Over the Whelm

While carpooling to work today, I became embroiled in one of those retrospective conversations.  The topic on today's menu?  College.  As my carpooling compatriot and I swapped stories from the underbelly of our undergraduate years, told stories of nightmare professors and all-nighters, something happened.  My heart gained weight, became a grenade with the pin half-pulled, ready to either explode or lie dormant.

I'm pretty sure this image is from Scott Pilgrim's Precious Little Life, the first book in the series.

The wheels are in motion for me to go to grad school.  Applications are in order or almost in order. I've detached from Seattle and allowed myself to experience the sweet taste of wanderlust, my feet and possessions becoming eager to see a new location.  I've made my intentions clear at work, gently side-stepping possible/likely job advancements.  And I'm ready.  I'm ready to push my life further.

But then.  The memories of being a student.  The apathetic lethargy that came with my university experience. The feelings of being drained, being frustrated, being uninspired.  One of the things that encouraged me to return to school was a recent burst of inspiration, a desire to investigate things, to create things.  I'm starting to worry that school will once again sap me of passion.

So yeah.  Tl;dr (which means too long; didn't read for all you non-Reddit initiated folk)(I learned Reddit abbreviations recently and I'm really excited about it, that's all)(no judgement)?  Blah blah blah nervous fear blah.

Luckily I've found solace by looking at pictures of deserts, listening to this ad nauseum, and watching a whole ton of this:

One of THOSE Things

I fought against doing a "year wrap up" post.  And I'm not sure you can call this one, considering that January is halfway over.  But after doing some kind of glance back for the past two years (2010 and 2011), I've decided I like the closure.  I have always enjoyed looking at my yearly progression, and although the urge to look towards the past typically comes to me in the fall, the start of a new year is just too crisp and clear and convenient to resist.

Typically, I hate Christmas and December with the fury of five thousand burning meteors.  Want proof?  Try this article, written for my high school newspaper:

Behold, the cleverness of high school Cat.

That writing is so convincing I almost hate Christmas again.  But not this year!  This year was full of warmth and joy and muppets and happiness and the first real Christmas tree I've had in years.  I even had a nephew in town to help decorate it.  That seemed to start the holiday off right, and it just snowballed from there.

See what I did with the word "snowballed"?  So holiday appropriate!  And punny.

So final verdict:  Good on ya, Christmas.  I'll keep you around for now.

And now, a rundown of stuff I did in 2012:

• Moved to Seattle.  Fell in love with Seattle.  Became very snooty about how awesome Seattle is.
• GOT MARRIED.  Yep,  That's right.  You can just go home everyone, I win.  No one else did anything as impressive or monumental or as fulfilling of life as I have, now that I have my very own person trapped with me forever.  Though, in all honesty, marriage is awesome and I highly recommend it.
• Applied for a ton of jobs.
• Was hired and worked at two different jobs: first as a tutor at a company that may or may not have made me racist, second at a private school that has helped me learn what I want to do with my life.
• Rediscovered my love of cooking, especially in finding and trying out new recipes.  Ask me about what I can do with a sweet potato.
• Turned 23, going on 35.  I still can't believe I'm that young.
• Used my Batman lunchbox.
• Watched waaaay too many Rifftrax.  My favorites are this, this and this.
• Went to a select few, quality concerts: Andrew Bird, Jack White, and the most delightfully intimate house show with Jeremy Messersmith.
• Made my own family traditions.  That's pretty neat.
• Ate cupcakes.  Am still undecided between Trophy Cupcakes and Cupcake Royale.
• Went to Spiral Jetty FINALLY.  And with some delightful Mary and Rosemary.
• Had a dream vacation with Taylor, visiting family in New York, then hopping over to the Baltic's to see Taylor's mission in Latvia and Estonia, and rounding it all out with some time in St. Petersburg.
• Started a new Thanksgiving tradition--watching The Crucible.
• Read many, many comic books.  My favorites are American Vampire, Batman: The Black Mirror (both by Scott Snyder), and Blankets by Craig Thompson. 
• Dyed my hair!  And not just the couple streaks, like last year.  The whole, entire head of hair a burgundy color.  It's pretty hardcore--I look like I should be wearing black leather and hunting vampires.  Which is one of my dream jobs, so I suppose it fits.
• Decided to go to graduate school fall 2013.

