I haven’t written anything in far too long. As much as I’d love to chalk it up to being busy with school, the reality of the situation is that I’ve been lazy and uninspired. However, things are different today. As my unemployed self was slothing about on social media this morning, I came across what was probably the fifteenth article I’ve seen posted about Meghan Trainor this month. For those of you who are unaware, Meghan Trainor is the songstress behind the controversial (albeit catchy) singles “All About That Bass” and “Dear Future Husband”. Since Trainor came into the limelight, I’ve watched the media (and people at large) alternate between praising her for championing feminism through the body confidence movement and slamming her for preaching outdated, sexist ideals at an alarming pace. The piece I saw today belonged to the latter camp, and criticized Trainor for her reliance on male validation in cultivating her self-image and alleged “skinny-shaming”. The article brought up a lot of incredibly valid points; Trainor isn’t a perfect role model, and her lyrics obviously shouldn’t be heeded as the be-all-and-end-all truth. But there’s a larger phenomenon at play here that I want to address, and it has more to do with the nature of the discussion around Trainor than what’s being said in the discussion itself. Namely, our insistence on grouping female celebrities into the polarized categories of feminist and anti-feminist is, rather ironically, pretty “anti-feminist” in itself.
I know that some of you reading this will likely be tempted to role your eyes and dismiss what I’m saying as a product of poor education about feminist ideals, but please, hear me out. One of the foremost tenets of feminism is that women need to empower one another rather than tearing each other down. Females have already been put down enough by society as a whole; the last thing they need is to be put down even further by the rest of womankind. Most people are aware of this concept and frequently cite it when objecting to the actions or words of a given celebrity, but the twisted thing is that it all too often gives rise to scathing comments about the celebrity in question if they happen to be a woman. While trying to enforce the idea of mutual empowerment among females, we tend to fall victim to a trap in which we forget about what we’re trying to accomplish and contradict ourselves by venturing into the realm of the malicious. A woman sings about making her husband dinner, and suddenly she’s undeserving of her success due her “backwards” belief system. She utters the word “bitch”, and suddenly she’s receiving death threats. She pens a tune about loving her butt, and she’s a villain. What’s up with that?
Do you know how many male musicians have written songs praising The Almighty Booty and specific manifestations of the female form in general? A lot. A whole heck of a lot. From Sir Mix-A-Lot, to the Beastie Boys, to Jason Derulo, there truly is no shortage of male references to ladies’ bodies throughout musical history. Big butts. Small butts. Legs. Shoulders. “Itty-bitty waistlines that move with the bassline”. Fergie’s humps. And while some of them have been criticized as offensive, they really receive a lot less focus than the body-centric songs performed by their female counterparts. Male performers have also preached other “anti-feminist” ideals without so much as a peep. If we’re going to criticize people for reinforcing the idea that male validation is necessary in order to cultivate one’s self-esteem, we need look no further than the One Direction hit “What Makes You Beautiful”. The entire song focuses on the fact that a girl is beautiful purely because she has no idea that she’s beautiful; one of the lyrics blatantly decries her as “insecure”. Basically, the message here is that if you want boys like Harry, Liam, Niall, Louis and Zayn (bye, Felicia) to find you attractive, you can’t find yourself attractive. That’s pretty fucked up, no? And yet they’re not the ones coming under fire. Nine times out of ten, it’s the women. Women are critiqued on the latent sexism of their songs far more frequently than men nowadays, which itself paints a nice sexist double standard. It’s a mess of contradictions.
We need to stop trying to categorize women as purely “feminist” or “anti-feminist”, because doing so is, in truth, an insult to feminism as a whole. The feminist doctrine really should not be viewed as such a fixed, all-or-nothing belief system. You can believe in a whole host of different things, make a tonne of different choices, live your life however you want, and still be a feminist. You can believe in abstinence until marriage and be a feminist. You can choose to focus on your marriage or family rather than pursuing a career and be a feminist. You can enjoy receiving compliments from men and be a feminist. What’s truly important here is that you believe women deserve the freedom to hold these beliefs, make these choices, and pursue their happiness however feels right for them. Feminism is valuing the empowerment of women and fighting to secure equal treatment for them among their male counterparts, and it seems like this foundational idea can get muddled in the chaos that is popular culture. Feminism can’t be broken down into two camps with completely opposing beliefs. Consider someone who’s pro-life (“anti-feminist”), but is an adamant member of the movement for equal pay (“feminist”). Our society’s instinct is to weigh these opposing beliefs and file the person away as either purely feminist or purely anti-feminist. But the fact of the matter is that things aren’t nearly so polarized; feminism occurs along a spectrum, and we should respect that it might manifest itself differently among different people as long as we’re united in our journey towards equality and empowerment.
Again, Meghan Trainor isn’t a perfect role model. But who is? None of us are perfect, and that’s okay. Holding up female celebrities to the ideal of being a “perfect feminist” is akin to holding them up to other unrealistic ideals (perfect body, perfect marriage, perfect hair, etc) that we’re slowly but surely (and rightfully!) weeding out of the way we think. The bottom line is that we should be praising successful women in the media instead of tearing them down. They’ve risen to the top, and so can we - regardless of whether you’re someone who construes success as running a Fortune 500 company, maintaining a happy marriage for fifty years, dedicating your life to art and travel, or anything in between. Women are all different, and we should be celebrating these differences. That’s what feminism is all about, isn’t it? In the oft-quoted words of Ellen DeGeneres, let’s be kind to one another. The path to equality and empowerment isn’t paved with insults.
Thursday, 14 May 2015
Wednesday, 2 July 2014
Not-So-Untold Stories of the ER.
As I’m sure some of you already know due to my rather obnoxious tendency to complain about things via Twitter, I recently spent a few days in the hospital. Now would probably be a primo opportunity for me to cite the reason for said hospitalization, but quite frankly if I did I’m pretty sure every male who ever has or ever will be attracted to me would find cause to stop and rethink their life choices. With that being said, I’m just going to be vague in order to avoid sentencing myself to singledom for the rest of my life: I had a “stomach thing” that I, rather ironically, may have picked up while I was in the hospital a few weeks prior for a blood clot. It most definitely was not a good time, folks, but I’m home now and feeling like my normal, painfully sarcastic self again. Anyways, as anyone who has ever spent any time in a hospital would likely attest, you’re bound to see some weird shit (perhaps even literally) while you’re there. The best place to witness said weird shit is, without a doubt, the ER. I had to be admitted to the hospital twice due to a doctor mistakenly discharging me too early (ya dunn goofed, doc, ya dunn goofed), so I spent quite a bit of time lurking in the ER waiting to be taken to a room. Naturally, I came away from the experience with quite a few stories to my name, so I decided to compile a highlight reel for your pleasure. But be warned: if you have a weak stomach or are easily offended, you probably shouldn’t read this. Then again, that goes for pretty much everything I write, so carry on.
Not-So-Untold Story #1: Nurse, Am I Dying?
Let me set the scene for you. When you enter the ER, you’re told to sit in a row of seats outside of the triage rooms and wait for a nurse to call you. With the exception of individuals in critical condition, it’s a first-come, first-served type deal. When I arrived, there were several people ahead of me, so I plunked myself down and prepared for a long wait. This waiting area is, as previously mentioned, right outside the triage rooms, so if the doors are left open and the patients speak loudly enough you can hear what they’re saying to the nurses. Or maybe I could just hear it because I was listening intently... I was bored, okay? Anyways, one man entered the triage room and began to tell the nurse about a skin abnormality that was developing on his chest. He seemed very concerned and spoke about it at great length. Eventually, the nurse asked him to lift up his shirt so she could examine it. When he did, she glanced at it for about two seconds before her face did one of these:
-____-. And here’s where things pick up. “Sir,” she said, “Technically I’m not supposed to make a diagnosis, but I can confidently tell you that what you have is a skin tag. You can go home.” Now, for those of you who have never heard of skin tags, they’re an incredibly common condition in which you randomly grow a tiny excess flap of skin somewhere on your body. They’re completely harmless and painless, and eventually they go away by themselves. In other words, THERE’S LITERALLY NO REASON TO EVER GO TO THE ER FOR A SKIN TAG. Know what the best course of action is when you notice a small, painless flap of skin on your body? Make a fucking doctor’s appointment. Or look it up on the Internet. Even WebMD will be like “lol chill bro, it’s just a skin tag!” and that says a lot since according to WebMD growing armpit hair means you have Hep C. The other people waiting to be seen included myself, who at the time was a ticking time bomb of gastrointestinal distress, several people who looked equally unwell, a cancer patient, and an old woman who I think actually may have died during Skin Tag Man’s lengthy tirade. I’m no doctor, but I’m inclined to say that a skin tag does not take priority in this case. Seriously, dude. Stay home.
