't work for her gown or glass slippers, but Allah knows she deserved them. And Allah knows she enjoyed them, in the most pure and innocent of ways. So, dear fairy godmother, why taunt her with happiness?  You could have just as easily treated her to a tacky dress from the sales rack at macy's and some worn pumps from the Goodwill. But instead you treat her to the lap of luxury, a jarring experience to be sure, just to rip it away. Rude.

I resent the implication that happiness, that relief from the unpleasantries in our lives, is temporary. Who says? Disney? Well he also wanted a housing development with only Aryans so let's take the guy's advice with a grain of salt. Maybe if we pull a Cindy and wait to be saved that's true. But if we work hard and long and hey, I'm not averse to a dash of good luck, then why shouldn't we be able to shake off the step mothers and step sisters and evil cats in our lives?

Part of Cinderella's cautionary tale is that we should work for it; that gifts can be taken as easily as given. But at this volta in my life the more powerful message is that Disney sucks, and fairytales are bullshit, and if I want it to my happiness can last until 12:15, or 3:15 (I know dad, nothing good ever happens after 1 am). It's really not up to an unwelcome elderly woman or a concerningly mysterious prince (seriously, what's his name?) to determine when my fun is over.

And furthermore, a ripped dress, a little pumpkin mush, and and a lost shoe is not a compelling set of reasons to head home. Lock it up Cindy. Rule #76 - No Excuses. Play Like a Champion.

Life Philosophy

I've decide to let you all in on a little secret. Much to the detriment of my blog I've been in a delightful mood for the past several days, which translates to few angsty musings for blog fodder. My apologies. So I thought I'd share my life philosophy. One of the many people who shared their thoughts on my blog with me after my last facebook share was my Pseudo-Aunt (I don't have any real aunts, but I'm pretty content just having her and a few others). And she actually shared something that I whole-heartedly agree with, which is that happiness is a choice. Happiness is totally a choice. And in response to the million counter examples that your brain just automatically racked up, I say calm down. Wait to hear what I have to say. What I mean by "happiness is a choice" is that the world is a mess and we have no control over 99.9983674%  of what happens. Add that will be true whether we choose happiness or not. The roughly .1127436% of the world that we have control over is the way we respond to it. And in that way, happiness is not just a choice. It's the only choice that we have. The choice that affects all other experiences. So choose happiness. Because really, why wouldn't you?

OK, so that's only a part of my life philosophy. More just something that I wholeheartedly believe. Here's my life philosophy. It's an idea that it took me thousands of days, hundreds of failures, and a bit of gut instinct to discover, but now it's a phrase and concept I return to regularly:

be at one with the chaos of the universe

It is a challenge, for sure. But if you can manage it you'll be astounded at how much better your life becomes. At how much easier things seem and how much more elegantly simple or beautifully complex everything begins to appear. Be at one with the chaos of the universe. Accept your lack of control. Roll with the punches. Best laid plans etc. etc. And once you align yourself with the pure chaos that has ushered in the world as we know it you will find that big changes seem smaller and everything seems a little less do or die. So give yourself a break. Embrace the beauty of unpredictability  Choose happiness. Choose chaos. Choose excitement and adventure. Be at one with the chaos of the universe.

Because really, it's never that big of a deal.

Bitch, Please

Over Spring Break I went home and spent the week seeing friends and lounging around my house writing my thesis. There was also a fair amount of Dunkin Donuts Coffee. (literally, my biggest problem with Los Angeles). On Friday night I accompanied my dad to temple as he had his mother's first yahrtzeit (which my computer just tried to correct to "yahtzee," what, is google a secret front for a 1950s country club?). Our Rabbi, who I don't care for in the least, I find him devoid of inspiration, intelligence, and social skills, insisted on a traveler's prayer which dear old dad sold me down the river for. Really, how far is 3K miles? It's a plane. Not the Oregon Trail. Soon after we released from the chamber of rambling a new addition to our synagogue approached me demanding that I clarify where I was going that I had required a blessing, and I replied, begrudgingly, that I was returning for my last semester at USC.
Let me clarify, my begrudgement was not a reflection of dissapointment in it being the end of college. That's an idea that I've pretty much come around to. I was not thrilled with the prospect of the conversation that would inevitably occur between me and this poorly dressed stranger. And despite my greatest efforts at California charm the exchange ended with me saying "And for the year I hope to get a job in writing" to which she, full of the confidence and poise that accompanies a dress sewn in a country that no  longer exists in the eyes of the U.S. government with an even more dated haircut, responded "Well. Good luck with that."

I cock my head. Squint my eyes. And walk away. Who does she think she is? Excuse me, I've never met you. It's clear why you're speaking to me and not someone who could recognize you from past social trauma. Lock it up. You wouldn't say that to someone you knew, so why would you let it stand as a first impression?
I was genuinely taken aback. And it could've been my pre-temple blood orange cosmo (#delicious), but it also could have been the fact that I had become unaccustomed to people being so frankly rude. I took a few things away from the encounter:

1. Never be like that woman
2. ...no, i guess that was it

If you don't get what I'm doing, that's fine. But let me be. It's not your place to offer judgement on my life, just like it's not my place to offer judgement on yours. If you're not on my team, you're not welcome in the stadium. This is practice. Let me figure my shit out before you start offering unsolicited advice. Because just like you're much more than the answer to one deceptively ambiguous question (When was the last time you went shopping?), so am I.

Good Day. I said Good Day!