The One with the Caffeine Addiction

Remember back when you just COULDN'T wait until you were a beautiful, (mostly) financially independent, grown person who spent the bulk of your time at a coffee shop hanging out with your friends? And no one else was EVER on YOUR couch!

I am waiting for that moment to materialize. I feel like I'm still stuck in the flashback scenes. Somewhere between fat Monica and pre-nose job Rachel.

What has instead materialized is, perhaps the entire opposite: an endless hell of assignments, slogged through with my friends, which drive an ever increasing need for coffee. People always joke about the diligent and overworked law student who relies on coffee when working and booze the moment they're done. Well, I'm never "done." And so, it would seem, I'm perpetually caffeinated.

I have been feeling under the weather this week. God knows I couldn't get through winter having only been hospitalized with the mumps. Regardless of fate's cruel plans for me, I'm sick now. Sore throat and cough. So I switched to green tea to sooth what ails me, as they say. I forgot, however, that my green tea is decaf. I had this brilliant idea that I would drink tea before bed instead of wine (ok, sue me, I lied about never being done), and so opted for decaf.

How did I remember this? Oh, after I failed to get through two consecutive days without a splitting headache.

This shit's real guys. Every time you watched Joey and Chandler goof around with Rachel at Central Perk, you were basically watching crack addicts hit the pipe to avoid the unsightly shakes and sweats of withdrawal. Without Central Perk, you'd basically have been watching Walk the Line.

If no one else is going to say it...

I'm just going to put it out there. It was beautiful and all, but Jennifer Lawrence's Oscar dress looked kind of like a very pale pink vagina.

Just.

Saying.

SheWolves and HeWolves: a gendered sweater debacle

I have a friend named Jon Silver, and he owns a remarkable wolf sweater. As a prank - albeit, not a very creative one - I contrived with my friend Anna and some friends of his to apprehend this sweater and get as many people as possible in our law school class to wear it. We take great solace in small pleasures in law school.

Jon's friend Stefan was first to show off the sweater. He looked truly dashing. I grabbed it from him the next day. The difference in response to our respective donning of the trademark Jon Silver apparel was remarkable.

Stefan, who I will grant is a little more reserved and low profile than I am in the class, received little harassment. A couple of people in the immediate area asked if he and Jon had had a slumber party, pondered who would be the big spoon, and moved on. The facebook reaction was similarly muted - a comment that Stefan was a mere imposter was probably the most heated of the luke warm commentary.

I mean, that may not seem like a mild-mannered thumbs up, but trust me, he's a reserved guy.

When I donned the sweater the next day, however, the tone of the dialogue changed. As did the venue. While Stefan was teased mostly to his face and a little bit on the comments section of his facebook picture, the questioning of why I had Jon Silver's sweater was conducted in the class' facebook group. For those unfamiliar with "facebook," that is the groups that sends an alert to every member whenever anyone posts something. So even uninterested parties, so long as they were in our class and in the facebook group, read the inquiry "Ok I'm just going to go ahead and ask...Sydney Robyn, isn't that John [sic] Silver's shirt? LOL It getting passed around now?"

The asking of the question wasn't necessarily groundless: it was certainly fair for there to be some curiosity. That was the point, really. And the question wasn't itself suggestive (though this individual didn't ask me about the sweater - he called me out in front of the class). The comments that accrued, before I had even noticed the initial post, took on a staggering amount of innuendo, however. For your unadulterated perusal:

 As the astute Caroline Alexa noted, no one insinuated that Jon had slept with Stefan. Weird, right?

I do not want to give the impression that I am brooding over this - I really like all the people involved, and I assume that this went in the direction it did under the belief that I can take a joke. I do not want to betray that impression - I LOVE comedy. It's the best. Who's on first? Exactly! etc, etc.

