Rambling...

I suppose now is as good a time as any to use the blog for its intended purpose - namely the relieving of Writer's Block and/or acute frustration at having to do something I really don't want to do (in this case, craft several annotated bibliographies for my Comprehensive reading list and examination). I am currently in the process of writing about anthropogenic (human induced) climate change and providing rationalization for the necessity of the study of climate mitigation as it relates to social and environmental injustice. These are the moments when I sit here working away (albeit slowly) at things and I think to myself.... Good Lord...what the hell has life become?

I have been looking at Facebook updates and status changes lately, reading about the various ways in which people's lives have changed in the years following high school. I am (at twenty-seven) finally at that age where marriage seems to be en vogue and, for those who married earlier, so too are the first round of births. While children and parenthood have never piqued my interest (as a thing to pursue myself), as an avid reader of romance novels I must admit to liking the idea of weddings (weddings, not necessarily marriage) and engagements. Having been with my bf for just short of a decade, however, marriage still seems like a different life. Somebody else's life. Either way, that issue is moot.

What I really cannot help but marvel (and cry a little) at is how little my life has really changed in the past decade. Sure I've moved a little, but really only to the other side of a city. I have the same relationship I did when I left high school. I attend the same university I entered when I was nineteen. Sure I have two degrees under my belt and I am currently in pursuit of a third, but what does that mean, really, if I haven't used them to procure a "real job"?

Part of my problem is the fact that I am slow to change, slow to adopt change, and have difficulty embracing any form of difference, no matter how small. For better or worse this has kept me in a static state (academically, romantically, geographically etc.) For my fear and caution I have a decent sized bank account to show and I live under pretty great circumstances, especially for a student... But I can't help but wondering at the point of it all.

When I think about what I expected of my life and for myself, I realize that it was never this. I wanted to be successful, but never expected to be hindered by a wallflower personality that has difficulty interacting with others (to the extent that fear becomes a crippling emotion). I assumed that by twenty-five I would have bought my own condo in our bustling downtown metropolis, man or no man. In fact, I assumed no man because I figured I would have been loving the single life far too much to settle for anything that didn't sweep me off my feet. (In fairness to my bf, he is a great guy, but he really was supposed to be a fling...and so was I.) :P

After twenty-five I expected to spend years traveling, fulfilling one of my greatest passions globe-trotting and seeing the things that other people only dreamed about from behind their picket fences, between soccer games and PTA meetings and two-point-four kids. But reality hasn't lived up to that.

I bear my own shackles, the tightest of which is a PhD dissertation that, after a year of coursework, is only just beginning to get off the ground. Traveling comes far too infrequently in pursuit of such a goal as many students living on a student stipend would be only too quick to point out. Washington was amazing for precisely the reason that it was something different... unfortunately these experiences are far too fleeting in my life.

I love the fact that I am doing the work that I am doing... It's important, valuable and necessary work... But I hate the fact that it isn't life, nor should it be.

Most people (parents, professors etc.) have told me to have patience - that the future will come when it's supposed to and that all the things I want will happen in due course. Maybe they're right, maybe not. I don't know anymore. Perhaps that's why the dissertation is the toll on the soul that it happens to be...because it is a constant reminder of what isn't.

I have half a mind to spend a handful of my savings on a dream of a lifetime trip to the Galapagos and to say "to hell with it all...Life Happens".

But that isn't me.

And what IS me is sad.

Exes and other things...

I know this comes out of nowhere, but it was prompted by a long, relatively personal, conversation I had with an ex this evening.

---

Some time ago (read: a few years back) I got up the courage to send my first ever b/f a Facebook friend request. It was an odd breakup but we were young - really young (I was 18 and we'd "dated" for a year and a half) - and I assume that breakups are weird for most young people. The thing was, I hadn't had that many bfs since so it wasn't really as though I had to wade through a plethora of men to remember him. In fact, when you get right down to it, I've had two "serious" bfs prior to my current one and one (what I'd term) "serious fling".  Oddly enough, they are all on my Facebook friends list...and I do talk to all of them with varying frequency.

