Marx, Boils and AIDS, oh my

I was reading through the news today and found two interesting articles that merge history and science and are of interest to sociologists.

This article on Karl Marx’s dermatological woes seems to suggest that communism was influenced by his low self-esteem due to physical unattractiveness. My favorite part: “The bourgeoisie will remember my carbuncles until their dying day,” Marx told Friedrich Engels in a letter from 1867. I am not a huge fan of Marx’s writings but I am fascinated by the psychological motivations that a professor of dermatology, at least, is claiming influenced him. I wonder if a handsome guy could have written The Communist Manifesto.

This article reports that scientists have traced the entry of AIDS into the US from Haiti in 1969 from a single source. It’s amazing how quickly the virus can spread – from one person to millions in barely two decades. It seems likely that some of the anti-immigration crazies will misuse this information to bolster their racist arguments to close off the US.

Controlled Chaos

“There are lots of ways of being miserable, but there’s only one way of being comfortable, and that is to stop running round after happiness. If you make up your mind not to be happy, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t have a fairly good time.” -Edith Wharton

I have not been writing very personal blog posts this semester for some fairly good reasons. I have been trying to keep to myself a bit and figure things out. The more that I am working on myself, the more complexities that I find, so I can’t say that I have any better grasp on getting my life to be exactly the way that I want it but I am becoming more aware of why I don’t have it all together.

So here are some things that I have learned recently…and am willing to talk about:

Like the messy person who knows where everything is amid the clutter, my life is essentially controlled chaos. I avoid uncertainty at all costs. I cannot handle the not knowing, the limbo state, the taking chances. I make decisions, like going to grad school for 7 years, and am relieved that I have 7 years taken care of. I know what I’m doing and where I’m going. Any element of my life that I cannot control, I allow it to devolve into chaos. Sometimes, I get the feeling that my life would be more harmonious if I could let go of the things that I now control and be able to enforce some structure and discipline over those that wreak havoc.

I cannot sit with myself. I have a hard time listening. I run away from anything that I don’t think I can handle. I fear that which I cannot control or at least cannot trick myself into believing that I have the upper hand. I cannot handle going to the place of nothingness or emptiness.

Instead, I fill my life with motion instead of stillness. Talking instead of listening. Striving instead of contentment. The future instead of the present. I choose the best option available instead of waiting for the best option possible. I would rather settle for something tangible even if it is inadequate than have nothing. Impatience and anxiety permeate my existence.

I am reminded of the lyric by Tegan & Sara that says, “I wouldn’t like me if I met me.” Even though I do like myself, I think that if I could look at myself entirely objectively, I would not want to be around someone who is so highstrung and uncentered. My god, how could anyone enjoy spending time with someone who was both controlling and chaotic?

Changing behavioral patterns and personality proclivities is no easy task. It will be a slow process, but one that I am finally ready to start.

First, I need to figure out what does make me happy. This weekend, someone asked me and I stared dumbly back at them. It is certainly something that I have thought about and the answers should come easily. But I was stumped because the definition of happiness has changed for me. I know what makes me feel excited or gives me an ego boost, but what makes me feel truly content and deeply fulfilled? I don’t know.

Second, like the quote at the beginning of the post says, I need to stop chasing Happiness with a capital H. I need to let go of the idea that I am ever going to attain this perfect state of accomplishment and bliss if I only did this and improved that. Instead, I need to focus more on enjoying. For a long time, with life and with guys, I thought that I was just barking up the wrong tree. Now, I’ve realized that I just need to stop barking.

Finally, I think that I am going to try to start meditating and exploring stillness. I would like to quiet my mind and tone myself down. I believe that calmness will lead to contentment.

God Rest Your Single Soul

One of my ongoing book ideas is to write a sequel to “He’s Just Not That Into You” which would be a firsthand account of my life in the dating trenches. It would be entitled, “For Some Reason, He’s Just Not That Into You (Even Though You Lowered Your Standards To Go Out with Him in the First Place).” That has Bestseller written all over it, don’t you think? Until I get that in manuscript form, I will give you an update on my latest hilarious situation.