It was a wonderful year. One of the best in recent memory.  That's really all I have to say about that.

It's not a new year unless I make progress, and I want to track that progress.  A few months ago, I had this epiphany.  And I realized that the only thing preventing me from doing stuff is me.  If I want to do something, I need to go ahead and do it.  So that's my vague, overarching thing I want to work on.  Be assertive.  Get stuff done.  There's nobody else to blame but me.  But here are some concrete things I'd like to achieve this year.  My "resolutions," if you're into that word (I, personally, am not).

1.  Get published.  I don't care if it's for a website or a weekly or what, but I want to submit my writing someplace and have other people publish it.

2.  Get into grad school.  Please oh please let this happen.

3.  Stop eating the food in the faculty room.

4.  Keep track of the media I consumed.  Consume more media.  This includes tracking my movies, TV shows, and books.

5.  As part of the accountability for the above goal, I'm going to write reviews for every book I read.  Every.  Single.  Book.  Even the crappy, shameful YA books I sometimes read.  If you want to follow along with this journey, check me out on Goodreads.

A Portrait in Thirds

My eyes are leaking?

Crying is a much more accepted and typical part of life right now.  This is not a comfortable fact.  It's a strange type of growing pain, just far later in life than I thought it should be.  Perhaps this is the phenomenon known as a "quarterlife crisis," only it shouldn't be.  It's the regular adolescent trauma of self discovery, delayed by several years.  Arrested development, if you will, but this time it's for reals and there's no Jason Bateman to be the calm voice of sanity.

Emotions have always been verboten to me.  I eschewed them as a sign of the weakness I could not let myself show.  I was the poster child for the wall-builder, constructing my safe little oasis bricked up tight within a corner of my heart I had forgotten existed.  But the past few years I have been chiseling away at the grout, creating chinks then gaps then tearing down load-bearing beams.  I can successfully say that I have gone from pure robot to someone capable of emotional health.

But the part they always skip with emotional health is the necessity of pain.  Those walls were built to keep me from having to feel hurt or sad or even empathy.  I was me, and everything rolled off like so much water on bird feathers, fluffed out to repel any drop.  Since letting myself feel I have experienced life more sweetly, cherished moments and relationships I never thought possible.  But along with that comes suffering.  And that's what needs to happen.  Being healthy means being OK with the hurt along with the joy.  But it's difficult, especially when the pain chokes your chest and compresses your feelings.  And that's this week.  A week of pain and frustration.

A teacher perspective on the shootings on Connecticut. 

 I have never taught kids as young as my current students. Even though I am technically in "middle school,"  I am surrounded by children ages 10-12.  Most of my time is spent around the 10 year olds, and I will not lie.  It's... how to say this diplomatically?... not my favorite.  My specialty is older students (who thankfully understand sarcasm and culture references), I didn't go into elementary education for a reason, and I often struggle with connecting with these young students, students who need more nurturing love and care and attention.

Today my fifth graders were practicing musical numbers for their play about the American Revolution.  They sang jazzy tunes about taxation without representation while I read about how children had been shot, how an entire class was missing, how parents and teachers were trying to account for everyone.  And I couldn't stop my breathing from becoming labored, couldn't stop the immediate watering of my eyes.  Throughout the day, I tried to stay abreast of the news, but my reaction was the same every time.  It wasn't until I came home late that afternoon and read the full story that I broke down.  Alone in my living room, punctuated by Christmas lights and the glow of the computer screen, I heaved and sobbed and had the reaction I'd avoided for so long in my life.

 I felt small.  I felt hurt.  I felt tired of this, the second violent incident in as many days.  But I felt so grateful.  Grateful that it wasn't my school, that it wasn't my students.  Grateful for the realization that if that happened, I would do anything to protect my students--even the ones that drive me batty.  I pray that I will never have to do anything like that.  I pray that this can start dialogue, and that we can progress past bickering and stop this from happening. It's not a matter of no guns or more guns or right or left.  It's a matter of changing something.  A matter of regulation and accessibility--regulation of firearm use and accessibility of what the average citizen can attain.  Regulation of mental health and accessibility for those who need care.  And while I understand those who say this is not the time, I still feel the aching heart of the country, my own aching heart crying out for an end.

