Waiting for planes is boring

I'm really glad I brought my laptop. I had an internship application to finish, so I did that, and now I don't really know what to do...

I'm going to blog! Blogging is a thing.

Forward-thinking

So all these college seniors were graduating, and it felt weird that even though it's been just a year since I graduated high school, soon enough, I'll be in their shoes. I overheard a conversation that one senior girl, Nicole, had been having with a freshman guy.

He asked, "What does it feel like? Graduating?"

She pondered for a second before replying, "I feels like... you're floating. And you don't know where you fit in with the world. You don't know what you're going to do with your life. Before, there was always something, like a grade, or after high school, there was college to look forward to. But now-"

Now, after fulfilling an Arabic and Middle Eastern studies major, she'll be tending her parent's rose garden in the middle of farm-y, internet-expelled, nowhere.

And so here I am, the summer after my freshman year, freaking out about floating.

What will happen after college?
I don't know!
Can anyone really know?

I'd applied to college as a poli-sci major hoping to fulfill my mother's lifelong dream that I will continue the Acaylar lawyer legacy. "Your grandmother was an attorney, and I was an attorney in the Philippines-" So, the burden of completing the triad was bestowed upon me.

But I kind of feel the same way about being a lawyer as Ronald Weasley feels about walking into a forest full of spiders.



So now, I'm on track to being a double major in Biology (pre-med) and Studio Art in order to have some doctor-by-day, artist-by-night deal...
but I have this nagging feeling that my art will suffer because I'll have to spend years and years and years studying cell organelles before I get to take someone's temperature and prescribe cough medication.

I already have a 4-year plan whipped up that encompasses all my pre-med and studio art requirements, but it means taking an extra class load every year, which- as I did that this semester- is killer to my sanity and social life.

My roommate suggested I drop some classes and be a studio art minor...

But but but
Art!

But I know my gpa's dropping since my class load is too heavy.

Should I drop art and become full-throttle pre-med instead?

Being a doctor would make me financially stable, but I'm worried that I'd be plagued with regret. Never publishing a children's book. Never publishing a comic in the New Yorker. Never getting one of my paintings into the MOMA! (Yes, I have high hopes).

Is that my problem?

Am I too much of a dreamer?

Obviously, my mom says, "You either have to go into law or medicine."
Which makes sense because I'm smart enough and she doesn't want me ending up like this...




But like, I really want to illustrate children's books. #Innerconflict

I made this graphic representation of my life thus far.

                 

And my friends Cindy and OT (who are econ majors) criticized the shit out of it. OT was bothered by the fact that my percentages didn't add up to 100% and that I didn't put the bars in the same order, and Cindy said my graph was completely NOT economically correct.

So she made this one.
U= utility (happiness)
W= money

Assume: Money makes you happy.


At Chicago O'Hare Airport 
So, I'm sitting in the same row as this middle-aged lady in a polka dot blouse who thinks she's really funny. She's calling a bunch of people on her phone and saying things like, "Hey, I haven't seen you in 10 days. You could be dead! I'm just calling you to make sure you're not dead!" 
"Her name is Sue! She's Japanese. Pennsylvania will not exist next time I go there. Due to a Sue-nami! Hahaha." 

I'm confused. 

Also, I decided to treat myself to a fancy Italian meal. It was two skewers of moist, grilled chicken with verde sauce with a side of broiled potatoes and spicy asparagus, and oh my god, it was the most real food I've eaten in a long time. If dining hall food is mehhhh, this entree was YAY! Oh, how I missed actual food. 

There was an Asian father and his son (around 40) sitting at the both beside me. There were in a rush. I love watching rushed people at airports. When their order was being taken, the dialogue went like this:

Waiter *hands men their menus*
Dad: Can you be fast? We have a flight soon.
Waiter: Oh, I can take your order now!
Dad: *before glancing at menu, announces* I want pasta!
-awkward pause-
Dad: So, which one is good?
Waiter: Oh! This one!
Dad: I'll take a small one.
Waiter: There's one size...
Dad: Yeah! Okay! 