I tend to go through the same set of phases as I cycle through dating and singledom. It seems that every six months or so, I break down and violate one of my own dealbreakers and entertain the idea of going out with a conservative. I know it’s wrong. I know these things never go anywhere. But you know me – the eternal optimist, the diehard romantic. So I keep an open mind and every once in a blue moon, I meet someone on the Right who I am willing to give the chance to be my Mr. Right.

One sidenote: I do, however, think that I tend to venture into Conservative Guy territory right before I hit retirement phase. Thus, I date around, expend a lot of energy, nothing works out and then I’m like, “Eh, I guess I’ll give this a shot. What do I have to lose?” knowing that this experience will push me over the edge and solidly into Anti-Dating mode so that I can justify hibernating for the winter in solitary confinement and what has become neverending celibacy.

So, anyway, I met Mister Dos (the second viable candidate of the semester) awhile back and we started arguing nearly immediately after meeting due to his conservative stance. I loathe contrary people and don’t get any particular excitement out of fighting, so I didn’t really think anything of him. I certainly did not think that we would keep in contact but it turns out that he is a pretty nice guy in his indirect forms of communication (e.g. texting and emails). BTW, since when did it become acceptable to have full out conversations via text messages? Guys need to realize that this is lame.

We had coffee. I talked about myself way too much and wasn’t entirely surprised that it took another month to get a second invitation. So last week, we had an uber-casual dinner thing and disagreed about religion and politics the entire time. But the tone seemed friendly and fair, and I was guardedly intrigued by this conservative creature. Five minutes after I returned home, I had an email from him with a link to a sermon that he had mentioned earlier in the evening.

Under normal circumstances, I might find it questionable if a guy were to send me a religious sermon directly after a date, but it seemed fitting given the conversation and I actually found it kind of endearing. And even though I am not a religious person, I liked the message of it.

But since then….nothing. It has been a week and no contact at all. I don’t think I need to write into Cosmo’s advice column to figure this one out.

When a guy sends you a sermon and then never talks to you again, it probably means: He’s Just Not That Into You….Because He Thinks You Are Going to Hell.

Ahhh, God Rest My Single Soul. No more conservatives!

Relative Wealth

“A recent cost of living study of U.S. cities with major graduate schools revealed that Bloomington, Indiana, is one of the four least expensive of the cities in which to live. The study showed, for example, that a $12,000 fellowship from Indiana University Bloomington is the rough financial equivalent of a $20,950 fellowship from a graduate school located in Chicago, a $25,300 fellowship from a school located in Boston, a $29,250 fellowship from a school located in New York City, or a $31,650 fellowship from a school located in Los Angeles.”
-From IU’s creative writing program website

Googling Negativity

I am brain dead after spending the afternoon working on my masters. It seems as though the numbers are not going to add up to a compelling story in an obvious sort of way. So I will have to frame it all in an interesting, but statistically insignificant subtle sort of way.

Anyway, I am going to bed by 10:30 tonight (very strange) but I thought I’d check in with the googlers out there who have been clicking on my blog to answer their queries. There is some negativity in the air which if funny because I am so zen these days.

Here are some recent searches:

women hate women friendships
ways to hate women
bored in PA
emotional infidelity the other woman
fuckoff asshole

And my favorite of the week:

life is ultimately meaningless yet making love is a pleasure

And for whatever reason, it seems as though several people have actually been searching for my name and my little blog. I should have gone the anonymous route. Really. My blog could have been so scandalous and saucy if I had.

Biscotti: The Athletic Cookie

Before today, I was that girl on the elliptical watching Oprah. Before today, I was that girl who kept moving the pin in the weight machines back up to 5 pounds. Before today, I was that girl who jogged at a moderate pace whenever she felt like it.