Not-So-Untold Story #2: Never Judge a Book by its Cover
This story takes place during my second stint in the ER waiting room. My mother and I were mighty peeved to be back in that hellhole, so naturally our bitchitude was kicked up a notch or two. Still bitter about the whole skin tag debacle, we were incredibly dubious of any patients who looked like they were doing a little too well to warrant a hospital visit. A woman sitting a few seats up from us was dressed professionally in a pencil skirt and ruffled top, fiddling around on her Blackberry and looking like the very image of health. Naturally, we started quietly kvetching about how she “didn’t need to be in the ER” and was “taking attention away from people who needed it more”. After we fumed silently for a few minutes, we saw the woman get up with a start and start walking briskly toward the bathroom. Within a few seconds she was sprinting, and it’s then that we noticed she was leaving a trail of blood behind her. And I’m not talking a little bit of blood – suffice it to say, images of Moses parting the Red Sea came to mind. My mom and I looked at each other, eyes wide. We felt like total assholes. Everyone else in the waiting area wore a similar “oh fuck” expression, so evidently we hadn’t been the only ones judging her seemingly healthy exterior. When she came back from the bathroom she sat down, leaned against a wall, and a few minutes later started throwing up. The “oh fuck” expressions intensified and a whole lot of uncomfortable glances were exchanged. Eventually she was taken away on a stretcher and awkward small talk about “not seeing that one coming” ensued. I had the misfortune to be the only one still be stuck in the waiting room several hours later, and eventually the woman returned. She came over to my mother and I and thanked us for being kind to her during her ordeal (if you haven’t figured it out, lady problems were involved and since the waiting room was full of men we were the only ones to sympathize). She told us that after a blood transfusion and some IV fluids she was feeling much better and wished me luck with my stay. She even offered to lend me a book to help keep me busy. Needless to say, we felt AWFUL, and I’ll probably be reincarnated as a fat man’s ballsack in my next life as penance. The moral of the story: for every Skin Tag Man, there’s an Actually Needs Medical Help Woman, so don’t be a dick.
Not-So-Untold Story #3: But First, Let Me Take A Selfie
An hour or so after the departure of the woman mentioned above, a Juicy-clad mother came in with her toddler and the toddler’s nanny. All three looked totally healthy, but after what had just happened I was in absolutely no place to pass judgment. The trio sat down in the waiting area and the toddler started getting a little rowdy. His nanny picked him up and started to walk around to calm him down while the mother stood at a safe distance (because AS IF she was going to get baby germs on her velour), snapping pictures on her bejeweled iPhone. I mean, if ever there’s an opportunity for an Insta, it’s “Baby’s first visit to the ER,” right? This was comical in and of itself, but things only got better from there. The toddler (whom I shall hereby refer to as “Young Money”) started getting squirmy again so his nanny put him down on the floor, allowing him to roam freely. It was then that I noticed Young Money wasn’t wearing any shoes, or even socks for that matter. All of a sudden, the lil nugget made a beeline for the exact area where the woman I mentioned earlier had power-yacked on the floor and sat himself down. Young Money was soon joined on the floor by his faithful nanny, and Lil Mama resumed her photo taking. It was clear that everyone in the room was debating whether or not to tell them what had recently occurred right where they were sitting, but ultimately no one said a word. After a few more minutes of documented floorplay (see what I did there?), Young Money was scooped up by his mother and the three of them left without even seeing a nurse. So like… what? Are hospitals the hip new place to take one’s child for a day trip? “Yeah, I was going to take Jimmy to the zoo or the park but you know what, I think we’ll check out the ER instead!” Yeah, that seems like a totally fun and sanitary excursion to me. Maybe next time you guys can visit a brothel! THAT would be fun for the whole family.
Not-So-Untold Story #4: And YOU Get Chest Pains, And YOU Get Chest Pains…
After a few more torturous hours, quite a long line up of people had accumulated. Unfortunately the triage nurses were occupied with a series of trauma cases (one of which involved an OPP officer getting into a motorcycle collision with a goose because duh Canada) so things were at a standstill and people were getting restless. Eventually a poor, unsuspecting triage nurse entered the room, just starting her shift, and was immediately swarmed by people complaining about their ailments and the length of the wait. The whole thing kind of called to mind the stampede scene from The Lion King, except in this case I wasn’t openly weeping (RIP Mufasa). She tried to deal with all of the remarks being thrown at her for a few minutes, but eventually she had to silence everyone for a moment so she could actually sort stuff out. She began to ask general questions in order to figure out whom to help first, one of which was if anyone was experiencing any chest pain. Two people answered yes, and she asked them to come with her to be seen. This caused quite the uproar amongst the rowdy waiting room populace. When the nurse returned from assessing the people who were genuinely having chest pain, she was greeted by a symphony of other people claiming that they were experiencing it too. I shit you not, regardless of what they were in for, everyone suddenly had chest pain. “I sliced my finger open! But mostly I’m having chest pain.” “I sprained my ankle but man, my chest!” “My kid swallowed a piece of Lego but I’m pretty sure I’m having a heart attack.” It was like an SNL skit come to life, and it was beautiful. There’s really nothing else to this particular story, but I felt it was worth a mention nonetheless. Mostly because I could pay homage to Oprah’s Favourite Things in the title.
Not-So-Untold Story #5: Brb.
The woman at the center of this particular story holds a special place in my heart due to the consistent amusement she brought me. She was rather rotund, maybe in her mid-sixties, and entered the ER wearing a surgical mask and carrying a bag the likes of which would have made Mary Poppins jealous. She began her wait patiently enough, not making much of a fuss until after she saw a nurse for her preliminary assessment. Like most people, she was told that since her case wasn’t urgent she needed to return to the waiting area until further notice. Let me tell you, homegirl was not pleased. She sat back down, and for the first half hour or so after that didn’t do much other than periodically stare daggers at the triage rooms, but eventually she got fed up and things got interesting. She produced a thermometer from her behemoth of a purse and began to take her temperature every five minutes or so, then going to the triage rooms and requesting that the nurses, who were already incredibly busy with other patients, take her temperature with their thermometers as well. They complied a few times, but seeing no problem they kept sending her back to her seat. Since this course of action clearly wasn’t getting her admitted any faster, she adapted a new one, requesting several blankets from the nurses, swaddling herself in them, and proceeding to make a pointed effort of shivering while staring at the nurses. This went on for a while and eventually I started wondering if maybe she actually was really sick and the nurses were merely being negligent. But just as my icy heart had begun to thaw to her antics, she simply stood up and left. Seconds prior she had been in her seat trembling and emitting faint but guttural moans, but she looked downright spritely as she walked out of the place. She was called to be seen by a doctor shortly thereafter, and when she was nowhere to be found the medical team assumed she was gone for good and moved on to other patients. However, a little while later she was back in action, hobbling into the waiting room anew and informing my mother that she had just gone home for dinner. Here’s a fun fact for you: if you leave the ER while you’re waiting to be seen, you forfeit your place in the queue. This is a well-known concept, but instead of inquiring as to whether or not she had missed her turn our dear friend stuck it to the man once again and simply went to sleep in one of the waiting room chairs. I never truly understood the meaning of the word YOLO until I watched that lady snore so aggressively that her glasses fell off. It was almost poetic in its beauty.
Since I’m already well past the point of “TL;DR”, I’ll try to keep my conclusion brief. There are several valuable lessons to be learned here. Don’t jump to conclusions. Don’t leave the waiting room before being seen. If you make a big deal of your skin tag people will probably hate you. But the most important lesson I learned is that there is humour to be found in almost any situation, no matter how bleak it may seem. Or maybe things just seemed funny in retrospect because I spent the next four days on morphine. Who knows, really. That’s all folks, may your lives be ER-free into the foreseeable future!
Not-So-Untold Story #1: Nurse, Am I Dying?