Anyway, back to the marginal utility graph.
I, apparently, don't like to take risks. So my graph would look like this.

So the pink represents Studio Art and the green represents Bio. And their mean utility-wealth coordinate is the blue/star.

But what bothers me about this graph is that money doesn't equate happiness in my world.
Maybe because I'm young and naive.
But what can money buy?

Cars.
Fancy clothes.

I really don't give a shit about that kind of stuff though!

Ughhh

But money can also buy:

a home
plane tickets (I love traveling)
art supplies

Why can't I just magically get rich and be free to spend the rest of my life painting pictures? 

Still at Chicago Airport

Mom, if you're reading this, you need to stop sending me to Chicago. My flight always gets either delayed or cancelled. It's getting ridiculous.

Flying over San Jose
It's nearly midnight (meaning 3 a.m. Eastern Standard Time, so I'm tired af). But the lights are gorgeous. It's like the ground is on fire. Or a bunch of tiny gems are shining, each with radiating some magical inner light, to greet our plane's arrival. The Indian dude next to me, he's like, a business man, is sleeping. (I think he hates me because, I'm in the window seat, so when I had to pee- I held it as long as I could, but now, I was going to burst!- I nudged his shoulder. He kept snoring, so I said, a bit too loudly, "Excuse me? I have to pee-" He jumped up and gave a manly "AH!" And proceeded to push the Chinese guy to his right (a mechanical engineer in his mid-20's who was flying to his new job as a laptop case designer). The Chinese guy looked at him startled, and the Indian guy tiredly nodded in my direction. So they moved into the aisle.)  Glad to be back home.

Falling down (and getting up again)

A typical day in Studio Art class:

    It's 1:20 pm. The sun is shining (for once) and carelessly leaks through the large windows that make up the entire right wall of the studio. We all sit on rolling, black stools in pairs at brown-topped desks as long and wide as bathtubs. Each of us has a piece of wood. 

   The project: Turn a piece of wood into a sculpture. 

   

   I entered the project as an optimist. There were endless possibilities for my log: I could turn it into a small ballet dancer or sand it and paint it with tribal prints. I could shape it into a fish and make scales out of shiny duct tape. I could make an abstract, organic shape. 

   Well, I thought I could. So, I proposed my ideas to my professor, an artist with a strong, futuristic approach to his aesthetic, grey mustache and pony tail, and endless supply of 90's jeans and button-up shirts. He drives a truck, lives in the woods, and watches t.v. in his free time. "No," my professor retorted. "How's that for an answer!" 

   I felt uninspired. As other students in my class whipped up praise-worthy sculptures that I never would have though to create (they just were not any where near the realm of my personal aesthetic), I had a piece of wood. After a few days of torturous frustration, much usage of power tools, and a plethora of rejected ideas, I made a little piece I personally enjoyed. I'd created a ring out of wire, covered it in golden duct tape, and set it into the wood so just a half-moon showed. Then, I painted the baby log in bright, aqua shades. Like the other praiseworthy pieces, it was not too busy. 

    He came to inspect it. At his first glance upon my creation, he frowned, his eye brows furrowing together. He froze in this expression for a while until he finally said, "It's so... sloppy." I didn't reply. "Look... the edges. They're rough. Here! *points at the left of my sculpture* Here! *to the wire circle I'd spent a day deciding to execute* Here! *to the place I'd mixed the nicest shade of aqua I could muster*" I didn't say anything. "We'll see how to fix it later. 