But today, I accomplished my greatest athletic feat to date. In fact, running the 5k may actually be the only athletic thing I have ever done in my entire life.

I like working out, but the idea of running long distances with herds of people was never on the top of my Things I Would Love list. Fortunately, I tried it anyway and I had such a great experience. I ran it so much faster than I had anticipated and it was awesome to push myself physically.

Here is the rundown (pun intended)of my race:

Pre-Race Background: Jill encourages me to sign up for the 5K. I am ambivalent, but ultimately acquiesce. After signing up, I wonder if I can actually even run 3 miles without stopping. Thinking it would be a good idea to find out, I go to the treadmill on the Sunday before the race(because it is 90 degrees outside) and run. By the third mile, my breathing is spastic and I am barely trotting along at 5.0 mph. But I finish my treadmill 5K and am comforted by the knowledge that I will be able to complete the race – it may not be pretty and it may not be fast, but I can do it. Then, this past Thursday, Jill and I run the course together in preparation. I realize that running 3 miles on a flat, controlled treadmill is not the same as running through hilly Bloomington. Fearing that I might pull a muscle or have a coronary, I make Jill stop midway through. I gather myself and I eke out a finish. Physically, this is not stellar, but mentally, I know what I am facing.

Pre-Race Morning: After going to bed early on Friday night, I awake to find myself already stretching. My dream mind is flexing my thigh muscles (something my awake mind has no idea how to do) and I realize that my body is geared up for this race. I then fall back asleep for a half hour. When it is time to arise, I find that it is not only cold, it is frigid. 34 degrees, in fact. I revise my 5K outfit that is neatly laid out to include a sweatshirt. Jill told me to eat carbs for dinner and protein for breakfast before the race. She said that she eats peanut butter bread. For some reason, I cannot get this out of my head and feel paranoid that if I do not eat peanut butter bread, I will not be a champion. So, for the first time since elementary school, I eat peanut butter bread. That is how in the zone I am.

We arrive at the stadium and I am a mess. I don’t know what to do with my car key. I don’t know whether to wear my sweatshirt or not. I keep adjusting my ipod. This overcaffeinated, peppy biotch is screaming into a microphone. We stretch.

We go to the starting line. I ask if there will be a gunshot to let us know when to start. Jill says no. I say that Indiana is technically a red state and they should be able to fire a gun for a charity run. Then, I mention that the Jill Behrman 5K is in honor of an IU student who went missing and I think that this has caused me to focus on my own death. I tell Jill not to create a 5K in my honor if I die at this 5K. She agrees to honor my wishes. A woman is talking into the microphone but no sound comes out. No firearms, and now, not even sound. But people start running nonetheless and we are off!

Mile 1: Jill and I were in the back of the mob. Jill turns to me and says, “Good luck” and starts running away from me. As if she could run away from me! We can’t go anywhere. So, I start darting around people, weaving in and out of the mob, pretending like I need to get away from them because I am so fast and athletic and they are just in the way of my greatness. But really, it is an easy pace and my stride feels natural and comfortable. This won’t be too bad, I tell myself. I’m grooving to my music and I try to concentrate on the experience and not compare myself to the thousand people around me.

Then we get to the first hill. By this time, people have spread out and I can see my competitors for who they really are. To my right, a short, white-haired man who could not be a day under 75 years old. To my left, a really short, brown haired boy who could not be a day over 5 years old. I think to myself, “Wow, I am keeping pace with the elderly and the children. Rock on, Laura!” But then, I see that little blonde ponytails that were bobbing ahead of me slowing and then walking. The girls ahead of me have become sorority roadkill! And I am still running strong.