Let me set the scene for you. When you enter the ER, you’re told to sit in a row of seats outside of the triage rooms and wait for a nurse to call you. With the exception of individuals in critical condition, it’s a first-come, first-served type deal. When I arrived, there were several people ahead of me, so I plunked myself down and prepared for a long wait. This waiting area is, as previously mentioned, right outside the triage rooms, so if the doors are left open and the patients speak loudly enough you can hear what they’re saying to the nurses. Or maybe I could just hear it because I was listening intently... I was bored, okay? Anyways, one man entered the triage room and began to tell the nurse about a skin abnormality that was developing on his chest. He seemed very concerned and spoke about it at great length. Eventually, the nurse asked him to lift up his shirt so she could examine it. When he did, she glanced at it for about two seconds before her face did one of these:
-____-. And here’s where things pick up. “Sir,” she said, “Technically I’m not supposed to make a diagnosis, but I can confidently tell you that what you have is a skin tag. You can go home.” Now, for those of you who have never heard of skin tags, they’re an incredibly common condition in which you randomly grow a tiny excess flap of skin somewhere on your body. They’re completely harmless and painless, and eventually they go away by themselves. In other words, THERE’S LITERALLY NO REASON TO EVER GO TO THE ER FOR A SKIN TAG. Know what the best course of action is when you notice a small, painless flap of skin on your body? Make a fucking doctor’s appointment. Or look it up on the Internet. Even WebMD will be like “lol chill bro, it’s just a skin tag!” and that says a lot since according to WebMD growing armpit hair means you have Hep C. The other people waiting to be seen included myself, who at the time was a ticking time bomb of gastrointestinal distress, several people who looked equally unwell, a cancer patient, and an old woman who I think actually may have died during Skin Tag Man’s lengthy tirade. I’m no doctor, but I’m inclined to say that a skin tag does not take priority in this case. Seriously, dude. Stay home.
Not-So-Untold Story #2: Never Judge a Book by its Cover
This story takes place during my second stint in the ER waiting room. My mother and I were mighty peeved to be back in that hellhole, so naturally our bitchitude was kicked up a notch or two. Still bitter about the whole skin tag debacle, we were incredibly dubious of any patients who looked like they were doing a little too well to warrant a hospital visit. A woman sitting a few seats up from us was dressed professionally in a pencil skirt and ruffled top, fiddling around on her Blackberry and looking like the very image of health. Naturally, we started quietly kvetching about how she “didn’t need to be in the ER” and was “taking attention away from people who needed it more”. After we fumed silently for a few minutes, we saw the woman get up with a start and start walking briskly toward the bathroom. Within a few seconds she was sprinting, and it’s then that we noticed she was leaving a trail of blood behind her. And I’m not talking a little bit of blood – suffice it to say, images of Moses parting the Red Sea came to mind. My mom and I looked at each other, eyes wide. We felt like total assholes. Everyone else in the waiting area wore a similar “oh fuck” expression, so evidently we hadn’t been the only ones judging her seemingly healthy exterior. When she came back from the bathroom she sat down, leaned against a wall, and a few minutes later started throwing up. The “oh fuck” expressions intensified and a whole lot of uncomfortable glances were exchanged. Eventually she was taken away on a stretcher and awkward small talk about “not seeing that one coming” ensued. I had the misfortune to be the only one still be stuck in the waiting room several hours later, and eventually the woman returned. She came over to my mother and I and thanked us for being kind to her during her ordeal (if you haven’t figured it out, lady problems were involved and since the waiting room was full of men we were the only ones to sympathize). She told us that after a blood transfusion and some IV fluids she was feeling much better and wished me luck with my stay. She even offered to lend me a book to help keep me busy. Needless to say, we felt AWFUL, and I’ll probably be reincarnated as a fat man’s ballsack in my next life as penance. The moral of the story: for every Skin Tag Man, there’s an Actually Needs Medical Help Woman, so don’t be a dick.
Not-So-Untold Story #3: But First, Let Me Take A Selfie
An hour or so after the departure of the woman mentioned above, a Juicy-clad mother came in with her toddler and the toddler’s nanny. All three looked totally healthy, but after what had just happened I was in absolutely no place to pass judgment. The trio sat down in the waiting area and the toddler started getting a little rowdy. His nanny picked him up and started to walk around to calm him down while the mother stood at a safe distance (because AS IF she was going to get baby germs on her velour), snapping pictures on her bejeweled iPhone. I mean, if ever there’s an opportunity for an Insta, it’s “Baby’s first visit to the ER,” right? This was comical in and of itself, but things only got better from there. The toddler (whom I shall hereby refer to as “Young Money”) started getting squirmy again so his nanny put him down on the floor, allowing him to roam freely. It was then that I noticed Young Money wasn’t wearing any shoes, or even socks for that matter. All of a sudden, the lil nugget made a beeline for the exact area where the woman I mentioned earlier had power-yacked on the floor and sat himself down. Young Money was soon joined on the floor by his faithful nanny, and Lil Mama resumed her photo taking. It was clear that everyone in the room was debating whether or not to tell them what had recently occurred right where they were sitting, but ultimately no one said a word. After a few more minutes of documented floorplay (see what I did there?), Young Money was scooped up by his mother and the three of them left without even seeing a nurse. So like… what? Are hospitals the hip new place to take one’s child for a day trip? “Yeah, I was going to take Jimmy to the zoo or the park but you know what, I think we’ll check out the ER instead!” Yeah, that seems like a totally fun and sanitary excursion to me. Maybe next time you guys can visit a brothel! THAT would be fun for the whole family.
Not-So-Untold Story #4: And YOU Get Chest Pains, And YOU Get Chest Pains…
After a few more torturous hours, quite a long line up of people had accumulated. Unfortunately the triage nurses were occupied with a series of trauma cases (one of which involved an OPP officer getting into a motorcycle collision with a goose because duh Canada) so things were at a standstill and people were getting restless. Eventually a poor, unsuspecting triage nurse entered the room, just starting her shift, and was immediately swarmed by people complaining about their ailments and the length of the wait. The whole thing kind of called to mind the stampede scene from The Lion King, except in this case I wasn’t openly weeping (RIP Mufasa). She tried to deal with all of the remarks being thrown at her for a few minutes, but eventually she had to silence everyone for a moment so she could actually sort stuff out. She began to ask general questions in order to figure out whom to help first, one of which was if anyone was experiencing any chest pain. Two people answered yes, and she asked them to come with her to be seen. This caused quite the uproar amongst the rowdy waiting room populace. When the nurse returned from assessing the people who were genuinely having chest pain, she was greeted by a symphony of other people claiming that they were experiencing it too. I shit you not, regardless of what they were in for, everyone suddenly had chest pain. “I sliced my finger open! But mostly I’m having chest pain.” “I sprained my ankle but man, my chest!” “My kid swallowed a piece of Lego but I’m pretty sure I’m having a heart attack.” It was like an SNL skit come to life, and it was beautiful. There’s really nothing else to this particular story, but I felt it was worth a mention nonetheless. Mostly because I could pay homage to Oprah’s Favourite Things in the title.
Not-So-Untold Story #5: Brb.
The woman at the center of this particular story holds a special place in my heart due to the consistent amusement she brought me. She was rather rotund, maybe in her mid-sixties, and entered the ER wearing a surgical mask and carrying a bag the likes of which would have made Mary Poppins jealous. She began her wait patiently enough, not making much of a fuss until after she saw a nurse for her preliminary assessment. Like most people, she was told that since her case wasn’t urgent she needed to return to the waiting area until further notice. Let me tell you, homegirl was not pleased. She sat back down, and for the first half hour or so after that didn’t do much other than periodically stare daggers at the triage rooms, but eventually she got fed up and things got interesting. She produced a thermometer from her behemoth of a purse and began to take her temperature every five minutes or so, then going to the triage rooms and requesting that the nurses, who were already incredibly busy with other patients, take her temperature with their thermometers as well. They complied a few times, but seeing no problem they kept sending her back to her seat. Since this course of action clearly wasn’t getting her admitted any faster, she adapted a new one, requesting several blankets from the nurses, swaddling herself in them, and proceeding to make a pointed effort of shivering while staring at the nurses. This went on for a while and eventually I started wondering if maybe she actually was really sick and the nurses were merely being negligent. But just as my icy heart had begun to thaw to her antics, she simply stood up and left. Seconds prior she had been in her seat trembling and emitting faint but guttural moans, but she looked downright spritely as she walked out of the place. She was called to be seen by a doctor shortly thereafter, and when she was nowhere to be found the medical team assumed she was gone for good and moved on to other patients. However, a little while later she was back in action, hobbling into the waiting room anew and informing my mother that she had just gone home for dinner. Here’s a fun fact for you: if you leave the ER while you’re waiting to be seen, you forfeit your place in the queue. This is a well-known concept, but instead of inquiring as to whether or not she had missed her turn our dear friend stuck it to the man once again and simply went to sleep in one of the waiting room chairs. I never truly understood the meaning of the word YOLO until I watched that lady snore so aggressively that her glasses fell off. It was almost poetic in its beauty.