    So, I tried making another sculpture. This second log I received was tougher than the last one. Unlike the first, which let its bark fall apart at a whim, the second was solid. I stuck a few nails into it, hoping to create a crocheted strand of rope to connect all the dots in a ladder-like pattern. In midst of crocheting yarn, my professor came over to critique the beginnings of a sculpture I thought both he and I would enjoy. Once again, I was faced with complete rejection. "You can't just ignore this," he roared, tracing the split through the middle of the log running straight from its top to its bottom. "And these, why did you put these here?" He pointed at the small nails I'd fastidiously hammered into the pattern I'd planned in my mind. Before I could answer, he proclaimed, "It's arbitrary!" He took the tiny crochet ladder in my hands. "I like this," he inspected it in his old, rubbery hands. "These knots," it was crochet, "are something no one else has done before. What if," he began. He always says "what if" before announcing his you-have-to-do-this criticism. "You took this, and," he placed the string into the hole in the log. I thought the idea was too stupid. Too easy. I wanted to do something actually creative. Something I believed in. I wanted to create something in my own aesthetic. Not his. 

    Two weeks ago, we'd had a painting unit. I'd painted my heart out, shading in still-lives and creating an image of a dancing skeleton. He told me to sharpie the crap out of them, because that's how his aesthetic is. He like hard, heavy outlines. I don't. I hate hard, heavy outlines. 

     "I got an A-," I told my friend, Dan, who's also in art class. 

     "That's it?" he replied. "But you're a painter..." 

      It doesn't matter how good I am. It matters how well I fit my professor's aesthetic ideas. I can't take it anymore. 

      He stared at the tiny crocheted loops. "You can just use this whole roll of string!" 

      I snapped. He left, I took the ball of string, and I went out into the hallway. I heaved out a sob. Some people just leaving a class next door glanced by, but none of them paid any attention. Good. I hid in the art lounge around the sculpture section and ran my fingers over the ball of string. I'd taken paper towels from the bathroom and, after every minute or so, had to hide my face, to hide the tears streaming down. I needed to calm down. I began crocheting a long chain. Because that's what my professor said I could do. I couldn't create anything I wanted, but I could use this entire roll of yarn. So, that's what I attempted to do for a good half-an-hour. I didn't go back to class because I was just so profusely angry. I've never been so angry before. I knew I shouldn't take his criticisms personally. He wasn't criticizing me; it's my art he was criticizing. But my art is a part of me. So the criticisms hurt more than they ever should. 

    The crocheted strand grew as long as my arm, and I couldn't stop. I couldn't go back. I never wanted to go back to that stupid class. I never felt so suffocated artistically, so blatantly controlled and forced to create "art" I didn't believe in. What kind of art is that? It's not art. It's just... an object. A picture. A something without meaning other than getting it done and pleasing the professor. 

   If I didn't complete studio art, I'd never be able to be an art major. It's a prerequisite. But I didn't care anymore. I hate studio art class! I hate it! I've never hated anything so damn much. 

   I had two feet of crocheted string and a ball of yarn in my hands when my studio art professor came around the corner... with my entire class. They all just kind of looked at me confusedly. There's where I went. I tried to hide in the back. I still felt like crying. I'd never wanted to cry so much. I hated this. I hated it. 

   "Are you okay?" Brianna asked. 

   "No," I started crying. It wasn't pretty. The rest of our class, oblivious, walked on to admire the sculptures created by the actual sculpture class. Meghan stayed too. 

   "Oh," Meghan said sympathetically. 

   "I just-" I sounded like an idiot. "I can't- he hates- my sculptures," and that was the end of all coherency. The waterworks exploded, and it was embarrassing. Brianna and Meghan both awkwardly tried to hug me.

   "If this is about this class, don't worry about it," Brianna said. "He ALWAYS tells me no."

   Meghan replied, "Yeah, like, he tells me to do one thing, and I'm like... well, I don't want to do that."

    "Yeah. He tells me to do things all the time, and I'm just like... 'No.'"

    "Sometimes, I really want to make something I want to make, but he just doesn't want me to. It's pretty annoying."

    "But really," Brianna whispered. "He's just a fat, old man. He's stubborn. He only wants what he likes. You're such a good artist."