My bf has never commented on this in any negative way but he does have pretty clear cut rules about how breakups work in his world. You break up and that's the end of it. There is no hanging on or becoming friends or trying to feign happiness at the other end of a table while you dine with your former significant other and their new arm candy. In his mind, once a relationship's over, that's it. Finito.That's all she wrote.

Of course, my bf has a lot more history than I do (he says I exaggerate, which is probably true to a point) and it is arguably a lot more antagonistic. Me, on the other hand, well, I like my exes. While it is pretty doubtful I will ever sit down with any of them again face to face (in part because I am certain that they probably wouldn't want to go down that road) I like the fact that we are still in contact, for whatever it's worth, and that we can (and do!) chat every so often, sometimes on some pretty in depth topics. I find it interesting to think about the people my exes have become since the time that I knew them, while simultaneously seeing the people I knew them to be in the mix too.

I am fairly certain that for my current bf this is pretty untenable. In most cases, he isn't in contact with anybody he's had a relationship with though (perhaps ironically) I have met some people he's...er... been with in other capacities. As is typical of most men however, he doesn't do post mortems of past relationships (platonic or otherwise) so would see no point to retaining contact if we ever decided to part ways. I think this is sort of tragic, to be honest. Afterall, every previous relationship shapes our current selves.

Do you or would you talk to your exes?

Would you hang out with them if the opportunity arose?

Monkey biology

I'm in this group on Facebook: "I'm not married, pregnant or buying a condo" and while it is often plagued (as many large Facebook groups are) by too much advertising, the conversations throughout can be quite amusing.  Case in point is one of the threads, "So, what ARE we doing with our lives?"  

As a caveat I feel it's important to state that I don't think raising a family is an either/or thing, which is often how I read some of the comments from certain members of this group. I think many people who are willingly childless (and hope to remain that way) look at parents as though they're somehow burdened. That they're bored out of their minds, broke (or near it), and frustrated by the downward turn their life has taken ever since they took their vows, nevermind fertilized an egg or two. While I have stated (and will continue to state) that I think some parents do feel that way, I do truly believe that there are some who love being married, who have always wanted to be parents (regardless of what might be "popular") and who genuinely find married life and parenthood to be a rewarding experience.  To them, kudos I say!

One of the comments that struck me on the board today, however, was the following:

"I have to say that I'm looking for comments from people, especially women, who are over 35. At this point the question of whether or not you'll have kids is a lot more biologically out of your hands! so you're 22 (or 19 or 26 or whatever) and deciding not to have a kid? I wouldn't place money on that being your position in 10 years when you've met "the one"...

While I have some problems with the remainder of this comment, I will admit it got me thinking.  I have been with my bf for about a decade, give or take, and while the subject of kids has come up, we've both agreed that it's something we don't want. Jointly, exclusively, whatever...kids aren't for us. But I will admit to feeling a certain degree of trepidation on this topic... What if I change my mind? I've thought I didn't want kids for my whole life. Even as a kid I had no interest in those little baby dolls that cried and needed changing, preferring to be playing with my dog or stealing my brother's bike. But what if? One of my biggest fears (which is somewhat laughable since I'm afraid of everything) is that one day I'll wake up and want a baby.

The comment on the board made me wonder something else entirely... What if I just don't want a baby with my bf? :P What if he isn't "the one"? There's something biological there, at some level, isn't there, that goes well beyond emotion. Maybe it's his pheromones that rub me the wrong way. Maybe he just isn't good at building nests. Maybe I don't like the dance he does when he brings food back to the den. Or maybe I don't think he'll be able to hold his own against the other apes. I don't know.

What if?

---

I let my bf read this entry and I got two reactions:

1. "My pheremones?!"
2. "I don't care which ape you're with...you don't want any little monkeys running around."