Since I’m already well past the point of “TL;DR”, I’ll try to keep my conclusion brief. There are several valuable lessons to be learned here. Don’t jump to conclusions. Don’t leave the waiting room before being seen. If you make a big deal of your skin tag people will probably hate you. But the most important lesson I learned is that there is humour to be found in almost any situation, no matter how bleak it may seem. Or maybe things just seemed funny in retrospect because I spent the next four days on morphine. Who knows, really. That’s all folks, may your lives be ER-free into the foreseeable future!
Wednesday, 26 March 2014
Grade-obsession, I'm breaking up with you.
First thing’s first: I shouldn’t be writing this right now. I have four papers and two finals to write over the next seven days, and frankly I’m shitting bricks. Getting it all done, and furthermore doing a good job on it, is an incredibly daunting task, and as such the fear of failure is very real for me at the moment. If you, like me, are a university or college student, this is probably a familiar phenomenon to you. Your blood runs cold at the thought of exam season, and the threat of not measuring up to the academic standards set by you, your family, or your peers is constantly on your mind. We’re told that this is normal; it’s our job as students to absolutely exhaust our mental and physical faculties in order to perform as well as possible, and anything less is unacceptable. And while I accepted this concept for years, my university career has opened my eyes to how unhealthy it is. I'm noticing now more than ever how common academically-induced stressed is; all around me, people are tearing their hair out over exam angst or crying themselves to sleep because they just can't get a paper done, and it's truly alarming. Thus, although my workload is the reason I that I most definitely shouldn’t be writing this, it’s also the reason that I decided to say “screw it” and do it anyways.
My obsession with grades dates back seemingly as far as I can remember. Knowing the kind of person I am, I was probably engaging in competitive block-stacking in preschool and shoving self-proclaimed “superior” cursive handwriting in the faces of my grade one classmates way back when. In retrospect, yes, I was incredibly douchey, but the thing is, I couldn’t help it. My grades were a huge part of who I was and, in particular, a vital determinant of my self-worth. Getting B’s signified that I was doing just fine, A’s that I was the bomb dot com, and C’s… Well, I couldn’t bear the thought of ever receiving one. THAT’S the immense weight that I placed on my grades, and at the time it didn’t appear to have any detrimental side effects. My desire to see sparkly “Great job!” stickers on my work acted as my motivation to "get 'er done" during my primary education, and eventually translated into my pursuit of straight A’s all throughout middle school and eventually high school. My infatuation with high grades seemed to be beneficial to me for all of these years; it gave me the push I needed to perform at the top of my game. However, when I entered university I began to notice signs that my love affair with academic success might be a toxic one.
I received my very first C during my first semester at university, and, while this may be a mild exaggeration, I swear it felt like someone close to me had died. I was devastated, and I mean DEVASTATED. I cried, I ripped up papers, I tried to figure out if a miscalculation had occurred. I felt as though by failing to live up to the academic standards I had set for myself, I had failed in life. I vowed that I’d never suffer such humiliation ever again, and I was certain that if I studied hard enough I could do it. But you know what? Despite my best efforts I’ve gotten other C’s since then and, shockingly, I’ve lived to tell the tale. Yes, it’s a bummer to feel as though you’re not getting what you deserve, but slowly but surely I’ve realized that subpar grades aren’t the end of the world. Not by a long shot.
This will likely sound contrived since I know it’s been discussed by countless others before me, but I really do think that our pursuit of academic success in the superficial sense is impeding our ability to truly learn. We go to our classes with two goals in mind: obtain a credit and maintain a good GPA in order to go on to bigger and better things post-graduation. It’s an automatic system; we don’t absorb the information we’re presented with beyond what is needed to succeed on papers and exams. We go to school to “learn”, but all we’re really “learning” is how to recite information and reflect on concepts only insofar as we’re told to. Really, ask yourself: when was the last time you went to a lecture and truly listened? I don’t mean listening in the sense of passively jotting down whatever your professor says while trying not to doze off. I mean being actively engaged in what they’re saying and reflecting on it by your own free will, perhaps (gasp!) even enjoying it. I know that in my case, at least, experiences like that are few and far between. It’s not even that I don’t care for the material I’m being taught; I’m taking subjects that in any other context I’d be fascinated by, but since the end goal of a 4.0 is always in the forefront of my mind I’m too dead-set on writing down everything that might help me on an exam to pause and actually PROCESS what I’m hearing. Does this sort of apathetic learning truly count as education?
Now, I’m sure someone will be quick to point out that education seems pretty damn futile if you don’t get good grades and a degree. University is a huge investment of time and money that you simply can’t get back, so yes, you’re being pretty dumb if you’re not trying to succeed. However, I firmly believe that there’s so much more to education than simply meeting the requirements to graduate; the experiences you have along the way are equally, perhaps even more, important. Think of it this way: when you’re out competing in the job market, maybe having high grades will be what scores you an interview. However, if in the process of obtaining these grades you went through school on autopilot, there’s a good chance that you may have missed out on valuable knowledge and experience that could enable you to land the job over other candidates or to keep it once it’s yours. Perhaps this line of thought is naïve of me, as I’m well aware of the highly competitive nature of today’s professional world. But it just seems wrong that someone’s grades should count for so much when they’re only one of many components that make up one’s educational experience.
Even more troubling to me is the extent to which our academic standings determine our self-worth. While I don’t have any statistics or “expert reports” to back this statement up, it seems as though our generation is more plagued by the need-to-succeed virus than any of our predecessors. I don’t know if it’s our fault, our parents’ fault, our educational system’s fault, or the fault of society as a whole, but many of the diverse traits that can define someone’s success have slipped by the wayside in favour of the idea that smarts are what determine your future. Our traditional intelligence is fostered, evaluated and ranked all throughout our lives, while our emotional intelligence, practical intelligence, artistic intelligence, kinesthetic intelligence and everything in between are neglected and seen as less valuable. And, pun somewhat intended, I think that’s really stupid. A person can’t be defined by their ability to write a poem or solve a difficult equation, so it doesn’t make sense for us to determine so much of who we are based on how we measure up in only these areas. As the adage goes, it’s like judging a fish on their ability to ride a bicycle. Evidently they’re not going to perform too well, but when you see them swim you realize just how talented they are.
Yes, my grades have gone downhill since I entered the post-secondary world. However, if I were to give myself a grade in life, I’d say that I’ve made significant improvements. Forcing myself to stop evaluating my self-worth as a function of my GPA has made me realize that there’s a lot more to who I am than just academics, and, as cheesy as this will undeniably sound, I’ve grown a lot as a person because of it. I’m hoping that reading this will help you to realize that you too are so much more than a red pen-mark at the top of an exam booklet; you’re multifaceted, unique and awesome, and no grade can do that justice. So next time you find yourself freaking out over a test that didn’t go too well, remember that it doesn’t define you. Shit happens, and it doesn’t make you any less of a person! Just try your best, because in the end that’s what matters the most. Now, with that being said, I have to go try my best to get through this next week of evaluations, so I’ll wrap it up: I wish you all the utmost luck on your finals, and regardless of their outcomes you’ll all be receiving A+’s in my heart.
My obsession with grades dates back seemingly as far as I can remember. Knowing the kind of person I am, I was probably engaging in competitive block-stacking in preschool and shoving self-proclaimed “superior” cursive handwriting in the faces of my grade one classmates way back when. In retrospect, yes, I was incredibly douchey, but the thing is, I couldn’t help it. My grades were a huge part of who I was and, in particular, a vital determinant of my self-worth. Getting B’s signified that I was doing just fine, A’s that I was the bomb dot com, and C’s… Well, I couldn’t bear the thought of ever receiving one. THAT’S the immense weight that I placed on my grades, and at the time it didn’t appear to have any detrimental side effects. My desire to see sparkly “Great job!” stickers on my work acted as my motivation to "get 'er done" during my primary education, and eventually translated into my pursuit of straight A’s all throughout middle school and eventually high school. My infatuation with high grades seemed to be beneficial to me for all of these years; it gave me the push I needed to perform at the top of my game. However, when I entered university I began to notice signs that my love affair with academic success might be a toxic one.