     The art class swung back around to meet us. We ended up back in the studio. 

     I sat at my desk with my twine. 

     "I tell you these things to challenge you," my professor said as he came up to me. "When I say something's ugly or needs work, you shouldn't take it personally. You're a really good painter. You drew that still life- You're creative. You're a creative, young woman, and I'm just here to help. Cheer up." A pause. "What classes are you taking next year?" 

     "I want to take a painting class."

     "Good. You're a painter. I'll talk to Linette. You know, I showed her your paintings. She looked at them, and said, 'Wow. She's a painter,' and she said that to 3 people. You'll do great. It doesn't end here." 

Quitting my job

When I came to college, my financial aid came with a work study grant. I was pretty excited. I spent the first few weeks applying for what would be my first job. On Colgate's job website, there were random positions listed: "Lifeguard at Boathouse," "Mascot," "Sports Assistant." Finally, I saw a title that piqued my interest: "Library LASR Assistant." I immediately applied. I'd volunteered at the library for two years of high school, so this was right up my alley. My friends Gian and Andy had applied also. We took our interviews one right after the other, and we were all hired. First semester, I had a similar shift as each of them. Working was pretty fun. I mainly straightened books meaning I'd go around the stacks (shelves) and bring all the books to the front of the shelf and make them look neat and "flushed." When I'd get bored, I'd troll over to Gian and we'd listen to Ke$ha's Timber on repeat as I helped him with his task of cleaning or try to scare Andy as he straightened the gay books (pun intended). Second semester, I spent more time doing LASR stuff. The LASR machine holds all the books, DVDs, records, and what-not in the archives. I was known as the person who used two step-stools to reach the auditing machine and a liability seeing as I always managed to unintentionally break the LASR robot. My co-worker, Kayla convinced me it wasn't my fault. She said the robot's arms which carried the metal book boxes were attached to a head up above the ceiling that we couldn't see, and the head was very tempermental. My boss, Joe, from around upstate New York was really cool. He had a candy dish and let me eat all the tootsie rolls and dove chocolates, brought me coffee, and played Christian rock pandora from the desktop computer as I audited books. We'd have random conversations about the Statue of Liberty, his daughters, and my ballet class. One time, when I was straightening books, he saw me try to balance one of the books on my head. "I almost wet my pants when I saw you do that," he told me. I'd really grown attached to my job. So when I walked into the LASR room today, and Joe smiled and greeted me with "Angel!" as usual, my heart kind of sank. "How are you?" he asked.
     "Uh... I actually came to ask something."
     "Yeah, you seem distracted."
     I took a breath. "I think I need to stop working. My Chem grades are pretty bad, and I don't know.. if I can handle it anymore. But I don't know if I'm allowed to quit."He looked sympathetic.
    "You can quit. You didn't come to college so you could get a job. You came so that you can get educated and make it.. out there in the real world."
    I nodded. "I'm so sorry. You guys have trained me so much, and I really appreciate it. Like, I can use the LASR."
    "It's okay. If you don't think you can handle it, well, make sure you email Lisa (the head lady of LASR) and tell her you talked to me."
    "Okay. I will."
    "Bye Angel. Have a good week, if I don't see you later."
    "You too... see you around. Bye."

EAST COAST. Y U SO RACIST?: On Microagressions

    Recently, I was studying Du Bois' Souls of the Black Folk novel in my Challenges of Modernity class. During one class discussion, a girl in my class brought up the "I, too, am Harvard" video that's been taking over the web to supplement our discussion on racism. Since then, I've been thinking about the microagressions I personally face. 

    Yesterday, I went over to my friend's old high school as I'm staying over at her house during spring break. Cindy's old high school is a large brick and glass structure in the suburbs of Connecticut where the student body is predominantly Caucasian. Upon the arrival of my friend and I, along with two of our other friends, Gian from the Philippines and Andy from Brunei, we ran into Cindy's old calculus teacher. We told him that we all went to Colgate also. He asked us where we were from. We talked about the school for a bit, and the next thing you know, he tells Gian and Andy, "Well, your guys' English is really great!" 