A not-so-vacation...

I am super excited to be heading to DC in a just about a month or so for a week long adventure.

Well, excited and nervous. I'm taking part in a conference for a few days so the idea of participating (public speaking) has me a little jittery. Luckily my presentation happens pretty early on in the schedule so I've got lots of time to venture out and about and see the sites.

My friend Dave is coming with me and he's taking off for parts unknown to do fieldwork right after so it'll be our last chance to spend some time together before he sets off for four months or so. (As a dirty American -haha- he's familiar with DC so hopefully he'll be up for some adventuring.)

Still muttering...

Stupid course... you make me sick.

I've only wanted to take you for the past three years.

(The professor terrifies me.)

Nice prof, mind you... it's just me and I can't get over it.

Fear...

For those of you who know me, this won't come as any big surprise: I am petrified of pretty much everything in life. Most people don't believe me when I say this, but it's true - I am.

A few months ago I submitted an abstract for an as of yet unwritten paper to be considered for a conference presentation and was accepted to be part of a panel. Because of said abstract I was also asked to participate in a separate discussion group. Great for getting my ideas out there and also good for networking purposes. All good things that will supposedly aid in the advancement of my academic career except for one little hitch:

I haven't been able to sleep properly since the acceptance.

In October.

I've been told that most (if not all) academics endure this cyclical feeling of unease, anxiety and frustration and many feel at times as though they don't belong. I've also heard that academics tend to feel isolated in this regard but that "everyone feels that way" and that we "aren't alone".

None of that is reassuring.

The fact of the matter is I've been having nightmares for months. I can't sleep unless I tire myself to the point of exhaustion (sometimes not even then) and on many nights sleep comes in fits and starts. It's a depressing, exhausting and counterproductive sleep. On top of that, I'm usually so distracted when I am awake I can barely concentrate on the most trivial of tasks (including watching a half an hour sitcom).

My feelings of inadequacy have been amplified by a particular class that I simply cannot relax in. In the past few weeks I've been troubled by the fact that I cannot participate in class discussions or engage with my peers in the classroom. I'm petrified of saying anything, petrified of writing responses (which we do every week and submit via email) and petrified of almost everything associated with this particular course. In short, the class makes me miserable.

A couple of weeks ago I did what I consider to be the most unthinkable thing of my academic career. After almost a decade of post-secondary school, I skipped my first class. Why? Because I had what I can only assume was a panic attack and was in tears on multiple occasions over the span of several hours. All because the prof asked our class to do one little thing. It wasn't grueling or demanding; he just told us to speak frankly about something (anything) for ten minutes or so...

Only the thought of that made me sick.

Now I have to admit that I've always been pretty petrified of performing in school (or anywhere, for that matter), and I usually try to soothe the anxieties of my own students who exhibit similar fears. I've been told by countless professors that I have nothing to worry about and my current supervisor has gotten to a point where he says I simply have to get over it... but over it, I simply am not.

And this particular class is driving home the point that I really should just quit now and go hide in a hole.

The Silence of my Biological Clock

Taken from a comment I left elsewhere...

I have never wanted kids.

I knew this as a kid, I know it now at the age of (almost) twenty-eight. I am often frustrated by married parents (or soon-to-be parents) who feel it necessary to suggest that I'm less of a person for willingly remaining child free.

Maybe it's selfishness, I don't know, but I don't see it that way. I "know" me. I know what I can and can't tolerate. I don't buy the notion that I'd magically feel different if they were my kids. The fact is, children require a long commitment that is as much emotional (if not more so) than it is physical and financial.  I am not prepared for that and I'm honest enough to admit it.

I think some people genuinely want to be and love being parents. Some people make great parents and I see genuine happiness in their faces when their kids are around or when they recount stories of their children. By contrast, I also believe that some people aren't all that happy about the burden of parenting (see Corinne Maier's "No Kids") but many people are too afraid to admit it.