Mile 2: Until the second hill. This was about the time when the four frat boys were handing out dixie cups of water. Now, I’m not a vain person, but I sort of am. And by that time, I can guarantee that my face looked like a fresh bruise – red and purple, snot was running down my nose, and I was sweating profusely. So, I took my water from one of the freshfaced, cocky little frat boys and I gave him a really mean look as I did. I’m unattractive, can’t breathe, and I hate you. Take that! I tried to keep running while drinking my dixie cup like some others were doing, but it splashed on my face instead. So, I halted and drank the sweet nectar of two part hydrogen, one part oxygen. Ahhh, oxygen. After the 10 second stop, I was starting to catch my breath. That was so delectable that I decided to fully catch my breath. So I walked for a few seconds before starting up again. And then it was downhill through sorority row just as Kanye’s “Stronger” came on. I was feeling good again.

Mile 3: I want to give up. I am over this 5K. I feel horrible. I turn the bend and the stadium is in sight. I know that it is a cruel optical illusion. You can see it but there is really so far to go. Most of that last mile is the parking lot. So, I do whatever I can to keep running and this is what I believe the athletics would call “digging deep.” I did that for a couple minutes. And then I got to the parking lot and I basically said, “Fuck this. I want this to be over. I’m going fast.” The ground was flat. I started passing people again. I was sprinting. I felt strong. I also felt chills. My body was freaking the hell out. The parking lot took a slight incline. I was worried that I had made a huge mistake in “pushing it out” too soon. I was so close to entering the stadium. Just a little bit more. But I was dying. Who runs the whole race only to walk the last tenth of a mile? I wanted it to be me, but it couldn’t be me. So, I go for the last bit of it and all of the sudden I see 4 people in wheelchairs heading towards the finish. Really? They must have been part of a different race, I swear. I zoom past the people in wheelchairs and I see the clock. It says 30 minutes so I run faster to check my eyesight. I cross as it turns to 31 minutes, 5 seconds. For the record, my treadmill time was 33:30 so the fact that I did it in real life, outside and uphill in even less time is truly amazing. Jill was even more amazing because she did it in 27 minutes!

Post-Race: We ate a half-banana, stretched, and then went to a booth where Jill met a lovely Sigma Nu who knew (and sung) the fight song of Washington & Lee, her alma mater, even though he went somewhere else for college…60 years ago! 5Ks are great places for the single gals to meet really fit, really awesome 70-somethings.

So now, I am addicted to running and I can’t wait for the half-marathon in May!

Post-mortem

I am fascinated by death. I like to think it is because I care so much about life and living fully, but there is also something very curious about the idea of ceasing to exist, directly followed by physical disintegration. Death too often happens without consent and without warning and that is what I think is unfair about it. Why couldn’t we all just sign up for a death day? After we have lived all of the life we want, we can bow out gracefully. I believe that eventually we would all get to that point. Who really wants to live forever? It’s only good when it is long enough to sample the good and bad but short enough to make it all meaningful.

Or maybe there could have been a more fair way to distribute death. For instance, give everyone 100 years. You will die on the centennial anniversary of your birth. I would go for that. We’d all get an equal amount of time and you know how long you have to fight with your loved ones before you have to make up with them and say what you need to say before the year 99 hits.

It all just seems so random. I like contracts, not lotteries especially when the stakes are so high. Is God merely a numbers game? Would it be better to have a God who preordains the day of death (even when babies die) or would it be better to have a detached God who just lets us race our cars into highway dividers or catch the wrong kind bacteria at random? When it all shakes out, why are some lives false starts?

It’s odd to think about one’s own death and funeral. I really don’t want any fuss. I mean it. If I am tragically killed in the next 6 months, I don’t want an RIP facebook group, a scholarship fund, or flowers. I am giving all of my organs away and they are going to cremate whatever is left. In death, I will give life and I will not rot. Those are my two wishes. And as a bonus, if you really love me, put the ashes in a really cool purple genie bottle.