    Pause. 

    Okay, so- Wait a second. I have to compartmentalize because every time something like this happens, I just... UGH. I feel immense rage crash throughout my entire entity, but pure rage is not what I want to spew forth on this blog. I'm going to try to express my point eloquently and calmly. But GOD. I JUST GET SO ANGRY.

    And I thought about this complement Cindy's old teacher just put forth. I knew he meant well. I assumed that he thought complimenting the international students on their English would be, just that- complimentary. 

   But I don't know if people who give compliments like this understand the preconceptions put forth by saying such statements:

- As you are an international student, I expect your English to be less than "great." 

- Why? Because, as you are international, English is obviously not your first language.
- Which means you must be struggling with English.. since you probably just began learning English upon coming to America. 

- And I can assume this because you do not look like a "typical" American. 

-  E.g. You are not white. 

-Gian and Andy are international students with "great" English.
- English is not their first language.
- But they are not struggling with English, having been taught English since a young age. 
- And they can speak it with extremely subtle accents. Not that having an accent is the prime determinant of how well one speaks English.  

   Today, I was with Cindy, Andy, Gian, and my friend from NY, Val, in New York City. We walked over to the American Museum of Natural History. (It's a pretty cool place! Lots of taxidermy animals, fossil casts, anthropological artifacts. I could explore there for days.) Anyway, all was running smoothly until, out of the blue, one of the museum workers excitedly ran up to my friend Cindy. He was a middle-aged Caucasian man in a navy button up. He walked up with an eager, cordial disposition. I guessed he wanted to help us find something.

    "Where are you from?" he asked Cindy.

    "Excuse me? Uh, oh. I'm from Connecticut."

    "Where are... your grandparents from?" he smiled.

    "Chi-"

    "Oh! Are you Chinese or Korean? I can speak Korean-"

   "No, no. I'm Chinese."

   "Oh! Ni hao!" He continued to babble on in Chinese for a few seconds before turning to me with the same eager smile.

   "And where are you from?"

   "Uh, California," I replied, confused.

   "No, where are-" I knew where this was going. And at this point, I was tired of random people attempting to speak to me in Tagalog (the a common dialect in the Philippines). 

   "Spain," I interrupted. 

   "Oh!" He stammered a bit, confused. "Madrid? Guadalajara? Monzon?" 

   "Uh..."

   "How bout you?" he turned to Gian.

   "Oh, I'm from the Philippines."

   "Mabuhay!" he began conversing in Tagalog with Gian who smiled awkwardly. 

   "And you?" he turned to Andy.
   "Where are you from?"
   "Brunei.."
   "Where?"
   "Brunei-"
   "Brunei! I've.. huh where is that?"
   "It's by Malaysia."
   "There's a good Malaysian food restaurant-"

I proceeded to rant in the bathroom next to the sink after we were away from the dude. "Ugh! Just because I'm Asian doesn't mean I can speak the language my grandparaents spoke! And I feel so sad when people ask me where I'm FROM. I'm from California, and I speak English and some Spanish. And the fact that people expect me speak Tagalog, and I can't, just sucks!" I ranted to Cindy (who was in a stall). 

Cue that awkward moment when a young girl comes out of the bathroom stall and stares at me like "Why are you yelling in a bathroom?" 

And later, I ranted on the train.
"Just because I look Asian doesn't mean I'm not as American as you, Mr. White Guy!" I said. The twenty-something-year-old guy sitting in the seat across from me looked over and smiled. Like, a "you go girl!" smile. 

I told my boyfriend about my daily doses of racism. And he told me that today, he'd gotten his own. He went to lunch with a little old lady from the Christian church near our school.

