The Frivolity of Stirrup Pants

     I’d like to start off by letting you know that I’m not mad, just disappointed. It’s been nearly a week since the University of Virginia publicly maligned the very essence of who I am, who I have been and who I plan to be. And I'm not the only one, either. Countless reputations, personal narratives and the future dreams of basically everyone I know - or would ever care to know - dashed; dragged through the mud in the name of - at best, science; and at worst, revenge. Will no one speak for us? Will no one raise their voice to avenge the honors of those who were perpetual team captains; those who always had a partner for school projects? 

     “What Ever Happened To The ‘Cool’ Kids? Long-Term Sequelae Of Early Adolescent Pseudomature Behavior” is as appalling as it is bombastically-titled. Detailing the findings of a 10-year study that followed 184 public school students from the ages of 13 to 23, the study examined what effect, if any, social status has on their lives in early adulthood. In addition to responses from the teens themselves, the study also collected information from the participant’s peers and parents, in an effort to shed light on what happens to the Fonzis, the Kelly Kapowskis and the Steve Holts once we leave the hallowed halls of high school. All in the name of science and posterity, of course! In the name of self-esteem a little too, I’d bet. Also, to finally answer a question from the researchers’ own youths; an age-old question wondered by young geeks the world over: “How much longer do I have to wait until bad things happen to really popular, good-looking people?” According to the most recent research, you won’t have to wait long.

     A mere decade is all it takes to turn the table, for the victims to become the victimizers. By the time they turn 23, students who started out as Cher Horowitz had evolved into a the role Brittany Murphy played … in “8 Mile” that is, not “Clueless.” (Although I do believe that being Kim in “8 Mile” is better than being dead or even worse, a virgin that can’t drive) 

  
     Criminal activity and substance abuse is reported at higher levels among the 23 year olds who spent their teen years sneaking into The Attic, which you hopefully will remember is the hottest, most happening 18-&-up dance club that’s ever existed. But wait, it gets worse. All grown up, ‘cool’ kids have difficulty maintaining social relationships in early adulthood, too, despite being elected to prom court every year in high school. 

  
     Who could’ve known that being born attractive would cost us so dearly? How could any of us have foreseen that we would pay for wearing Abercrombie & Fitch jean skirts every day for the rest of our lives? Why didn’t anyone warn us that it the geeks who shall inherit the earth? And the kids who would ask for homework? The ones that wouldn’t pass a note along to your best friend in 4th period social studies even though your very life depended on it? They’re living large, reveling in the sad, pathetic lives that ‘cool’ kids unknowingly created for themselves.

     Real life is, as I can attest, harder than I could’ve ever imagined. Everything that “Saved By The Bell” promised us (in the high school or the college years, take your pick)? It’s all garbage. Which is fine, I guess, and it’s not like anything could be done if it wasn’t.

  I learned early and often what disappointment was and how it felt. As an adult, I know it’s my duty to pass on all I’ve learned about disappointment - to mold and shape the minds of everyone who crosses my path. They need to learn and relearn disappointment, too. “Don’t mention it! You can thank me by paying it forward!” is what I say to the new people I meet, sending them along to share their own truths about let-down. I’ve only been called Mother Teresa two times before, and although I admit it was a bit grandiose for my liking, I really am a gift that keeps on giving. But anyway, enough about me.*

     I was never particularly mean to anyone but myself growing up, and from second grade on, I had more friends than I knew what to do with. I was practically knee-deep in friends and plans and parties and oh my! I’m reveling in the hope -so much hope. Oh, the endless possibility. It wouldn’t last, as anyone who’s ever made it past puberty will tell you. If only I had even the slightest inkling how glorious it was to enjoy the frivolity of stirrup pants, the lawlessness contained in the pages of “The Boxcar Children,” or the importance of diversity in our collective and individual histories illuminated by the end of each episode of “Ghostwriter”! I never had the slightest inkling, though. Folly and pain is the nature of youth, I suppose. Regret is a prerequisite to adulthood no matter how it manifests itself within you.

  In general, it’s all pretty problematic, you know, being alive. In specific though, this study. The researchers here have made the assumption that being ‘cool’ or being worshipped by your peers made life easy - that your teen years were a cakewalk - a veritable smorgasbord of happiness and good fortune. Let me be the first to say: I wish! In what imaginary land does being forced to choose between a dozen Sweet Sixteen parties come without taking a toll? Even thinking about the effort and coordination - factoring in who was going to which party and at what time coupled with whether or not they had an after–9 driver’s license, all of which was inconsequential unless you could find something to wear from the mall and if their older brother was going to pick everyone up some Zima before the party and if so, I mean, would it even be chilled?