I understand that funerals are necessary for the ones left behind. But frankly, I find the whole thing unbearably embarassing for the dead one. I hope that my spirit doesn’t have to watch that crap. My mom would be ripped apart, my friends would be faced with their own mortality, and the death gawkers who never really knew me would awkwardly mill about and say that I was a “good person with lots of potential.” Either way – if a ton of people come to the funeral or if very few – it’s embarassing. If lots of people come, it’s more spectacle than genuine and if no one comes, it’s like you didn’t matter. If I had my way, I’d make my funeral invitation-only and I’d get to be the one who did the inviting. I’m no Miss Manners but if I wouldn’t invite you to my wedding (which I tragically never got because I got sick and contradicted the “you’ll get better before you get married” saying), then you probably shouldn’t go to the funeral. And now, I am being a total bitch because I am trying to make my funeral exclusive or something. I mean, I guess if you are dead and people mourn you, you should not have strong opinions about who comes…except perhaps gratitude.

But I think the point that I am trying to make is that I would not want to be remembered as dead. The girl who died. Dead Laura. Or the girl who was murdered, who was taken too soon, who was sick, who had a freak accident. I would rather just quietly disappear than die. Death is too public. And it’s not the kind of attention I want.

I would rather for people to think, “Wow, do you remember that time when Tony and Mary and Laura ate all of that spinach and then drove to Nashville. hahaha. Whatever happened to Laura?” “I have no idea. Haven’t heard from her in years.”
That’s because I’m DEAD, folks.

I want memories of me when I was alive to never be tinged with the sadness or revised meaning that comes post-mortem. I just want the good times to be remembered as is. So, you know, if I have a fatal heart attack while running the 5k on Saturday, I just want to be carted off to Pennsylvania, never to be heard from again, but remembered fondly as the alive girl who dropped off the face of the earth.

P.S. If I do “take a leave of absence” at some point in the near future, please do not be creeped out by this entry or the dead girl’s blog. Just remember, Biscotti is surely heaven bound and had a great life and she loved and forgives all of you. (Isn’t that what you would want to hear during that difficult time? You’re welcome.)

Unlucky Biscotti

Today I had a thought.

What if I wrote a novel about graduate school? A smart and entertaining novel that skewers academia with a cutting wit but also moves the reader with its enormous heart. Like an updated Lucky Jim with a sassy female lead loosely based on myself and a cast of ridiculous characters firmly based on people I know.

This would require time. Right now, I have no time. And somehow, miraculously, for someone who devotes every spare moment to doing everything, I barely get anything done. So, an additional project is out of the question, especially something as frivolous as fiction writing.

Not only frivolous but foolhardy for I am a terrible creative writer. I have tried my hand at it.

And it’s bad. Unintentionally funny bad.

But then again, grad school is unintentionally funny bad sometimes, too.

Run, Biscotti, Run

I will be running my first 5k this Saturday. I have never been a particularly fast runner. Nor have I ever been a good distance runner. But since I have moved to Indiana, I have become a pretty consistent jogger and am excited to have the motivation to push myself. I suspect that the reason that marathons are so popular is because running is so boring. You need something to work towards with it or else you would get tired of it.

Running a 5k is basically pushing the boundaries of my comfort level. I max out at 3 miles as most human beings should. But somehow, some way, I have signed up and put $50 on running the Indy Mini-marathon in May. I have 6 months to add 10 miles to my running ability.

I was wondering today why a marathon is 26 miles. That seems so arbitrary and I figured that there must be some historical reason for choosing 26 miles. Or I thought that maybe it was scientific – the human body can only handle that. Maybe it was because of some Greek god. Who knows?

Well, I did some sleuthing and here is the real reason:

The current marathon distance (26 mi., 385 yds.) was set for the 1908 London Olympics so that the course could start at Windsor Castle and end in front of the Royal Box. Not until 1921, however, was that distance adopted as the “official” Marathon distance by the IAAF. (from MarathonGuide.com)

So, all of you people who run 26 miles and people like me who have to run half of that, we can all blame London.

Before I was a blogger, I had a journal

One of the icebreaker-type questions that consistently comes up when you are first meeting a group of strangers is “Tell us something unique about yourself.” Or, “Tell us a fun fact that not many know.”