I guess you care what I'm wearing.

My mind was already wrung out before the shootings dumped on me.  I've followed Mormon Child Bride, the blog of Stephanie Lauritzen (better know as She Who Started the Mormon Women Wearing Pants to Church Day), for a little over a year.  I like it because she is snarky and honest and an English teacher, and we English teachers have to stick together.  And while I have definitely not agreed with everything she's posted--not all the poems she shares are that awesome, and I don't struggle with not having the priesthood--I have understood that she was coming from a genuine place, and I've respected her journey for that.

I haven't officially identified as Feminist Mormon, but I refer to myself as such in my mind.  I've lurked around the community, reading up on WAVE and FMH and so forth, and quietly formed my opinion on the matter.  I wish I could post all I've read, but I worry that it would misconstrue my own thoughts on Mormon Feminism.  Researching it has felt a lot like cherry-picking: yes, I agree with that one; oops, not quite that one; let's avoid this train of thought all together; oh yeah, I can totally get behind that!  The only thoughts I've found that I totally agree with are here, and while that post links to some great stuff, I still want to stress that it's not a wholehearted alignment I feel.  It's an understanding and kinship, one where I believe the spirit of the cause, if not the specifics, are just.

As far as this Sunday goes, no.  I will not be wearing pants.  But not because I think it's "ridiculous" or "evil" or "just those crazy feminists looking for an excuse to leave the church."  In fact, for the record, I understand where they are coming from.  Right now, the pants aren't to say 'let's have the priesthood' or 'let's be more casual.'  It's an attempt to bring attention to the inequality in the church culture, and I support that.  I would like to hear more from women in Sunday School and Sacrament Meetings.  I do think there should be more women speaking in General Conference.  I definitely think the Young Women program needs to be completely redone, and I do think that there should be more open discussion about the role of women beyond that of wife and mother.  We are amazing.  We are strong,  We have a divine nature, worth, and capability that is greater than we are ever told.  It isn't enough to just be told that we are righteous and blessed.  A basic principle of education is modeling,  Unless girls are told about and shown their potential and the many different facets it has, how will they learn self-respect?

Despite my sympathies for the movement, I will not wear pants.  Partly because a piece of me does believe this event has the potential to undercut the sacred ordinance of the sacrament.  Not necessarily intentionally (even though there are probably a couple women who are doing it in that spirit), but because the motion is created to cause upheaval, and I personally don't feel like I would feel comfortable doing it in that setting.

But a main reason for my discomfort is the choice of pants as a symbol.  NOTE: I do not think there is anything inherently wrong in wearing pants to church, and I do think that it is more about the respect in presentation than anything else.  I am far more offended when women wear foam flip-flops to church than when women wear pants.  But in this particular case, holding up pants as a symbol of the masculine reign, shoving that particular gender dynamic in the face for awareness, well.  That makes me uneasy.

My wrestle with feminism vs. femininity vs. what-have-you has been documented before, but I just want to reiterate.  I am not in the camp where feminism means being equal with men which means being the same as men.  I think that a large part of female strength and power comes in the differences.  And not just in how we can have children--there's also the differences in social and emotional dynamics that set us apart and give us value.

But it took a while for me to get to that point.  So much of my youth was spent believing that in order to be respected, I had to be unsexed.  I couldn't be overly girly or feminine.  I had to play by masculine rules--another reason for my detestation of the weakness of emotion while I was growing up.  It wasn't until far too recently that I learned to embrace myself, curves and skirts and attractiveness and all.

How valuable it would have been if someone had told me that I could wear dresses and makeup without trading in my self-respect and ambition!  I would have had such a great head start if I had come to terms with being strong and feminine at the same time.  So no, I'm not comfortable with donning pants as a symbol of male power.  Because I am powerful, whether I'm wearing high heels or sneakers.  And that's a message that I think anybody, males and females and everything in between, can benefit from.