"She assumed that because English is my second language, I'd have trouble with reading a menu. She actually explained what a menu was! Then, she read the menu aloud for me," he laughed. He added jokingly, "I was thinking, yeah, you and me take the SATs and let's see who scores better!" He's from Bangladesh, has worked as an English tutor, and got a near perfect score on the SAT. "And then she talked about American superiority and how third world countries don't have the same standards that America does- and she's right!" 

Sometimes, I just don't know about people. SIGH. 

People can be so kind and so ignorant at the same time. The East Coast is really teaching me how to be tolerant. And I'm sure these kind of microagressions are not just prevalent on this coast. But I'm really bummed out how frequently they happen in the communities I've been to so far.


That's all for now!

The dinosaur

It's 8:38 on a Friday night and I'm in the science center studying with Dino-luver (code name) and Gian. (All our other friends are skiing without usssssss.) Anyway, I think we're all tired af.

"She can't always get what she wants. Just because I want a Dinosaur Club doesn't mean I'm going to make a dinosaur club," said Dino-luver (my friend who told me not to reveal my name because he talks about homicide).
Me: You should dress up as a dinosaur, run around campus, and scream, "JOIN MY DINOSAUR CLUB, BITCHES!"
Dino-luver: You know, during Halloween, someone dressed up as a dinosaur for my dinosaur class.
Gian: Oh! That's cool-
Dino-luver: And then my professor PUNCHED HER IN THE FACE.
Gian: Oh my god. Well, that didn't happen.
Dino-luver: And he was like I THOUGHT DINOSAURS WERE EXTINCT *imitates sound of a machine gun* Now they are."



Dino-luver: I'm really funny. Why can't I find a boyfriend.

Gian: Ughhh how do I end this (his essay for an internship application)
Dino-luver: K, thx, bye.
Gian: AHAHAH. Call me maybe.

Dance Auditions

Okay, so every semester, Colgate University holds this thing called "Dancefest" on the chapel stage. It's where all the groups on campus (which, at such a small liberal arts school, is quite a large number of groups) perform a routine. Last semester was the first time I both watched and took part in (I'm part of the Colgate Ballet Company) Dancefest, and OHMYGOD. 10/10, would recommend (as my friend O.T. would put it.) The talent level was ridiculous. 

And out of all these amazing groups, my favorite was "DDT." No, I don't mean that pesticide component known to reduce the thickness of bird eggshells. At Colgate, "DDT" stands for "Doin the Damn Thang." Picture them on the wooden stage: a group in white button downs and black shorts. The music starts, music with a strong beat and hip-hop flair, music so fast, it's crazy that anyone would try to dance to it. But they do. And they're all hella sexy. Body rolls so hot I can't even. Sass and attitude to the max. Popping and dancing and just doin' the damn thang!

So when I saw the purple poster, I knew I had to try out. 

Even though I can't body roll or pop, and I don't have that much 'tude. The purple poster with Beyonce doing a booty tooch and the words in ALL CAPS: DOIN' THE D* THANG AUDITIONS JAN 31st FRIDAY 3 PM RYAN 209, coerced me to obey its underlying commands. I marked the date straight away on my Google Calendar and set myself on going to my second ever dance audition (the first being my first day at the Colgate Ballet Company where I tried out for a role in the Nutcracker).

So today, I searched for this room in Ryan, a building I'd never been to before, and when I found it, I saw some friends, Ryan and Sharon, which was great because seeing familiar faces totally took the edge of my nerves. I also started stretching with a sophomore named Lauren from my Challenges of Modernity class. "We can be nervous together," she told me after I told her I was scared even though we were only starting the warm-up. 

Hip-hop blared through the speakers and filled the small dance studio room with bass and the n-word. About twenty people stood behind a DDT member who was leading us in stretches, all of us facing the mirror which spanned the entire front wall. 