I was, however, struck that highly educated, socially aware individuals, (mostly) unbeknownst to themselves, engaged in exactly the sort of dialogue that illustrates why women are not taken seriously in jobs of equal standing compared with their male co-workers. Why women make less money than men. Still. For equal work. Why there is still the widespread belief that many sexual assault accusations are groundless and stemming from a woman's regret. A pervasive notion of women as sexual beings whose interactions with men are always, first and foremost, sexual. None of the men engaged in this dialogue are ok with any of these pervasive realities. But the tone set by these comments appears to condone it nonetheless. It is for exactly this reason we need to be aware of what realities comedy points to. Not to mention, how much funnier would this whole thing have been if it had been directed at Stefan, and not me? SO much funnier.

Jon Silver is a babe, but I just want to wear his sweatshirt. And so do all these people!

So I guess what I'm saying is that anyone can wear a wolf sweater, guys.
Let's keep sex jokes to private facebook threads.

Oh, and the Revolution. It's coming.

Devoted

I received the most interesting compliment today.

Despite of, or probably in response to, my rather ardent (and apparently off-putting) feminist values, an acquaintance of mine commented, "Sydney, you're going to be the best and most traditional housewife and mother. I can already see it."

I shrugged and rolled my eyes. I don't particularly plan on having children, but that's not really a discussion or debate to involve other people in, so I just let the comment slide as a bit of good spirited teasing.

Later that day, when I mentioned how hilarious I thought the comment was, he clarified;

"I don't actually think that you will or will not have kids or anything. I just get the impression from you that you're a very devoted person. That once you love someone, a friend or a guy, that you would be wholly devoted to them."

I thought that was a staggering thought. Devoted.

I cannot remember the last time I received such a phenomenal compliment. It nearly left me in tears. I could not be happier to think that anyone could walk away from fleeting encounters with such an impression.

 "Loyalty and devotion lead to bravery. Bravery leads to the spirit of self-sacrifice. The spirit of self-sacrifice creates trust in the power of love." - Morihei Ueshiba

Could I Go Veg?

I have been seriously considering and contemplating a question that has nagged at the corner of my mind as of late:

Could I become a vegetarian?

Anyone who knows me, is likely to laugh at this suggestion. I am from Calgary, where saying you are a vegetarian is likely to stir as much mingled derision and baffled curiosity as a proclamation that you practice polygamy. 

My family are meat eaters; our family dinners were the entirely typical meat/starch/vegetable composition. When my family went to a vegetarian restaurant when we were on vacation, my father, a grown man, pouted and sulked the entire time.

I dated a vegetarian. For almost three years. An at-home vegan, in fact (most of the time). And never once while we were together did I even consider embracing a vegetarian diet. Every time we went out, I revelled in the opportunity to order meat. An environmentalist, he would tell me about how much more environmentally sustainable it is to produce a pound of vegetables than it is to produce a pound of meat. The carbon footprint of a cheeseburger has been well documented. And the North American dependence on meat is a recent development that points more to a keeping-up-with-the-Joneses, right to indulgence mentality than any physiological need for meat protein. 

I should add (you're welcome, Chopper) that he is very fit. He lives an active lifestyle, he played and coaches rugby, he does crossfit. He was not anemic or pale or scrawny. 

Only once did I witness him yell at someone that he doesn't eat animals.

I knew all this, and yet...

I think I will openly chalk this one up to stubbornness. I was not prepared to abandon something I honestly liked, just because someone, and even someone I loved and respected very much, thought I should. The numbers didn't matter as much as "staying true to myself" did. And don't get me wrong, I think that is a very important thing in a relationship, and to his credit, John never got on my case about vegetarianism. I'm simply realizing more and more that the things I had been rejecting may have been entirely true to my priorities and sensibilities. The older I get the more I realize who I've been is not necessarily who I am. Not in a fluffy, self-help, fit-spo kind of way - in the sense that I have been (and I would guess many people are), in a lot of ways, the product of my parents. But as I form my own opinions and priorities and watch those diverge ever so slightly from the priorities of my family, making unique decisions about what course to take my life feels less like compromising some core sense of self.

But the question remains; could I become a vegetarian?