I received my very first C during my first semester at university, and, while this may be a mild exaggeration, I swear it felt like someone close to me had died. I was devastated, and I mean DEVASTATED. I cried, I ripped up papers, I tried to figure out if a miscalculation had occurred. I felt as though by failing to live up to the academic standards I had set for myself, I had failed in life. I vowed that I’d never suffer such humiliation ever again, and I was certain that if I studied hard enough I could do it. But you know what? Despite my best efforts I’ve gotten other C’s since then and, shockingly, I’ve lived to tell the tale. Yes, it’s a bummer to feel as though you’re not getting what you deserve, but slowly but surely I’ve realized that subpar grades aren’t the end of the world. Not by a long shot.
This will likely sound contrived since I know it’s been discussed by countless others before me, but I really do think that our pursuit of academic success in the superficial sense is impeding our ability to truly learn. We go to our classes with two goals in mind: obtain a credit and maintain a good GPA in order to go on to bigger and better things post-graduation. It’s an automatic system; we don’t absorb the information we’re presented with beyond what is needed to succeed on papers and exams. We go to school to “learn”, but all we’re really “learning” is how to recite information and reflect on concepts only insofar as we’re told to. Really, ask yourself: when was the last time you went to a lecture and truly listened? I don’t mean listening in the sense of passively jotting down whatever your professor says while trying not to doze off. I mean being actively engaged in what they’re saying and reflecting on it by your own free will, perhaps (gasp!) even enjoying it. I know that in my case, at least, experiences like that are few and far between. It’s not even that I don’t care for the material I’m being taught; I’m taking subjects that in any other context I’d be fascinated by, but since the end goal of a 4.0 is always in the forefront of my mind I’m too dead-set on writing down everything that might help me on an exam to pause and actually PROCESS what I’m hearing. Does this sort of apathetic learning truly count as education?
Now, I’m sure someone will be quick to point out that education seems pretty damn futile if you don’t get good grades and a degree. University is a huge investment of time and money that you simply can’t get back, so yes, you’re being pretty dumb if you’re not trying to succeed. However, I firmly believe that there’s so much more to education than simply meeting the requirements to graduate; the experiences you have along the way are equally, perhaps even more, important. Think of it this way: when you’re out competing in the job market, maybe having high grades will be what scores you an interview. However, if in the process of obtaining these grades you went through school on autopilot, there’s a good chance that you may have missed out on valuable knowledge and experience that could enable you to land the job over other candidates or to keep it once it’s yours. Perhaps this line of thought is naïve of me, as I’m well aware of the highly competitive nature of today’s professional world. But it just seems wrong that someone’s grades should count for so much when they’re only one of many components that make up one’s educational experience.
Even more troubling to me is the extent to which our academic standings determine our self-worth. While I don’t have any statistics or “expert reports” to back this statement up, it seems as though our generation is more plagued by the need-to-succeed virus than any of our predecessors. I don’t know if it’s our fault, our parents’ fault, our educational system’s fault, or the fault of society as a whole, but many of the diverse traits that can define someone’s success have slipped by the wayside in favour of the idea that smarts are what determine your future. Our traditional intelligence is fostered, evaluated and ranked all throughout our lives, while our emotional intelligence, practical intelligence, artistic intelligence, kinesthetic intelligence and everything in between are neglected and seen as less valuable. And, pun somewhat intended, I think that’s really stupid. A person can’t be defined by their ability to write a poem or solve a difficult equation, so it doesn’t make sense for us to determine so much of who we are based on how we measure up in only these areas. As the adage goes, it’s like judging a fish on their ability to ride a bicycle. Evidently they’re not going to perform too well, but when you see them swim you realize just how talented they are.
Yes, my grades have gone downhill since I entered the post-secondary world. However, if I were to give myself a grade in life, I’d say that I’ve made significant improvements. Forcing myself to stop evaluating my self-worth as a function of my GPA has made me realize that there’s a lot more to who I am than just academics, and, as cheesy as this will undeniably sound, I’ve grown a lot as a person because of it. I’m hoping that reading this will help you to realize that you too are so much more than a red pen-mark at the top of an exam booklet; you’re multifaceted, unique and awesome, and no grade can do that justice. So next time you find yourself freaking out over a test that didn’t go too well, remember that it doesn’t define you. Shit happens, and it doesn’t make you any less of a person! Just try your best, because in the end that’s what matters the most. Now, with that being said, I have to go try my best to get through this next week of evaluations, so I’ll wrap it up: I wish you all the utmost luck on your finals, and regardless of their outcomes you’ll all be receiving A+’s in my heart.
Wednesday, 26 February 2014
Men are like bras.
I’ve had many a strange epiphany in my life. From unearthing my resemblance to Justin Bieber to discovering the fact that people genuinely DO look like their dogs, I’m essentially the Queen of Noticing Weird Shit About the World. That being said, today brought about yet another one of my bizarre realizations: men are like bras. Yep, you heard me. Men are like bras. Admittedly, it’s one of the weirder ideas to spiral forth from the annexes of my brain, but I swear it totally makes sense when you think about it. My journey toward this enlightened idea began when I was getting dressed this morning. I hadn’t had my coffee yet and as such was approximately as mentally functional as a pinecone, so when I put on my (particularly comfortable) bra I groggily thought to myself that it felt like wearing a hug. A boob-hug. I then mentally remarked that bras would make good boyfriends, because yes, I make jokes in my head. And I laugh at them. Take me for what I am. Anyways, back to my anecdote. As the day progressed, I found that the bra-boyfriend idea kept popping into my head over and over again, so when I found my mind wandering during a particularly dry lecture it was the first thing on my thought-docket. That’s when the parallels came rushing in. I swear, bras may be man’s collective spirit-animal; the similarities are undeniable! Don’t believe me? Fortunately for you, I wrote them all down instead of taking notes (which is awkward considering that the person sitting next to me kept staring at my screen, but hey, at least I wasn’t viewing a dick pic on my phone like that guy in my Psych 101 class last year). Read on, and prepare for your mind to be BLOWN!
Similarity #1: Men and bras both come in all different shapes, sizes and colours.
A-cups. D-cups. Sports bras. Push-ups. Cotton. Lace. Ribbon. While men and bras may not bear a physical resemblance to one another or share a similar material-makeup, both are incredibly diverse groups. No two men are exactly alike, and the same can be said for bras (unless they’re manufactured that meticulously, which I doubt they are).
Similarity #2: Women have different types.
As with the men they date, every woman has a unique set of wants and needs when it comes to her bras. You have to experiment a bit and try on different types before you find the one that’s right for you, and chances are that you’ll make some poor choices along the way. However, the trial and error is all worth it because it enables you to someday find true (double-cup) love.
Similarity #3: Women avoid them until puberty hits.
The magic of pubescence brings about both the need for romantic attention and the need for a garment that prevents nips-ahoy debacles. Is it a coincidence that the cooties-phase ends at the same time that the boobies-phase begins? I think not.
Similarity #4: Some women just don’t like them.
Some ladies will never like men, and some ladies will never like bras. While some people may frown upon these facts, they’re ultimately both personal things that should be respected. So fuck the haters; you do you, gurls, whether that means embracing your sexuality or simply free-boobing every once in awhile. (Sidenote: taking off your bra at the end of a long day is akin to every female’s occasional male-free sabbatical.)
Similarity #5: It’s great if they’re nice to look at, but there are more important things.
Pretty bras are awesome. So are pretty boys. But the fact of the matter is that there are more vital things at play. If a bra is nice-looking but serves no purpose beyond that, what’s the point? Don’t waste your money. The same goes for handsome gents who lack the personality to back it up, but with time replacing money. Beauty is meaningless without substance, so don’t be drawn in by baseless lust.
Similarity #6: The best ones are supportive.
Bras gained the nickname of “over-the-shoulder boulder-holders” for a good reason: the right ones keep everything in place regardless of what you’re doing. Support is therefore vital to determining a bra’s quality, which can also be said for men. No woman should ever be with a man who doesn’t support her in all of her endeavors; you don’t need someone acting like a bandeau when you really need thick straps and a sturdy underwire, after all.
Similarity #7: They should never hurt you.
If a bra is causing you pain, you need to get rid of it. The same goes for a guy. Sure, it’s okay if they bother you every once in awhile (a twisted strap, an argument about who controls the remote…) but ultimately you should feel comfortable with them. The second that comfort disappears for a prolonged period of time and is replaced by ceaseless hurt, it’s time to chuck ‘em and find something better.