More Weight

I can never again make fun of Taylor for crying at the end of Apollo 13.  Not after I just spent the past two hours sobbing at this movie:

Man alive.  It was roughly two years ago that I finally decided I was allowed to have emotions, and I knew that it would be a strange, difficult road, but I never expected this.  I never thought that I would become the type of person who cries during movies.  And I don't even have any hormonal excuses!  Just pure, unadulterated connection with a beautiful work of art.

I read The Crucible as a junior in high school.  I had loved books before, but nothing had struck me to the core like Arthur Miller's words.  They kept me awake at night, pondering over implication.  The Salem Witch Trials, a topic I thought I had pretty well covered with my extensive Ann Rinaldi readings as a child, suddenly became a new experience, rife with the meaning of dignity and justice.  That started me on my love of American writers, led me to reading more postmodern works.  The Crucible defined my adult reading palate.   It sharpened my sense of talented writing.  And watching the movie again tonight, for the first time since high school, I was struck again.

Words are powerful.  They carry weight.  And the way we use them shapes us.

I know.  Super deep.  But let's face it, I abandoned all pride the moment I started choking up while watching justice die as girls screamed about Goody Good with the Devil.  Ah well.  At least I'm not crying at chick flicks.  There's mercy yet.

Fawkes-y Lady

Happy Guy Fawkes Day!

Isn't my title punny?  It makes me chuckle.  I'm celebrating this November Fifth by watching V for Vendetta tonight.  Not super creative, but it's tradition.  I'm also wearing my Guy Fawkes shirt at work--it's underneath a professional button-up, but it's there.  And it's bringing me secret joy.  And that's all that matters.

Too lazy to take a picture, so this will have to do.  It's practically a self-portrait anyways.

I feel like I've been needing to write a follow-up to that last post.  To be perfectly honest, that post was always meant as a precursor--a way to announce my participation in Nanowrimo.  But then the announcement started needing in-depth explanation, and then the explanation took over, and by the time I was finished wallowing I was finished blogging.  After all, it was about ten thirty at that point, which is an hour and a half past my school-induced bedtime.

So.  Here's a rundown of what I've been doing to beat my defeatist nature. [Sidenote:  Beat the Defeatist sounds like it should be some kind of game.  Can someone who develops apps get on that?]

A few weeks ago, I decided I was tired of not being brave.  I had all these grand plans of what I wanted to do, and how I wanted my life to be.  I was talking about all the things I thought were amazing, all these jobs and experiences I wish I could have, but nothing was being done about them.  It became this grand game of comparing the life I had to the one I wanted, and it was impossible to win.  It's foolish to get in that mental competition.  The life you have and the life you think you should?  Without action, there's just no winning.

And then, like a bolt of some type of electrically charged weather, it hit me.  I was talking about all these things I wanted to do, things I wished I was a part of, but I was doing absolutely nothing about it.

"Oh, I wish I sung more."
"Oh, I wish I had more than slight skill in music."
"If only I wrote more regularly."
"If only I read as often as I used to."
"If only I got involved in my community."
"I wish I had the job I wanted."
"I wish I could just do this-or-that for the rest of my life."

And so on, so on, so on until the end of time.

So I finally decided to do something MORE than whining about what my life should be like.  I decided to work on making it the life I wanted.

Ways I am working towards what I want to be doing:

1) Participating in Nanowrimo.  For the uninitiated, that is where you write a 50,000 word novel in the month of November.  It's big.  And scary.  And any encouragement would be greatly appreciated.

2) Taking the GRE in Nov. 28th.  Also big.  Also scary.  Also containing math, my great nemesis.  Once again, any encouragement will be appreciated.

3)  Participating in a singing group and performing Christmas songs at nursing homes and hospitals around Seattle.  Even though this gives me uncomfortable choir flashbacks (repressing high school rage, repressing high school rage...), I think it's enjoyable.

4) Applying to grad schools.  I'm still trying to find the perfect program, but I'm feeling optimistic.  I want to get a Masters in Journalism, most likely in magazine work because I want to do media criticism.  Any experts out there with advice?