I always hate those type of questions because even though I think I am an interesting person, I can never come up with any evidence of it. And I also get annoyed because everyone else’s response are very obvious and boring. “I like to watch funny movies.” Real unique, Chuck. “My dream is to visit Paris in the springtime.” Real interesting, Betty.

When I am at a loss, I usually mention Whiskers. Because she is the coolest cat ever and I am just as lame as all of the other uncomfortable strangers in the contrived breaking of the ice scenario.

BUT if I think about it, and if I could remember when I am put on the spot, I can say that there is one really great thing that I have done and I’m pretty sure that not too many people can say that they have.

I have been recording my life in journals since my 10th birthday in 1994.

The cool thing about this is that I can quite easily go retrieve my child-self. Don’t you ever wonder what it would be like if you could hang out with yourself when you were in 4th grade? What were you thinking? What was important to you? Do you have the same personality? How have the people that you’ve met in the past 13 years shaped you? How have the years changed you?

My journals are the closest thing that I have to approximating my childhood self. Looking back, I question Young Laura as a thorough narrator and she could certainly use some work on her spelling, but overall, it is really amazing to be able to go back in time to another mindset, to a very childlike and unformed version of self.

So every night before I go to sleep, I have been reading about what I was like in 1994. I wanted to be an actress, a writer, and a psychologist when I grew up. They say that if you don’t know what you want to do in life, go back to what you said as a child. Somehow, I think that being a sociologist in academia brilliantly combines all three. In 1994, I was in love with Macauley Culkin, fond of the phrases “Holy cow” and “Pain-in-the butt” and I often spoke dramatically about being “humiliated” by “disasters” such as telling people that my friend’s mother was pregnant when she wasn’t.

By 1995, I was already thinking sociologically. Here is an excerpt from August 2, 1995.

“People say that television is bad for people’s minds. Sure there’s a lot of bad things on TV but there’s also a lot of good things. Shows that open our minds, take us places, but most of all entertain us. What about back when there was no technology? No TV, no phone, no radio. You know what was really happening in the “Good Ole Days?” If there was television back when there was slavery, it would open our minds and make us aware of the problem. Many issues would have been addressed sooner if there had been some sort of thing to get info from. You know what people did for entertainment back then? They watched people get hanged. And they say our minds are being destroyed.”

Wow. That was me in 5th grade. I laughed out loud when I got to the part about watching people get hanged in the good ole days.

The ironic part is that I went out for lunch today with people from my department and the restaurant had a TV that was tuned to CNN. By the end of the hour that I spent there, I was completely disgusted by cable news. They were showing plane crash victims, a man being gunned down by a SWAT team, talking about whether gay people should get fired from their jobs, and then turned to someone getting 30 years for stealing a doughnut. And this is what we do for entertainment now. The cheap thrills of voyeurism have been reduced to 5 second soundbites of one hanging after another. I think that Young Laura would be disgusted as well. There were some pretty interesting entries about the news coverage of the OJ Simpson trial. (Young Laura thought he was being framed for awhile – too much Matlock after school, I would say in hindsight).

By 1996, I was inspired by an anthropologist who had recorded her siblings behavior and decided to do the same by psychoanalyzing my brother and sister. This is what i had to say about my sister:

“When she’s upset or gets in trouble, she starts to cry and say things like, “I’m the stupidest girl in the world.” and “Everyone hates me.” Does she really mean those things or is it just the heat of the moment? We’ve all felt those things when we get mad or frustrated. I think this behavior could mean two things.
(1) Her self-esteem is damaged and this could cause problems mentally and socially in the long run.
(2) She’s only 6 years old and she is just expressing herself immaturely.”

This is hilarious. I love that in 6th grade I was worried about my kindergarten aged sister being irrevocably damaged in self esteem and suffering long term mental and social consequences because of tantrums.

I haven’t changed a bit.