Similarity #8: They need to give you the right amount of space.
Finding the right band size is vital to purchasing a properly fitted bra. You need to ensure that it’s not too tight or too loose, and offers just the right amount of breathing room. This balance also needs to be found in relationships; no one wants to be smothered or abandoned by their significant other, and instead must strive for a happy medium. Several sets of hooks help in both cases.
Similarity #9: Don’t show them off in inappropriate ways.
No one likes to witness excessive PDA, whether it’s with a boyfriend or a bra. It’s more than okay to be happy with both, but it’s not so okay to aggressively rub them in people’s faces. The moral of the story here? Keep your clothes on in both cases.
Similarity #10: Their worlds revolve around boobs.
Bras spend all day cupping a pair of boobs. Men WISH they could spend all day cupping a pair of boobs. Need I say more?
Similarity #11: You shouldn’t put them in the laundry machine.
This may come as a surprise to you, but you shouldn’t put bras OR boys in the laundry machine. It warps their shape! I learned the hard way, trust me. With, um, a bra, of course… Ahem.
So, do you believe me now? I hope so, because I’m thinking of founding a new field of thought called philbrasophy or publishing a relationship guide called “Find a Dude by Minding Your Boobs” and I’m going to need a fanbase. If you’re still unconvinced, here’s an M. Night Shyamalan-level plot twist that might get your gears going: guys often refer to each other as “bro”. Sometimes, the pronunciation is changed so that it sounds like… Wait for it… “BRA”. Yeah. YEAH. Drink. That. In. Anyways, I’m off to the sweat lodges in search of my next great epiphany. Thanks for listening to me spit(bra)lling, and keep on keepin’ (bra)n boys and girls! ... It's been a long day, I'm sorry.
Monday, 3 February 2014
My take on "NekNominations"
The Cinnamon Challenge. The Milk Challenge. The Snort-A-Condom-Up-Your-Nose-And-Extract-It-Through-Your-Mouth-While-Simultaneously-Losing-Any-Trace-Of-Dignity-You’ve-Ever-Had Challenge (it’s a real thing, I swear). Let’s face it: our generation LOVES a good challenge, whatever said challenge may happen to entail. The newest of these challenge to sweep the interweb is being referred to as “NekNominations”. For those of you who may not have heard about the fine art of NekNominating, I’ll explain. But first, I just want to inform you that my MOTHER knows what NekNominations are so she’s officially hipper than you. Which honestly isn’t that offensive since the woman was singing “Blurred Lines” before I even knew it existed, but that’s irrelevant. Anyways, when I first heard about NekNominations, I assumed that they had something to do with stripping down to your OG onesie (my cooler way of saying “birthday suit”, obviously) since my urban sources have informed me that kids these days are using “nekkid” as a substitute for nude (poor spelling is very trendy right now). However, I was soon proven wrong when a vast bounty of videos touting titles such as “My NekNomination” started popping up all over social media. After thorough research, I’ve determined that the NekNomination process is as follows: An individual who is NekNominated must chug some sort of alcohol, film it, and include a nomination for someone else to do the same at the end of it. The process then begins anew with the person they nominated, and so on and so forth. Simple enough. Now, let’s move on to the nitty gritty of it.
As with pretty much everything ever, people are bound to start trying to up the ante. In the context of NekNominations, this has taken the form of drinking progressively more cringe-worthy concoctions of liquor, drinking greater amounts of said liquor, and/or performing the challenge in some sort of new, crazy way. Admittedly, this has resulted in some hilarious videos (a strange number of which have involved nudity, so technically I wasn’t completely wrong!). But it has also resulted in some that make me incredibly nervous. People have been downing more alcohol than they would drink over the course of an entire night in a matter of seconds, and there’s no way that’s a good idea (even if you’re Lindsay Lohan and your body shuts down if your blood alcohol level dips below the legal limit). As I’m sure you know if you’ve been following the trend, NekNominations have already resulted in two casualties, both young men in Ireland who left behind devastated family and friends simply because they wanted to be the very best (no Pokemon reference intended). That’s what really freaks me out. It’s human nature to want to beat out the competition, so despite the tragedies that have already occurred it’s likely that people are going to continue the trend even if it means ignoring their best judgment.
On the topic of “judgment”, my other qualm with NekNominations is the undeniable aspect of peer pressure involved. I know, I know, I sound like a middle school teacher, but it’s true. Nominees experience immense pressure to complete the challenge or else risk their reputation. Pardon the gender stereotyping, but I think this threat is particularly pertinent to guys as their failure to comply with something their friends have dared them to do seems like a blow to their masculinity. Over the past 24 hours alone I’ve heard several guys incite their friends to do the challenge by calling them “pussies”, and nominees themselves saying that they think the whole thing is stupid but that they feel a sense of obligation to do it in order to prove their manliness. This really grinds my gears. NO ONE should feel at all forced to do something that they don’t want to, especially in cases like this where there is a strong risk component. Beyond the obvious threat the challenge poses to one’s health and safety, there’s the additional danger of the video being seen by future employers or other peers held in high regard. Once things are on the Internet, they’re on there for good. So with this in mind, why are people being judged for taking a pass? If you feel inclined to give it a try, be my guest, but don’t give other people shit for not wanting to do the same. And to you men who are worried that saying no will emasculate you? It takes balls to ignore what your “bros” are saying and do your own thing, so you should be proud of yourself! Ladies too. No one should be allowed to think less of you just because you don’t want to do something that they want you to do. In the wise words of Albus Dumbledore, it takes a great deal of courage to stand up to your enemies, but a great deal more to stand up to your friends.
With all of that being said, I’m fully aware that my opinion likely isn’t going to have much of an impact on the longevity of the trend. When these sorts of things go viral, they’re pretty damn invincible for a while and this will probably be the case with NekNominations. As I said earlier, the videos CAN be entertaining, so if it’s something you really want to do I’m not going to stop you. I will, however, ask that you do the following things:
1. Don’t be stupid.
2. Know your limit and play within it.
3. Take FULL control of your privacy settings. Better yet, don’t post the video on social media at all and show it to people in person if at all possible. If you wouldn’t want potential employers to see it, it really isn’t something you should share with the entire Internet.
4. Entertainment is doing something funny or creative. Entertainment is not doing something risky that could have a severely negative impact on your future.
5. Just because you can drink 10 shots in a night doesn’t mean you can drink ten shots in 30 seconds (nor should you). That’s not how alcohol works.
6. Don’t do anything that makes you uncomfortable or puts you in danger. Safety first, kids!
7. Don’t get mad at the person you nominate if they don’t want to do it. They didn’t ask to be nominated, and you need to respect that. Unless they did ask, in which case you should probably find more honest friends.
8. Once more, for emphasis: DON’T BE STUPID.
Alright, that’s about all I have to say about this topic. I apologize if I have come across as a party pooper, but I felt the need to give my 50 Cents (subtle reference to the “rap game” to make myself seem cooler and decrease my party pooper status, aww yeaaahh). I’ll leave you all to your virtual shenanigans now as long as you promise me you’ll be safe. Do you promise?
***Interlude to allow readers to make promise***
Awesome! I feel like Dora the Explorer right now, making people answer me even when I’m not in the room and whatnot. This is true power. Okay, I’m done. Stay in school, don’t do drugs, say no to peer pressure, etc etc.
As with pretty much everything ever, people are bound to start trying to up the ante. In the context of NekNominations, this has taken the form of drinking progressively more cringe-worthy concoctions of liquor, drinking greater amounts of said liquor, and/or performing the challenge in some sort of new, crazy way. Admittedly, this has resulted in some hilarious videos (a strange number of which have involved nudity, so technically I wasn’t completely wrong!). But it has also resulted in some that make me incredibly nervous. People have been downing more alcohol than they would drink over the course of an entire night in a matter of seconds, and there’s no way that’s a good idea (even if you’re Lindsay Lohan and your body shuts down if your blood alcohol level dips below the legal limit). As I’m sure you know if you’ve been following the trend, NekNominations have already resulted in two casualties, both young men in Ireland who left behind devastated family and friends simply because they wanted to be the very best (no Pokemon reference intended). That’s what really freaks me out. It’s human nature to want to beat out the competition, so despite the tragedies that have already occurred it’s likely that people are going to continue the trend even if it means ignoring their best judgment.