5) Heading up a musical program on Polynesia for my school's multicultural event.  I have never directed anything before.  To my drama friends--thoughts?  Suggestions?

6) Creating a poetry unit for the fifth graders.  This is just exciting, exciting gravy on the top of my to-do list.  Nothing helps me relax and notice the beauty more than poetry.

On my way to work, I listen to podcasts.  It keeps me from going insane from the commute.  One of my new favorites is the Nerdist podcast, which can be stellar if they are interviewing a person you're interested in.  The two I listened to last week were Conan O'Brien and Seth Green (I love my gingers), and they were delightful--ideal inspiration for creative people who want to succeed.  Both interviews made me believe that I could achieve success in my chosen field. Conan, because he was a proponent of finding balance between depression  facilitating creativity, using one to fuel the other but not wallowing; and Seth, because he was all about finding what you love and working as hard as you can towards that.  He noted that the previous generation could not imagine enjoying work.  A job was something you went to during the day, and then you tried your best to choke down unhappiness as you spent evenings with your family.  It's remarkable that we can profit from passion, and we should recognize the gift that is.

So those are my goals.

Be Brave

Work Hard

Be Kind 

Love What I Do

  Don't Whine* 

and

Be Grateful

The crazy thing is, since I've been trying to do this, I've felt... invincible.  Like I can do anything.  The fact that I am actually doing something to try and improve my life is weirdly empowering.  And it's spread to everything!  I'm more productive at my job, a better communicator with friends and family, and more willing to stand up for myself.  Who knew that becoming an advocate for yourself would be so great?  It's like I have a super power.  So watch out, here comes Assertive Woman.  Here to save the day and make her own life exponentially better--which will hopefully make other lives better.  Don't go thinking I'm totally selfish.  I'm just vowing to no longer live in self-pity.

* Or, don't whine too much.  Let's be realistic.

Those Who Don't Try

It's amazing how quickly negativity can get me down.

I decided I'm going to grad school.  Next fall.  I want to get a Masters in Journalism.  No, not education.  And no, I haven't had any journalism experience since high school.  Why do you ask?

I haven't tried to accomplish anything since high school.  No competitions, no real application or challenges.  The last time I went out on the line and tried working for something I wanted was when I was a senior, and I applied to be the English Sterling Scholar for my high school (something I achieved, by the way, even though in hindsight I think it was because only one other person applied).  I didn't put any effort into college applications, I never worked to get published or entered contests while in college, and now that I'm past university I thought I'd just ride out that life of mediocrity.

Too bad I don't want that.

I want a spectacular life, I want to work hard and feel pride in what I'm doing.  I want to be able to point to something and say, "There.  I did that.  And it was hard.  BUT I DID IT."

There are two things impeding me in this goal.

1) I am lazy.  Every time I want to work on something, there's this little part of my brain that starts talking about all the shows now available on Netflix, and how hard I've already worked that day, and how I need just a little break to restore my creative juices.  Next thing I know, I'm two hours deep into Mad Men and yelling about how Jon Hamm deserves all the things in the world.  All the things.

2) I am a defeatist.  As much as I try to think positively, and to constantly be reassuring (after all, I am freaking awesome), when the pedal hits the metal there's only one thing going through my head.  And that's how much I suck.  How big of a failure I am.  I can't write.  I can't sell myself.  I have no impressive qualifications or character traits that set me ahead of the curve.  When I look at the requirements for applications, and then look at myself, it's ridiculous.  I just see a person with a giant average sticker.

Oh, I see you have a B+ average.  That's adorable.  Oh, I see you wrote a term paper on Dracula and Feminine Sexuality.  That's a subject that's been heavily examined before.  You want to write articles?  The last thing you wrote for a newspaper was about your favorite pair of shoes?  Oh, that's just the cutest thing ever.  Now excuse me while I talk to this intern who has been ghostwriting for the New York Times, working in an inner-city school and has published several articles about the potential cure for AIDS.

I know that I have something to offer schools.  People.  Life.  But I have a serious problem noticing all the positives when I'm paralyzed by every downfall, frozen in place by my own inadequacies.  It's so much more comforting to never try and never fail.  