One woman I know who has been married for several years and who has two young kids remarked to me recently (while at a wedding) that she thought it was great that I knew I didn't want children. She said that more people need to be honest with themselves and not cave to societal or familial pressure to "do the normal thing".

I wholeheartedly agree.

Assaulting the olfactory senses...

I'm wondering whether I'll become one of those crazy old ladies who wear too much perfume.  

We all had that librarian. The one that stood too close to you while you tried to work in your high school library. The one who wore that oh-so-cloying scent that you could smell from down the hallway or for half an hour after she left the room.  What made her think it was a good idea to leave the house smelling as though she'd bathed in Eau-de-skunk?  Seriously.  

Is this just an old woman thing? I mean younger girls wear too much perfume too, but it usually smells a lot better than grandma's attic.  At what age do we start to think that a heady mix of mothballs and rosehips is what's been missing from our life?

Photo credit: Torli

"Sven"

After breakfast today (and by breakfast I mean a pretty late lunch during which we ate "breakfast foods") my bf announced, "I really hope you find the man you're looking for".  The comment, which came seemingly from out of nowhere, made me turn to him and ask, "What makes you so sure you aren't that man?"

He laughed.

"Because," he said, with patience, "I've listened to you describe for years the kind of man you want and I know I'm not him. Besides, I just want you to be happy."

Now, I feel the need to explain a few things to the readers who don't know me. I'm twenty-seven years old. My bf is six years my senior and we've been together just short of a decade. In that time he's seen me graduate from high school and complete two subsequent university degrees. He's now putting up with my quest for a third (and let's face it, the man deserves a medal for that alone).  In the same amount of time, I've seen him change as well. He's changed careers, he's changed roommates, he's changed living situations.  From time to time he's changed the bedsheets and his clothes. (I do him a disservice; the man loves doing laundry.) Still, I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel I'd changed more than him.

Why?

Put simply, because I was a teenager when we met and I had a lot of formative years still ahead of me.   By contrast, he'd been out in the world for a while, dating, living and holding down a real job. Suffice it to say, whatever I thought I wanted or needed at eighteen has been overhauled (and then some) over the past decade.

Now, if we unpack his comment a bit it sounds like a breakup is inevitable, if not immediate, so I'm sure you're all probably asking, "What the heck are you two doing?" (Some of you might also be asking why we aren't married and let me assure you we - not the "royal we" but we as in both of us - have a range of reasons, explanations, theories and excuses in response to that question. But go ahead and ask. :p)

The fact is, our relationship isn't broken. We get along, we have a good time, we fight like there's no tomorrow and we make up in much the same way. I can safely say that my bf is my best friend and he's said that about me, too. It's about as normal as a relationship can be, when you get right down to it.  Having said that, we're both pretty good at facing reality and we don't delude ourselves into thinking that everyone has to believe we're in love 100% of the time.  Moreover, there's a certain freedom that comes with having been together for as long as we have and that includes being honest about our partner's misgivings.

With all of that in mind, my bf said today that he was hoping "Sven" was just around the corner.  Sven, he figures is a pretty sexy name for my as of yet fictitious partner-to-be, and he coupled this with a hideous Swedish/Scandinavian accent simply to drive home the point. (Don't ask me where he comes up with this crap. As far as I know, he doesn't do drugs.) Sven would be, of course, all the things my bf (supposedly) is not, including driven, ambitious, "egregiously wealthy", blonde with a six pack of abs (not beer), a surfboard in one hand and a puppy's leash in the other.  Somewhere along the way I think Sven became Australian....but my bf can't do that accent at all.

"Maybe he'll show up at one of your conferences," the bf says. Of course, I have to laugh at this. Apparently my bf has not attended (m)any academic conferences. I have yet to see a six pack on anybody. That would be a fantasy straight out of one of my Harlequins. But I won't hold my breath.