I looked at my reflection. I was this tiny Asian girl with a lace hair bow, yoga pants, tennis shoes, and a black bro tank with a bright green dinosaur and the words "T-Rex hates push-ups." I kept looking at it as I followed another DDT girl as she started teaching us the routine. I was always half-a-beat late, tripping over my feet, or forgetting to do the arms with our moves. 

After a few practices, I still couldn't really remember the moves. Even during ballet, it would take me so much longer than everyone else to memorize routines.  "One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight. One-two-" I started mouthing the numbers along with the leader. "One= drop low" "In-Out-In" until "four." "Five-six-seven-eight" is the soldier steps (don't forget the arms!) Then step, clap, scissors. Arms to the side. Jump Jump. Arms to the other side. Jump Jump! "One" starts when you body roll. At "six" do the coffee grinder! Switch to the other side. Step four times. Right leg back. Right forward. Arms down. It was a lot to think about. Plus, I needed to add attitude and my own "style."

They divided us up into groups. I was in Group 2 with Ryan, Lauren, and two other girls who's names I didn't quite catch; we were all pretty nervous. 

We were going to do the entire minute-long routine once with a DDT leader, and then do it reference-less as a group. The first two measures of eight were freestyle. Ryan and I both did Zumba together last semester, so we decided to do a Zumba move (left arm back, right arm back, then do the sprinkler) for old time's sake and to show we had personality. Then after those moves, I started doing the Bernie, and Ryan looked over and burst into laughter. 

When it was time for our group to the routine on our own, I just did the damn thang! I didn't even think about it, really. It's like, I wasn't even present mentally, solely physically, feeling this rush of movement, bass, and excitement as I body rolled as well as I possibly could, let my shoulders do whatever, and let the dancer inside of me take over. It was seriously one of the best experiences of my life; I felt so alive. 

Even if I don't get into DDT this semester, I'm definitely trying again next year. Their group is totally laid-back and sexy and so fucking good at dancing that I can not describe how good they are without throwing in an expletive. 

 and here's a picture of me with the poster because I'm obsessed and I'm allowed to steal it since auditions are over 

Anyway, yay for trying new things! And Happy Chinese New Year c:

♥ Angel 

What Girls Think When They Look In the Mirror

What Girls Think When They Look In the Mirror

I was in the bathroom today because I had really bad cramps (we're not going to dive into the details, but anyway), so I was stuck in a stall for a pretty long time. I don't really understand how one designs a bathroom stall. There are always cracks on the sides between where the door hinges or opens the stall divider. In the bathroom on the fourth floor of the library, one can discreetly peer through this crack and creep on whoever happens to be at the sink.

The first girl, a tall, stocky blonde with glasses swiftly brushed her out of her face. She stared at herself, her face void of any expression beside complacency, and after a quick glance, she preoccupied her eyes with the sight of the bathroom sinks or movement of her soap-blanketed phalanges.

The second girl had eyes lightly rimmed with dark liner, pale skin, and dark hair steeply parted to the left. Here's the great thing- she turned off the faucet, looked up from her damp hands, and gave her reflection a million-dollar smile. She looked really happy to just be herself.

But then, she started to check herself out... She lifted up her over-sized hoodie, revealing a model-status flat stomach over her tight-fitting jeans. Her face lost its million dollar smile. In it's place- scrutiny. A "hmph. Good enough."

F**k, if I had a stomach like that, I'd...

I would what?

Like my body?

Oh crap. Society's reeled me in like a salmon. A less-willing, squirmy salmon, but it's taken me in its hook none-the-less.

\

Thigh gap (n):
The gap in between one's thighs.

*eyes my own thighs*

Wait, what thigh gap?








Ugh. I've got MAN shoulders.



Thanks a lot, workouts. I still look like a cow.





God, why can't I just be... thinner...



Yet, curvaceous?



And undeniably HOT?

In the eyes of...
you know...
other people?