On the topic of “judgment”, my other qualm with NekNominations is the undeniable aspect of peer pressure involved. I know, I know, I sound like a middle school teacher, but it’s true. Nominees experience immense pressure to complete the challenge or else risk their reputation. Pardon the gender stereotyping, but I think this threat is particularly pertinent to guys as their failure to comply with something their friends have dared them to do seems like a blow to their masculinity. Over the past 24 hours alone I’ve heard several guys incite their friends to do the challenge by calling them “pussies”, and nominees themselves saying that they think the whole thing is stupid but that they feel a sense of obligation to do it in order to prove their manliness. This really grinds my gears. NO ONE should feel at all forced to do something that they don’t want to, especially in cases like this where there is a strong risk component. Beyond the obvious threat the challenge poses to one’s health and safety, there’s the additional danger of the video being seen by future employers or other peers held in high regard. Once things are on the Internet, they’re on there for good. So with this in mind, why are people being judged for taking a pass? If you feel inclined to give it a try, be my guest, but don’t give other people shit for not wanting to do the same. And to you men who are worried that saying no will emasculate you? It takes balls to ignore what your “bros” are saying and do your own thing, so you should be proud of yourself! Ladies too. No one should be allowed to think less of you just because you don’t want to do something that they want you to do. In the wise words of Albus Dumbledore, it takes a great deal of courage to stand up to your enemies, but a great deal more to stand up to your friends.
With all of that being said, I’m fully aware that my opinion likely isn’t going to have much of an impact on the longevity of the trend. When these sorts of things go viral, they’re pretty damn invincible for a while and this will probably be the case with NekNominations. As I said earlier, the videos CAN be entertaining, so if it’s something you really want to do I’m not going to stop you. I will, however, ask that you do the following things:
1. Don’t be stupid.
2. Know your limit and play within it.
3. Take FULL control of your privacy settings. Better yet, don’t post the video on social media at all and show it to people in person if at all possible. If you wouldn’t want potential employers to see it, it really isn’t something you should share with the entire Internet.
4. Entertainment is doing something funny or creative. Entertainment is not doing something risky that could have a severely negative impact on your future.
5. Just because you can drink 10 shots in a night doesn’t mean you can drink ten shots in 30 seconds (nor should you). That’s not how alcohol works.
6. Don’t do anything that makes you uncomfortable or puts you in danger. Safety first, kids!
7. Don’t get mad at the person you nominate if they don’t want to do it. They didn’t ask to be nominated, and you need to respect that. Unless they did ask, in which case you should probably find more honest friends.
8. Once more, for emphasis: DON’T BE STUPID.
Alright, that’s about all I have to say about this topic. I apologize if I have come across as a party pooper, but I felt the need to give my 50 Cents (subtle reference to the “rap game” to make myself seem cooler and decrease my party pooper status, aww yeaaahh). I’ll leave you all to your virtual shenanigans now as long as you promise me you’ll be safe. Do you promise?
***Interlude to allow readers to make promise***
Awesome! I feel like Dora the Explorer right now, making people answer me even when I’m not in the room and whatnot. This is true power. Okay, I’m done. Stay in school, don’t do drugs, say no to peer pressure, etc etc.
Tuesday, 24 December 2013
(Probably Politically Incorrect and/or Mildly Offensive) Christmas Fun Facts!
It’s the most wonderful time of the year again, boys and girls! LOL JK, my December thus far has consisted of back-to-back exams, overactive sweat glands whilst shopping for presents (a parka was a poor choice… as was milk) and three days without power or heat at home due to a HUGE ice storm. Seriously. What. The. Fuck. Needless to say, I’ve been feeling far less festive this year than I usually do during the holiday season. Normally I would have been skipping around the house doing my best Mariah-Carey-in-All-I-Want-For-Christmas-Is-You vocal impersonation all day every day for the past week, but frankly I’ve lost my motivation this year. But I’m not old and/or arthritic enough to be Scroogey, so earlier this evening I decided that something must be done in order to regain my spirit before The Big Day. Naturally, being the kind of gal that I am, I figured that the best way to accomplish this was to do what I do best: write things that I think are funny, spam the internet with them, and hope that like three people get a mild chuckle out of it. I decided to go with the classic format of “fun facts that I may or may not have made up” (okay, I made all of them up) and to make the focus of said facts CHRISTMAS! Is focusing only on Christmas politically incorrect? Probably. But do you know what would be more politically incorrect? Me trying to make up fun facts about holidays I know nothing about. Boom. Stick that in your candy cane and smoke it. I’m doing the world a favour, really! Alright, it’s go time. Grab yourself some eggnog and read on.
Christmas Fact #1: Mary and Joseph once appeared on an unreleased episode of Maury Povich. Joseph wasn’t all that surprised to discover that he wasn’t the father. He was, however, surprised to discover that his homie Tyrone was.
Christmas Fact #2: No child goes to sleep with visions of sugar plums dancing through their head on Christmas Eve, nor do any of them know what a sugar plum is. Heck, I don’t even know what a sugar plum is. Seriously. Someone please tell me.
Christmas Fact #3: 78% of carolers have no idea how to pronounce “Wenceslas”.
Christmas Fact #4: The traditional Christmas story makes it clear that the shepherds knew where to find Baby Jesus because they were guided by a choir of angels. However, the story neglects to mention that said angels were of the Victoria’s Secret variety and that the shepherds were only following them because… well, wouldn’t you?
Christmas Fact #5: A “Santa Claus” is a form of speech comprised entirely of red, white, and green letters.
Christmas Fact #6: Liquor sales increase exponentially during the holiday season. While it’s generally chalked up to the fact that people often give booze as a gift, in reality it’s due to people needing to be drunk in order to cope with their extended families for prolonged periods of time.
Christmas Fact #7: It is projected that by the year 2025, the phrase “Happy Holidays!” will be deemed politically incorrect and “Neutral Christmukwaamadiwali” will take its place.
Christmas Fact #8: Santa’s elves once unionized in order to protest unpaid overtime shifts during the weeks leading up to Christmas. It was the jolliest, most adorable strike ever!
Christmas Fact #9: Immediately after Joseph asked Mary what she thought they should name their son, she yelled out “JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!” because epidurals weren’t a thing back then and popping a kid out is a wee bit painful from what I hear. He misinterpreted her cry as her actual response, and the rest is history.
Christmas Fact #10: Everyone is afraid that they’ll unintentionally offend someone while singing the line “make the yuletide gay”.
Christmas Fact #11: On that note, there’s a made-for-TV movie called “Make the Yuletide Gay” about an out-and-proud college student wrestling with the decision of whether or not to reveal his true sexuality to his parents over the Christmas break. Yep. That’s a thing. And it’s not even porn!
Christmas Fact #12: Many religious historians are quick to point out that Jesus’ birthday wasn’t even in the winter. Everyone else is quick to point out that literally no one gives a shit.
Christmas Fact #13: The real reason the Grinch’s heart grew so damn big is because he listened to Michael Buble’s Christmas album. Man, that guy can SING.
Christmas Fact #14: Contrary to popular belief, frankincense is NOT Frankenstein’s street-savvy cousin.
Christmas Fact #15: 84% of people hate getting socks as a gift, but 100% of Grandma’s will be offended if you don’t pretend that they’re the best thing in the world.
Christmas Fact #16: One of Santa’s reindeer was shot down by Sarah Palin while flying over Alaska. The majestic creature we know as “Blitzen” is actually an imported replacement named “Juan”. Please leave out jalapeños for his benefit; he ain’t about that carrot life.
BONUS (HANUKKAH!) FACT: The Hanukkah story centers on a one-day supply of fuel miraculously burning for eight whole days instead. Sadly, it would have been far more miraculous if an iPhone battery had lasted that long… I’m looking at you, Apple.
Well, that’s it! I hope my feeble attempts at wit helped to raise your holiday spirit a bit, regardless of what you’ll be celebrating (or have already celebrated!) this year. And if they didn’t, don’t worry: I asked Santa to bring me a better sense of humour this year, and the man is pretty magical so I have a feeling he’ll come through for me. Maybe if I leave out jalapenos for Juan I’ll get extra special treatment… It’s definitely worth a shot. Anyways, I’m off to listen to some Bubs and/or watch “Make the Yuletide Gay”. Either way, I’ll probably end up emotionally sobbing over some gingerbread. A Neutral Christmukwaamadiwali to all, and to all a good night!