Chapter XII: Wherein TV and False Feminism Collide

I'm so ashamed.  I just wasted an hour of my life watching these:

 

And you know what?  I'm done.  This is it.  This is the final breaking point.  Get ready world, because the rant that has been stewing for over a year has reached a boiling point and is about to explode all over the shiny white stove top of your mind.

Let's discuss New Girl for a moment.  I'll admit, a year ago I was looking forward to this show.  I watched that first episode and laughed my face off.  And then I kept watching, but something was amiss.  It fell further and further in my esteem, and halfway through the first season I was already admitting to watching it with shame, trying to downplay the fact that I would pull it up on Hulu and spend those twenty minutes wondering what I was doing.  Here are my main two issues:

#1: Schmidt.

Yeah.  That's right.  Start with the torches, but I'm sticking to my guns.  While I'm happy that Max Greenfield has found a successful role (go Leo!), Schmidt irks me.  As a character, I find him overwhelmingly shallow, narcissistic, and distracting.  "But that's who he is!  That's the point of him!" you naysayers might yell at me.  Alright, fine.  I'll give you that.  That could be his character, and while it is a lazy character it is an existing one that performs a certain purpose in the structure of the show, so OK.  Take that one.

But here's my main issue--Schmidt is the fan favorite.  Schmidt is apparently the star of New Girl, sparking press galore and even landing an entire book.  I've even heard some of my male friends express a desire to be just like him, and that's what gets my rile up.  Why?  Why would anyone exalt and emulate a man who has a douche jar, bases his values in expensive clothing and accessories, and who builds up a personality in persona rather than substance?  I understand the (slight) humor in that character, but when it goes into admiration it goes too far.  Men, you can do better than that.  You can be strong, substantial, interesting.  Schmidt behaves badly and his badness is acknowledged, but then he is inevitably rewarded for it.  This system denies him any sort of growth, and who can blame him?  If his behavior prompts the pretty girl to sleep with him, his roommates to validate him, etc., there is no reason for him to progress and change as a person.  And as someone who believes that life is about constant improvement, constant betterment, that's more than frustrating, that's offensive.  Talking about offensive,

#2:  Zooey Deschanel and her views of femininity.

I used to like Zooey.  Back when she did the wry, slightly sarcastic, slightly (very slightly) "quirky" characters, I thought she was interesting, and a new voice on the scene.  But when New Girl came out, she embraced the cuteness and made that the whole of her identity.  Which is good and dandy, but when she starts trumpeting herself as the new brand of feminism (as done through her website, articles, and episodes of her show), that's where I take umbrage.

Let's quickly dissect that aforementioned episode of New Girl to get at my point.  In 1.11--"Jess and Julia"--Zooey's character faces an obstacle in the form of the awesome Lizzy Caplan, who plays the girlfriend of Deschanel's roommate.  Caplan is a successful lawyer who wears tailored suits, works hard at her job, and is less comfortable with her emotions.  All of which, naturally, means she is lying to herself and betraying her gender.  The main conflict involves Deschanel and Caplan fighting over their ideals of womanhood, with Caplan as the big, mean woman who is too tough and trying too hard to be like a man, and Deschanel as the adorable one who is true to her femininity through baking, gossip, crying and frilly dresses.  This all ends in a huge yelling match where Deschanel gets Caplan to cry and talk about her feelings and admit that she is just faking it to be more successful, and then they have a happy knitting party.  You know, to signal that all is well in the female realm.

This bothers me.  Why are the only options the career wench and the little girl?  Why must women choose between emulating men and emulating infants?  Not even infants, but some hyper-sexualized version of every feminine stereotype there is?  There is something fundamentally wrong with that scenario.  But don't worry, Mindy Kaling will fix it.  Or will she?

Mindy Kaling and The Mindy Project: Indulging the Myth

First things first:  I think Mindy Kaling is a BAMF.  Is she the gossip-fueled, slightly silly, clothes-whoring sparkly-obsessed stereotype?  Yes.  But she freely owns up to it.  AND she has goals and works ridiculously hard to achieve them, and I can't possibly begrudge her that because that's rad.  And yet.  Somehow, her show fell so flat so fast that I can barely contain my shaking rage at what's going on over there.  NPR has an excellent, slightly more positive view on the show than I do, but they hit on a good point: the main character is unlikeable.  And I don't see that changing anytime soon.