       Society has gone about portraying a woman's body in a way which induces self-destruction and dissatisfaction. According to society, bodies deserve to be scrutinized based on a set of non-achievable standards/ purely aesthetic criteria.

• Height
• Weight
• Figure (Curves)
• Sexiness 

       By focusing on these vain aspects, society collectively targets the vulnerability of women, creating a self-image many girls feel they must strive for in order to achieve the ultimate reward: beauty. People strive to be beautiful. Why? Why has "beauty" become the sun around which an artificial society revolves? It seems as if Americans long for beauty because it has become thought of as synonymous to desirability.

       And why have beauty and desirability become as closely linked as the notion of burning fossil fuels and global warming? One of my theories relates to consumerism. Companies selling goods must encourage consumers to buy their goods- a basic concept of economics. There must be a "need" involved that the product can fill. So, companies tend to, in a sense, construct our needs. Their medium for doing so is typically via media outlets: commercials, advertisements. They portray an image, honing in on a certain need and how their product can satisfy this need.

     The woman sporting a trendy dress on the cover of Glamour represents the need for style in order to be beautiful, in order to be desirable, in order to be happy through the eyes of society. This is how need construction occurs. These artificial images, in a sense, become our eyes. Thus, we begin to see through an artificial lens. The pretty picture of a perfectly made-up eye says, "If you purchase this mascara, you'll have pretty eyes, too." The pretty picture of a thin girl with a thigh gap says, "If you can mold yourself into this form, you'll be beautiful, too." 

      And it's not only the United State's who has bought into this beauty-hungry sensation. And the image of beauty is, by far, not new. 

     In prehistoric times, men and women would adorn themselves with clay paints or jewelry made out of shells or other materials. 

       During the Renaissance, in Italy, women were considered beautiful if they painted their face with lead foundations and plucked their hairs to have larger foreheads. Also, voluptuous women were considered wealthy and beautiful.

.

Botticell's "Young Woman With a Mythological Guise" c. 1475

Tempera on Oil Pane

     This is possibly an image of Simone Martini, who, during this era was considered the "Helen of Troy."

In Thailand, women begin wearing neck rings around the age of five (given a set of a few ring which weighs about 4.5 pounds) and rings are gradually added throughout the years. Long necks (like those of dragons) are considered beautiful. 

 Standards of beauty are studied. Some try to reinforce them with mathematics. (The Golden Mean)

 Or Philosophy. Some scientists believe men are more attracted to women with neotony which can arise via Paedomorphism, "the retention by adults of traits previously seen only in juveniles," essentially, a youthful face. 

Thus explaining why so many industries choose to market products claiming to fulfill one's need to look young. 

Eyeliner, mascara, and eye shadow are all products meant to enhance eyes via giving them a more "opened" or "doe-like" look. 

 Even when applied by the Victoria's Secret makeup artists in a smouldering, cat-eyed, angular way, one can't avoid creating an image of beauty without youth. Flawless skin. Bright eyes. Glossy lips.





Aaaannnndd.. now you feel like a pedophile for comparing a VS model with a baby. (Awkward)




     Anyway, let's just say media doesn't help promote positive body image.

Tumblr, anyone? Clothing websites?







Youtube?


      Sometimes fun to wish society would strive to encourage the motion that "beauty comes from within," ... but that concept is unmarketable and therefore, artificial beauty reigns.

That's enough babbling for now. Time to finish-up studying for finals c:
Coming up next: An article on judgement




Sources:

• http://news.urban360.com.mx/98505/una-nueva-moda-amenaza-a-las-mas-jovenes/
• http://www.theempressofdress.com/2013/06/08/surf-city-santa-cruz-california/
• http://www.thebeautybiz.com/78/article/history/beauty-through-ages-renaissance
• http://www.environmentalgraffiti.com/news-taboo-neck-rings-kayan-women-thailand
• Tyra Bank's show, "True Beauty"
• http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neoteny