  Growing up is hard for everyone. The process of becoming people - real actual persons, is fraught with adversity and heartache. And don’t get me started on the terrible haircuts, countless unrequited crushes and - well, I know we all remember Doc Maarten’s. And to boot: it takes forever. I know several men, in fact, all around the age of 30, who are still tepidly testing the bitter streams of maturity, desperately trying to grab hold of something - former high school glory, an expansive collection of Dave Matthews Band live albums, a pukka shell necklace that got them so many chicks during spring break of senior year - to help them paddle past the rising tide of responsibility, and safely into manhood - a calm pool of receding hairlines and “The Wire” on DVD. It happens to women, too, of course, much earlier and the waters far more treacherous, but we are changed nonetheless.

     I’ve always felt that everything we encounter becomes part of us- that all of it not only matters, it shapes who we become. I’ve always thought that we are all changed- consciously, subconsciously, internally and externally - by forces and factors working together just waiting for the opportune time to strike and alter us in ways we can’t imagine. And in ways we won’t be able to recognize, not at first, anyway, and even then, decades later, there’s no promise we’ll put the pieces back together if we even want to in the first place. There’s no guarantees. No one promises any of us that we’ll make it to adulthood, physically, emotionally, spiritually, mentally, cosmically, literally. It’s all a bit terrifying to consider, even now that I’m grown, you know?

     And more to the point: who cares about 23 anyway? It was an off-year for me, and I can’t imagine it was different for people as with-it as I am. Furthermore, what’s the purpose of 23? Sure, its an important stop on the path that each of us travel before spending an eternity in Hell, but other than that? Come on. Maybe the popular kids were having a rough time dealing with the fact that 23’s an odd number. Maybe those who sat wherever they wanted in the cafeteria were struggling because there’s no power anthem about  being 23. And I know what you’re thinking but you’re wrong; Taylor Swift wrote about the age of 22. Jimmy Eat World wrote a song about being 23 and I can barely keep my veins intact if it comes on. When you think about it, being 23 is bullshit. I mean, but so is being 24, 25, 26, 27, 28 and 29 (if you give me a couple weeks, I’ll let you know about 30, but all signs point to it being terrible, too).

  So, listen. I get it: you ate lunch alone in a girl’s bathroom stall and I’m sorry. But I was there too, trying to apply my 5th coat of eyeliner before Chemistry. I don’t remember you striking up any conversations even though I was probably wearing horizontal stripes and was therefore so vulnerable. Did anyone ever think that, I don’t know, maybe I liked the taste of Zima in middle school? Or that I was genetically predisposed to be cool as hell? Of course not. And I refuse to stay quiet. I will not back down as, once again, my hardships are dismissed and my shortcomings highlighted. I remain, as always, marginalized by the mainstream. These days I’m not just eating my lunch alone, I’m doing everything else alone, too. But this time, at least, I was ready for it.

If only!

At this point, by choice or by chance, I trust you’ve noticed quite an uptick in use of the word "bossy." If not, I’m beyond jealous, but will quickly recap, since it seems I have no choice. Remember Sheryl Sandberg, Facebook COO and author of “Lean In”? Cool, because she’s back, on a mission geared at empowering girls to lead, and she’s not alone. Condoleezza Rice, Jane Lynch, Jennifer Garner and Beyoncè have joined Sandberg’s newly-launched public service campaign, pledging to stop saying the word “bossy” and insisting others follow suit. And they aren’t the only ones - reportedly thousands have signed up to do the same. And I was aggravated as hell about it.

Feeling that my annoyance must've been misplaced last night, I awoke this morning, fresh-faced, and determined to give the Ban Bossy campaign a second chance. And then I watched the video, which was okay, I guess. But - nope. I watched one more time to be sure I'd heard it all correctly. And both times, I did a double take after Diane Von Furstenberg casually throws out "Let's just ban the word bossy!" Oh! If only it was that easy. Hey, also! While we're at it, can we just ban the word "heart" as a verb, too? How about the word "adorkable"? And I can't even begin to describe the anguish I feel when someone drops "amazeballs" in casual conversation.

I don't understand the concept, I suppose. Attempting to empower girls by telling them what they can't do and who they can't be seems so contradictory. Which is kinda how I feel about the the campaign itself. The act of banning something - anything - is ... come on. It's lame. Banning the word bossy is silly. Not to mention bossy as hell.

Sandberg claims that being called bossy holds girls back. Which might be case sometimes. But it didn't hold her back, or Condoleezza Rice or Beyoncè or any of the other women who've teamed up against this newly declared bad b-word. I don’t know exactly how Sheryl Sandberg overcame being chided in 9th grade for being a bossy girl, but, um, she sure did.

The image of young women that Sandberg creates with "Ban Bossy": a timid, meek, voiceless girl in class afraid to even raise her hand lest she be mocked - is largely new to me.  I don’t pretend to believe that girls aren’t held back, that girls don’t face adversity and prejudice they probably don’t even realize, because I know that, of course they do, they’re girls. But I also know that girls are tough, they're resilient. They have to be because life isn’t always easy.