I'm not sure whether it's good for my bf to be thinking he isn't the man of my dreams. Being a realist is one thing, being a pessimist is another and I'd hate to think we were dragging out the inevitable.  Besides, I'm pretty sure Sven, for all of his Armani couture and fluency in four languages, can't make the best mashed potatoes ever, wouldn't encourage the stuffed animals in my condo to go on nighttime missions and probably wouldn't find me pretending to be a robot cute/sexy/funny. He probably wouldn't challenge me to beat him at video games and probably wouldn't be all that interested in stomping through puddles at the park looking at random dogs.

Just sayin'.



P.S. That first guy couldn't be any less of a "Sven", now could he?!

Photo credit: Toomas

Superwoman syndrome...

I have been having an unusually rough time lately.

It is, I am forced to acknowledge, almost entirely self-imposed, but in spite of my recognition of this fact, I still feel overwhelmed. Without delving too far into things (I'm not entirely sure how much I'm prepared to share on a public blog), I'll simply state that I've been more emotional than usual in the last few weeks and have increasingly felt as though I've lost control of everything (from school to home life and everything in between).

Before anybody jumps to any sort of conclusion, let me just put this out there:
No, I'm not pregnant.  This I can guarantee without any shred of doubt.

Anyway, in the midst of feeling what I've been feeling and attempting to deal with it (in many cases by ignoring it in pursuit of something more pleasant), I happened across this little snippet on the "Superwoman syndrome"; an apparently inherent drive to be perfect possessed by most women that (from my casual reading) also drives women crazy. *laugh*

As the article neatly summarizes, many women feel the need to seek outside stimulation in order to achieve perfection.  Historically, things like caffeine pills were the "drug" of choice (neato reference to Jessie Spano a la Saved by the Bell) but apparently, today's Superwoman indulges in something stronger. Personally, I haven't taken any medication, I rarely drink (alcohol) and I rarely indulge in caffeine. My chosen method of dealing with stress for the time being has been yoga (though I'm thinking more rigorous exercise might be required). Should I be amused that a male friend recently suggested I take pills (he was mainly suggesting vitamins, but has also suggested herbal supplements) to up my energy levels?

The way I see it, this problem is two-fold. How we deal with stress (and I use this loosely to denote the desire to be perfect) is the latter part of the issue.  Underlying this is the root cause, the drive to be perfect.  Where does it come from? Amongst what sorts of women does it emerge?  Is it the result of internalized ideas relating to gender stereotypes or does it come from external pressures imposed by men?  Is it related to gender at all?

It was a relief to realize that the frustrations I've been feeling have been shared by millions of women worldwide. It is not, however, a relief to realize that the "solution" is a drug-induced haze. Moreover, I'm not sure I appreciate the author's closing comment that women need to stop "comparing and complaining".  Surely this anxiety is rooted in something deeper than competition?

Should've stayed in bed...

(An exhausted rant? after three hours of sleep).

Today was a pretty crappy day all round. I had to invigilate/proctor a midterm that started at nine in the morning at a campus that is about an hour and a half (by transit) away from my house. I probably could have driven in but rush hour driving across the city would've taken at least as long and given the fact that it had snowed the night before, the roads were still in a mess.


So, I dutifully rolled out of bed at 6 this morning, exhausted and bleary eyed because 6am is still the night before in my mind. Things were running smoothly, more or less, and I made it to the train only a few minutes later than I'd planned.

Awesome.

Not awesome? The joys of commuting... I didn't realize that my jeans had caught some very sticky gum under the seat until I was just about to get off. Yay! After doing nothing but sitting on a seemingly gumless seat for an hour, there was now gum stuck to both pant legs. (How I accomplished this I still don't know).

I have a thing about germs and being nowhere near a bathroom I didn't want to try to get it off with my bare hands so in my brilliance I used my gloves. Did I mention I wasn't a morning person? Leather gloves and gum is NOT A GOOD IDEA. So of course now I was both sticky and peeved.