As it stands, the character of Mindy is a shrill, overly critical woman who expects life to be a fairytale.  She expects her men to be handsome, financially secure, mentally sound, and to put up with her shallow beliefs and emotional tantrums over the slightest of obstacles, whether it's job difficulty or the wrong frozen yogurt flavor.  Which is such a non-issue, considering that yogurt places LET YOU TEST FLAVORS, that I could hardly believe that made it through the writers room, let alone became a minute and a half bit on the show.

So yes, as a character Mindy has some serious tweaking to be done.  But I think the main fault is that fairytale dream of the show, or the belief that a character who pictures life as a romantic comedy will get what she wants.  Or deserves to get what she wants.  Part of this frustration lies at the source.  Romantic comedies are a terrible model for love.  They teach that true love is instantaneous, that people are meant to be, and that happy ever after is an easy and painless possibility.  They preach that love can fall on your doorstep without any effort on the part of the receiver.  That Mr. Right will find you and stay with you, no matter if you are a whiny, entitled princess who does nothing to improve herself.  In fact, the more you stick to your childish emotions and beliefs, the more deserving you are of love because you are somehow more pure and unjaded than the rest of the world.

How is this tolerated?  Love does not work that way, and the audience should not be expected to root for a protagonist who operates under these assumptions.  And yet, in both existing episodes of The Mindy Project, Mindy acts like a spoiled brat and expects cheers from the viewer.  Look how brave she is to be uncompromising in her expectations!  Look how wonderful she is for yelling at her co-workers!  How amazing it is that she can so seamlessly fake the girl her date is looking for!  It's remarkable.

Here's what truly disturbing about these shows--they are being lauded for their bravery.  Both of the showrunners are women, and the media is abuzz about how these two shows (and HBO's Girls) are paving the way for feminism, casting new light and new possibility on women as a whole.

Quite frankly, if those shows are the model of how a woman is supposed to behave, I'm ashamed of my gender.

I'm ashamed at us for not expecting more.  For not demanding more.  According to these shows, if you are not actively working towards marriage, changing yourself for the opposite sex to make yourself more appealing, and unapologetically indulging in your girlishness without having to face any consequences for emotional outbursts or childish dreams, then you are doing it wrong.  Which is selling us short as a gender.  Feminism is not about sexualization, it's about making yourself better.  It's about the opportunity to rise to whatever is possible for you.  So kudos to Mindy Kaling, Elizabeth Meriwether, et al for being successful showrunners, but don't drop the ball now that you are there.

Women do not have to adhere to the two extremes of the overly masculine career woman and the soft little girl in pigtails.  There's an entire rich spectrum of possibility out there.  When I think of women who successfully lived up to their potential, I think of women who oozed confidence, who carried themselves with a self-assured charm.  They range from the pretty femininity of Audrey Hepburn, the strong sensuality of Lauren Bacall, and the roguish self-reliance of Katharine Hepburn.  They were not all the same cookie-cutter type of woman, but they are all connected in their level of comfort with who they were.

And that is what we need to be idealizing, ladies.  We need to stop being OK with being talked down to, with having our roles minimalized and placed in neat little boxes.  We need to stop conforming to these ideas and expectations.  Our sense of worth is not defined by how men see us.  We don't need to be sex objects or placed on the pedestal of innocence and purity.  The fight is about equality, which is essentially freedom.  Freedom to be accepting of our bodies and our personal ideals.  Freedom to be accepted for whatever personality we have.  Freedom to work if we choose, to love if we choose, and to live how we choose, according to our own standards.  So if Zooey truly loves cupcakes, awesome.  But don't call me less of a woman if I don't.  Don't tell me that my relationship is faulty because I didn't know Taylor was the one from the first moment I saw him.  And on the flip side, don't tell me that I'm selling myself short by being married, by not working more or pushing myself towards different careers.  Let me be confident in my own abilities, and I'll do the same for you.  But dear women, make sure your goals and dreams are yours, and not dictated by books or movies or TV shows.