Tuesday, 10 December 2013
Victoria's Dirty Little Secret
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was simultaneous elating and depressing; riveting, yet repulsive. It was the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it’s that time of the year again. At 10 o’clock this evening, TVs everywhere will be displaying a parade of leggy Heidi Klum and Miranda Kerr-types strutting their stuff in intricately bedazzled bras on an equally sparkly runway. Girls everywhere will bemoan their envy of Adriana Lima, guys will drool over “boobies”, and a grand ol’ time will be had by all. What started out as nothing but a marketing strategy from one of the world’s largest lingerie companies has evolved into an annual cultural staple in North America; every year it produces more hype and gains new viewers. Superficially, this is fair enough; I mean, girls love pretty underwear and guys love girls in pretty underwear. What’s the harm in that? If it only it were that simple. Like a new medication, the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show can come with some pretty serious side effects and they shouldn’t be ignored.
Up until this year, I saw no problem in engaging in the classic self-berating that shows up on social media whenever the fashion show airs. It’s incredibly hard to stare at women who are perceived as “perfect” by the majority of one’s peers and not to feel a little down on yourself. These women appear to have it all; big boobs, tiny waists, washboard abs, perky butts, and legs that go on for days. Not having these things makes it easy to feel inferior, and so begins a chain of statements of self-loathing. Sharing these negative thoughts creates a bonding platform for girls, and I used to think it was a fun, “we’re all in this together!” kind of activity. But today, I saw something on Twitter and it flipped a switch within me. I was scrolling through my feed, and someone I follow posted a picture of the “Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show Drinking Game.” I clicked on it, and while some of the rules were funny (ie. “Take a shot every time you have a lesbian tendency!”) others weren’t in the slightest. “Drink every time you touch your chest and shed a tear.” “Drink every time you get up and look at yourself in the mirror and ask “God, why?” “Drink every time you’re motivated to hit the gym and/or develop an eating disorder.” Um… Something is wrong with this picture. Surely I can’t be the only one who sees it. Even more troubling is the fact that this kind of stuff is all over the internet. “Ugh, VS Fashion Show tonight, never eating again!” “You’d need like four of these girls to make up one me.” “The Angels make me hate my life.” The list goes on. Self-hate has become a very warped cultural phenomenon associated with the fashion show, and I think it’s time for a reality check.
We all need to stop comparing ourselves to these unattainable ideals. No one looks like these women! These women don’t even look like these women! They go through hours of hair and makeup, are decked out with strategic padding and tape, and that’s just before all of the filtered lighting and flattering camera angles. Yes, they look beautiful, and it’s okay to think that as long as you keep in mind that a lot of it is an illusion and you remember one important thing: YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL TOO! Yes, I’m talking to you! You are absolutely gorgeous. What you perceive to be flaws make you unique, and you shouldn’t put yourself down for them. Differences are beautiful. Flaws are beautiful. YOU are beautiful. It makes me so sad that we’ve all developed this gross perception that we need to fit into some perfect mold in order to be considered attractive. I’m as guilty of it as anyone; if you asked me 10 things I would change about myself, I could list them off in a matter of seconds. But I’m slowly starting to realize that this thought pattern isn’t okay. Hating your body is taking the easy way out; noticing your flaws is a piece of cake, but accepting them is incredibly challenging. It’s truly messed up, when you think about it, so we really need to try to change the way we see ourselves. If we could just look at our own bodies with the same admiration that we have for models, we’d be so much happier AND healthier. Let’s pay our friends compliments instead of bonding over our jiggly thighs and A-cups. Let’s look in the mirror and see what we love about ourselves rather than what we hate. Let’s remind ourselves not to compare ourselves to other women when we admire their beauty, and acknowledge that we too are beautiful in our own way.
They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. This is traditionally interpreted as “everyone finds beauty in different things”, but it means something different to me. I think that beauty is a mindset. We constantly scrutinize ourselves and others, scanning for every possible flaw, and every time we do this we allow negativity to cloud our vision. In this way, negative thinking makes finding beauty as challenging as finding something in a dark room. Sure, you might stumble onto it, but it would be a hell of a lot easier to do if you just turned on the light. So, I ask you, why don’t we just turn on the lights? Clear the negativity from our eyes and find the beauty we couldn’t see before? It seems like a damn good solution to me! Now, I’m not saying the change will be easy or instantaneous. There will most definitely be times when the positivity-bulb will flicker or the switch will get stuck on “Off”. But we still need to make the effort to think differently, since we all deserve to have a better opinion of ourselves. Anyways, I’m going to go watch the Fashion Show now. I’ll probably feel bad about myself every once in a while. It’s inevitable. But this year, I’m going to keep reminding myself that I shouldn’t think that way, and you should do the same. You know why? Because YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL! And you can’t let yourself forget that!
Up until this year, I saw no problem in engaging in the classic self-berating that shows up on social media whenever the fashion show airs. It’s incredibly hard to stare at women who are perceived as “perfect” by the majority of one’s peers and not to feel a little down on yourself. These women appear to have it all; big boobs, tiny waists, washboard abs, perky butts, and legs that go on for days. Not having these things makes it easy to feel inferior, and so begins a chain of statements of self-loathing. Sharing these negative thoughts creates a bonding platform for girls, and I used to think it was a fun, “we’re all in this together!” kind of activity. But today, I saw something on Twitter and it flipped a switch within me. I was scrolling through my feed, and someone I follow posted a picture of the “Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show Drinking Game.” I clicked on it, and while some of the rules were funny (ie. “Take a shot every time you have a lesbian tendency!”) others weren’t in the slightest. “Drink every time you touch your chest and shed a tear.” “Drink every time you get up and look at yourself in the mirror and ask “God, why?” “Drink every time you’re motivated to hit the gym and/or develop an eating disorder.” Um… Something is wrong with this picture. Surely I can’t be the only one who sees it. Even more troubling is the fact that this kind of stuff is all over the internet. “Ugh, VS Fashion Show tonight, never eating again!” “You’d need like four of these girls to make up one me.” “The Angels make me hate my life.” The list goes on. Self-hate has become a very warped cultural phenomenon associated with the fashion show, and I think it’s time for a reality check.
We all need to stop comparing ourselves to these unattainable ideals. No one looks like these women! These women don’t even look like these women! They go through hours of hair and makeup, are decked out with strategic padding and tape, and that’s just before all of the filtered lighting and flattering camera angles. Yes, they look beautiful, and it’s okay to think that as long as you keep in mind that a lot of it is an illusion and you remember one important thing: YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL TOO! Yes, I’m talking to you! You are absolutely gorgeous. What you perceive to be flaws make you unique, and you shouldn’t put yourself down for them. Differences are beautiful. Flaws are beautiful. YOU are beautiful. It makes me so sad that we’ve all developed this gross perception that we need to fit into some perfect mold in order to be considered attractive. I’m as guilty of it as anyone; if you asked me 10 things I would change about myself, I could list them off in a matter of seconds. But I’m slowly starting to realize that this thought pattern isn’t okay. Hating your body is taking the easy way out; noticing your flaws is a piece of cake, but accepting them is incredibly challenging. It’s truly messed up, when you think about it, so we really need to try to change the way we see ourselves. If we could just look at our own bodies with the same admiration that we have for models, we’d be so much happier AND healthier. Let’s pay our friends compliments instead of bonding over our jiggly thighs and A-cups. Let’s look in the mirror and see what we love about ourselves rather than what we hate. Let’s remind ourselves not to compare ourselves to other women when we admire their beauty, and acknowledge that we too are beautiful in our own way.
They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. This is traditionally interpreted as “everyone finds beauty in different things”, but it means something different to me. I think that beauty is a mindset. We constantly scrutinize ourselves and others, scanning for every possible flaw, and every time we do this we allow negativity to cloud our vision. In this way, negative thinking makes finding beauty as challenging as finding something in a dark room. Sure, you might stumble onto it, but it would be a hell of a lot easier to do if you just turned on the light. So, I ask you, why don’t we just turn on the lights? Clear the negativity from our eyes and find the beauty we couldn’t see before? It seems like a damn good solution to me! Now, I’m not saying the change will be easy or instantaneous. There will most definitely be times when the positivity-bulb will flicker or the switch will get stuck on “Off”. But we still need to make the effort to think differently, since we all deserve to have a better opinion of ourselves. Anyways, I’m going to go watch the Fashion Show now. I’ll probably feel bad about myself every once in a while. It’s inevitable. But this year, I’m going to keep reminding myself that I shouldn’t think that way, and you should do the same. You know why? Because YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL! And you can’t let yourself forget that!
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