After being on the subway for about an hour, the latter stage of my commute requires either a transfer to light rail and then a bus or, time willing, a transfer to an express bus directly to campus. As it was rush hour the express bus was (supposedly) running, so I opted to wait for it - something I typically do not do when I'm heading out there to teach. Twenty five minutes later the bus still hadn't arrived so I was cold, late and covered in gum. I made it to the exam just minutes before we started.

Should've stayed in bed.

White Out

It is snowing but good outside right now. Not exactly white out conditions but pretty darn close. I have to invigilate a mid-term tomorrow morning and I have to admit I probably want a Snow Day more than my students do. I hate, hate, HATE commuting in this weather. Nothing puts me in a bad mood more than being damp and cold. Except, perhaps, getting up at some ungodly hour to sit in transit for at least an hour and a half - one way.

Sunday morning and I haven't been to bed...

... if my bf (half jokingly) suggests we watch a "rom com" one more time, I will punch him in the nose. Apparently I should be mollified by the fact that he's doing it because *I* want to do it. Right. Because he looooves watching hockey with a "willing" girlfriend who hates organized sport. There's a failure in logic there! I think he mocks my Harlequins quite enough...I do not think I need him to further detract from the limited romance I have, thanks.

Settling for Mediocrity

Has The Female Fantasy Died or Transmogrified?

As has been my tendency of late (and almost always when procrastinating) I've become engaged with, and embroiled in, a non-academic debate.  Several of my friends have already been privy to this discussion (and so I'll save their sanity preemptively by stating that "Yes, it's the Movie Argument - again.")

  

 

The "Movie Argument", for those of you who don't know, found its birth after a disappointing viewing of Judd Apatow's "Knocked Up".  Disappointing because I expected it to be a raunchy comedy delving into the male psyche, filled with potty humour and the obligatory fawning over naked women when instead, in addition to that (bearing in mind that there was not nearly enough of that, it turned into a sappy romantic comedy in which "everything worked out in the end".  Just when I was hoping Hollywood wouldn't do the happy ending and would finally grow some balls.

 

So why does this frustrate me? (Me, of all people, who fawns over romantic comedies and Harlequin historical romance novels...?!) 

 

White Knights With Pot-Bellies, In-Grown Toenails and a Bit of Potty Mouth

 

I submit that Mr. Apatow's foray into writing (increasingly as of late) is echoing an all-too disturbing recent media trend (see: King of Queens, Still Standing, According to Jim etc.) where a schlub makes off with an incredible (educated, ambitious, articulate, gorgeous, insert-appropriate-adjective-that-describes-his-exact-opposite-here) woman. In short, Apatow has carved out a delectable male fantasy in which his useless male lead (riddled with flaws) can still, by design or by colossal mistake of the cosmos, find, woo, and score his dream woman (and by extension the dream woman of the majority of his male audience).

 

Now before I get into my actual reasons for frustration, I'd like to highlight the two main positions taken by my male friends (with whom I've discussed this new rom-com phenomenon). 

 

First, I am told, I shouldn't find this at all frustrating because, reality being what it is, no guy, however charming (read: "funny") would score with a “10” unless he matched her in number or had a really large...wallet. Women in real life who meet the standards (that I perceive them as having) of the characters in these movies do not give the average schlub the time of day.  Perhaps, but I’m not entirely convinced of this.

 

Second, and here is where I see the argument becoming somewhat personal, I am told that these women are not everything I see them to be (or, if they are, these aren't necessarily positive character traits that men find endearing). Allowing some room for poetic license, my interpretation of this opinion is that “ambitious and driven” = “bitchy, hardheaded and opinionated” to a lot of men.  And of course "sexy/gorgeous" has always been an individual thing which means that strong, sexy female leads may be completely off-putting to some. (I was totally bowled over when my friend said he was disgusted by Katherine Heigl's character in Knocked Up. How could Heigl disgust anybody, ever?!)

 

But, of course, I am digressing.