Of course, I can only draw on my own experiences. BanBossy.com asserts that "girls are afraid to raise their hand in class for fear of being called bossy." Well. Ok. I do remember being scared of so many things as a kid, and maybe being called bossy was one of them. I paused and tried to get back into the mindset of 11-year old me. It wasn't easy. First of all, that haircut - yikes! After making a mental note to find out what my mother was thinking allowing anyone to give her oldest daughter what looks today like a bowl cut, I recalled some of my fears. As far as I can remember, I was afraid of being too round to ever get a first kiss, wearing a swimsuit to my friend Amy's neighborhood pool and cop killers. (I watched “20/20” a lot back then.) At times, I'm sure I was afraid to raise my hand in class - but only because I hadn't done my homework the night before (listen, I was going to fit into a pair of Limited Too! jean shorts if it killed me - and it almost did, but that's an entirely different story).

Sandberg's absolutely right - being called bossy isn't always nice and being called bossy might hurt our feelings. But that's the thing - kids are mean. Adults are mean, too.  Haters are going to hate - whether they use the word bossy or not. Sure, bossy isn't my favorite thing to be called, but its better than some of the nicknames I had in middle school. And its exponentially incomparably better than everything I've been called since then. Banning the word bossy creates a void that will have to be filled with something - maybe “bitch” or “cunt” or “fat” or “slutty” or - I could literally go on forever.  The last thing I think we need to do is give haters the time and space to develop their creative licenses.  To me, bossiness is a trait of the self-assured, the confident - a characteristic of people who know what and how they want their lives to look and aren’t afraid to go after it. Let’s embrace that definition of “bossy” and work on ignoring the rest - just like attitudes, words and language and their meanings are fluid, too.

So. Let's start by stopping. Let's ban trying to define what women are - who a woman is. Stop telling young women how they can and can’t act; what they should or should not feel; and who they should or should not be. How about we teach girls that they should be what they want to be? An 11-year old wants to be bossy? Go on, girl! An 11-year old isn’t bossy at all? That’s cool, too. You do you, little one, you do you. Empowering women to lead - I don't know. I always kind of felt the most important thing for them to lead is themselves - their lives, their dreams, their aspirations.  That path doesn't necessarily include them being the boss. For Beyoncè, it was. (And thank heavens!) But let's remind ourselves that all bosses are not leaders and all leaders are not bosses. And that’s okay. Let’s support girls and women and each other by showing them what they can be instead of what they should not.

Let’s just make bossy work for us. If only, right?

Window Pains

For me (and I suspect for most of my generation), it started with Clarissa and Sam. Clarissa in her patterned shortalls, half-ponytail and mismatched socks. And Sam, Clarissa's unkempt, ableit consistent, sidekick. They did it every episode. She, deliberately half cross-legged on her twin bed and he, hoisting, climbing, his combat boots sullying the pale pink pillows that adorned her windowseat. It was like clockwork, the strum of an electric guitar announcing his acscent. I am, of course, talking about the bedroom window entrance. And as I made the transition from elementary to middle school, it was all I wanted.

I wrote about it in my diary, I talked with all my best friends about it. A Sam of my very own, making the climb up the side of my house and into my bedroom window would've been the answer to most of my prayers. After all, I had freckles like Clarissa, and prided myself on being able to truly explain it all.

And then it happened. Dawson's Creek. Having just finished 8th grade, I was ripe for it.  Joey Potter and Dawson Leery transformed what sneaking through a bedroom window meant. Formerly just an unorthodox (but coolest-ever) way of dropping in, it began to take on a realer show of emotion and dedication, an indication of true love. As a high school freshman, an in-depth study and subsequent performance of "Romeo and Juliet" only added fuel to the fire. The balcony scene, amidst the Capulet orchard. Ah, my heart swells. Most of my love was unrequieted, too! Oh, to have my own Romeo (any Romeo, to be honest, after all, I was a roundish youth) to profess such intense devotion for. If only!

I watched as Jenny, bruised and beaten, escaping the storms without her and within, found solace in Forrest's bed. I realized I could do the climbing, too, if I had to. I guess.  True love knows no bounds, after all.

I know what you're thinking. About the endings. And you're right. Clarissa grew up weird, and Sam probably had dread locks in community college. Romeo and Juliet, well, we all know how that goes. Claire Danes' cry-face still haunts me to this day. For that matter, so does Dawson Leery's. Plus, if I'm being honest, Forrest wasn't even that cute. And can you even imagine a life with all that running? Most of my New Year's Eves have been like the one with Lieutenant Dan was, I'm not trying to continue that tradition. I'm getting too old for hookers anyway.

In the end, I never got what I wanted, of course. I've yet to have the chance to wait at my window and look longingly, waiting for my own personal Sam or Romeo or Jenny or Joey below my window. And like most desires that remain unrealized, it's probably for the best. Not to say that I haven't spent any time practicing. I've had my wistful gaze perfected for years. You know, just in case.