 

My personal annoyance with this topic – as I’ve mentioned – started with Knocked Up but didn’t end there.  As I watched (with mounting frustration) I began to think about how often in recent media history this formula had played out.  Time and time again men that were not (in my estimation) on top of their gender’s hierarchy managed to secure women who were bringing their A-game in terms of looks, financial stability, intelligence (and the like).  In short, men with very little effort secured the cream of the crop, whereas women (at their peak) made out (pun intended) with the underdog.

 

So, I began asking, “where is the female counterpart?”  If we are to assume that all of these movies, sitcoms and the like are patterned after male fantasy, what the hell has Hollywood given women to fantasize about?  A pot-bellied dumpy guy who moves boxes all day (or worse yet, sits around smoking weed and “imagining” his dirty movie website, with nary a job prospect or intelligent thought in sight)?  Awesome!  Sign me up.  Better still…get me one for my non-existent sister.

 

What exactly are we coming to when it’s assumed that that’s the best a woman is able to do?  What message are we sending to women?!

 

I’m actually offended that Hollywood would be so narrowminded that they’d create a fantasy built for men and, by extension, tell women that this is the best they can ever hope to catch in a partner.  Totally okay for guys to let themselves go all to hell…but women have to keep it together if Jim (Belushi) is their dream man.

 

I’d rant about fairness, but as we know, life just ain’t fair.

 

Attack of the Schlumps (And Other Rotten Tomatoes)

 

In aptly titled "Eclipse of the Hunk", blogger Jeff Wells describes what he calls schlumps (a more fitting word I have yet to find!): “galumphy” guys who “look like real guys, which means almost never slender or buffed, and frequently chunky, overweight or obese. And usually with roundish faces with half-hearted beard growth, hair on their backs, man-boobs with tit hairs, blemishes, and always horribly dressed -- open-collared plaid dress shirts, low-thread-count T-shirts with lame-ass slogans or promotions on the chest, long shorts and sandals (or flip-flops), monkey feet, unpedicured toenails”.  These “upgraded” versions of the modern male (whatever happened to metro?) replace the traditional Brandos, Hudsons, Deans, DiCaprios, (Hugh and Carey) Grants and the like with a character/persona more fitting (and attainable) by everyday men.  Presumably, doing this will make the romantic comedy more appealing to the guys who invariably have to suffer the demands of their girlfriends.  The fantasy knight on a white horse (which leaves most men rolling their eyes and most women secretly yearning but outwardly scoffing) is now your Average Joe.  Mediocrity, it would seem, knows no bounds.

 

But just what is this reformed characterization really accomplishing?  Is it reinvigorating a new breed of men complacent in their schlumpiness?  Is it convincing women to settle upon a sack of potatoes in lieu of a husband (albeit a “funny” sack of potatoes where acerbic wit and stimulating intellectual conversation have been replaced by fart jokes?)

 

My male friends argue that no woman is going to watch these movies or TV shows and suddenly become convinced that the only thing missing from her life is a funny guy (with no discernable skills or marketability to his name).  Further, they argue that real life would NEVER pair a dumpy guy (ala Kevin James) with Amber Valletta (see: Hitch), no matter how colossal the intervention.  Apparently, that alone should be enough to convince me that my irritation is unnecessary.

 

But my frustration is mired in more than the superficial, even though I have an admittedly difficult time with these physically mismatched pairings.  I’m disgusted by the apathetic (read: slovenly) male leads who, especially in Apatow films, can barely muster the energy or interest to scratch their own asses.  How does this pass for humour?  Moreover, why do women (who apparently enjoy these movies!) graciously accept that behaviour as the norm?  If this is truly a reflection of society (and I’m not naïve enough to suggest that it is), doesn’t it demonstrate that women are surpassing men in every capacity?  Shouldn’t we then expect more from our partners?  Or have we collectively resigned to settling for “the best it’s gonna get”?

 

Where I think Hollywood proceeds to do even more damage is the notable lack of female versions of this stereotype – the barely ambitious, illogical, lazy, unattractive etc. – female who magically catches the eye of the man of her dreams because he manages to see past her tragic character flaws.  Where is the female who, in all aspects fails at life but is still “funny” enough to snag the attention of the cute guy at the ballpark/boardroom/dance club etc.?  From all accounts she simply doesn’t exist.

 

(A male friend has suggested that the implausibility of this occurrence is a result of the fact that women simply aren’t funny and thus such a character would be wholly unbelievable. We’ve since concluded that a female’s version of “funny” is “great tits” – but that is a topic for a separate discussion.)

The fat/dumpy/ditzy/stupid/whatever-she-is-that-makes-her-not-the-lead-heroine girl is almost always (if she exists at all) relegated to the position of “best friend”, “sidekick”, “confidante” or evil step-sister.  “We'll [never] ever see a lot of films where an average-looking, overweight woman scores a hot guy, because, frankly, men -- and most women -- won't pay to see that…women, in their heart-of-hearts, like to think they'd rather be with a nice guy who treats them well and wants to be with them than a Greek God who thinks the world revolves around him” (Voynar 2008).  Assuming that this is true, why does the double standard fail us so badly that we’re left with the Seth Rogens and Jason Segels of the world while men are left to fawn over Jolies and Johannsons?

 

The Ugly Truth 

 

It would appear that there is some validity in the idea behind Apatow’s pairings (whether he is consciously aware of it or not).  Researchers at the University of Tennessee, in a recent exploration of the influence of attractiveness upon marriage, have found that while attractiveness in women has a stabilizing effect upon marriage, attractiveness in men has the opposite.  “Evolutionary perspectives can help explain why men’s attractiveness, in both an absolute and relative sense, appeared to be more detrimental than beneficial to marriage: Attractive men have available to them more short-term mating opportunities…. It may be that wives are not adversely affected by being more attractive than their husbands because attractiveness is less important to women in long-term mating situations and equity only matters in terms of important resources” (McNulty et al. 2008, pg 141).

 

By this logic, Apatow’s construction is less fiction than it is reality (much to my eternal annoyance).  I would argue that his characters (like many of the others that have emerged in recent years in comedies) are not as well matched, even on a resource level, as McNulty et al. has suggested is important.  But, for argument’s sake, let’s say they were…

 

Since when did the Hollywood Dream Machine occupy itself with representing reality and positive messages?

 

Off the top of my head, the only equitable offering comparable to Apatow’s films which bring together a seemingly impossible match was the Farrelly Brothers’ 2001 “Shallow Hal”.  Again, by some “magical intervention” (see how implausible Hollywood makes such a reality?!) the outwardly unattractive Shanahan (Gwyneth Paltrow) is made beautiful to Larson (Jack Black) who is forced to look past her exterior to the wonderful person beneath. Yes, we get the importance of this message, but in a sense, even this logic is flawed.  Shanahan’s 300lb character, while beautiful to her audience, is still 300lbs. And at 300lbs (conventionally unattractive), Jack Black, her eventual love, is not handsome in any traditional sense (Hollywood or otherwise).  He’s the adorable, funny, dorky guy that women are supposedly secretly yearning for, but he’s no fantasy.  Paltrow’s character couldn’t have done any better (or so it seems to suggest), and thus the movie is a stunning failure in its attempt to send a positive message.  Would the movie have been less believable if we’d cast Colin Farrell or Brad Pitt in his place? I’d argue that at very least it would have put female fantasy on the same pedestal as the male fantasies which boost box office sales.

 

I get that Hollywood is in the business of constructing fantasy and that one should hardly be looking to the silver screen to be representative of what is taking place in society.  But if what’s good for the gander is Heigl, Alba and even Paltrow then why is the goose’s Clooney or Washington not rubbing elbows with Rachel Dratch’s Debbie Downer?

 

I guess we’re back to that whole “nice tits” thing.