I don't think so. I think that part of the self I craft, not wholly distinct from my family, is one who is passionate about food. There is great vegetarian food, but most foodies will tell you that life without chicken stock is not much of a life at all.

But I had been thinking about cutting down on meat and animal products significantly. And why does it have to be one or the other? And while this very thought had been ruminating in my mind I stumbled across this TED Talk...


It's a post-modern world - fuck binaries. So while "no meat" may not be something I can reconcile myself with, "less meat" certainly is. And that's not nothing.

# 5: The Right Foot

I officially find myself tucked back, safe and snug in Toronto. Which I was really looking forward to, until I realized how utterly unprepared I was, mind and body, to return to the immense workload and intense pressure of law school. I'm jetlagged - a mere two hours behind, but what a difference that makes when you aspire to wake up at 6:30 - and both my mind and body are still staunchly in hibernation mode. I came home after class yesterday, utterly at a loss as to what I should do: I had been away long enough to forget the absolute necessity of getting myself to the library, lest I migrate my studying from my desk to my bed, and from there from consciousness to subunconsciousness.

So my plan of attack is as follows:

Take it one step at a time, and start your day on the right foot

"Thanks for that illuminating platitude," I'm sure you're thinking. It's really just a two-fold mindset. I think that, first, it's important to set fair expectations for yourself. For me, this means not beating myself about the fact that I haven't made it to my morning gym dates. My first step is to get my sleeping schedule adjusted, and forcing myself to run a day on 5 hours of sleep just does not strike me as the most effective or pleasant way to accomplish that. I could set myself an ambitious and unrealistic To Do list, and then just feel ashamed when it doesn't get completed, or I can put down some priorities, and do them well.

The second part of this mantra, is simply to make sure that I start my day with choices that give me positive energy throughout the day. Just because I'm stressed about being back at school does not mean that I should roll out of bed, throw on whatever, and drag myself to the library. I think a key to my personal sanity is my morning routine. When I start my day by either going to the gym or having a healthy breakfast, I just feel better prepared for the rest of my day. Making those first few choices to take care of yourself just makes you feel empowered to take on the day. Today, for me that means...

More on that monstrosity in future.

So start your day right, and realize your own initial limitations.

Drool

I don't often find myself revisiting a blog to stare lustfully at any given garment, but Caroline's Mode has had me doing just that with this dip dyed leather jacket by the UK leather aficionados, Muubaa. I hadn't heard of the design house before, but after painstakingly perusing their website (and drool-worthy blog), I have swiftly fallen in love. I am stuck in the uncomfortable position of wanting to reduce my use of animal products (I recently watched Vegucation and it's been resonating with me ever since) while my appreciation, and fashion's innovative utilization, of leather deepens and expands. There is something about the investment in leather that feels so adult, a commitment to a style, to a statement, to a piece - I love it. As I feel myself approaching other things that smack of adulthood - a profession, an income, a "home" - leather seems to be a silver lining.

The price tag is, of course, around 600$, so until the pay cheque I anticipate comes with adulthood materializes, this gorgeous jacket will stay snuggly in my dreams.

Five Senses Friday IV

Feeling:

the inside of a very dry mouth. Mump-related swelling is down, but I'm still not salivating. Charming, right? If I don't constantly drink water, my tongue feels like tack and my get that white film on my parched lips. I have to pee all the time.

Smelling:
Stew. Even though I'm not hungry, it's still one of the most comforting smells.

Hearing:

Firefly. My family got addicted. It's good, but I refuse to throw myself into something so futile as a one-season show. My brother just said "Nothing like getting cock blocked by a preacher." Quality family time.

Tasting: 

Ok. I know I said I wasn't hungry, but when I saw my brother mow down some peanut butter toast I couldn't not have a slice myself. I don't let myself buy bread or peanut butter, so I had to.

Seeing:

Bed time. Stat.

Shmumps

I should be going to bed, snuggling in safe and sound with She Ra in my Toronto apartment.

I am not doing this. I am sitting on my couch in Calgary, looking like the transformative character in an Eddie Murphy movie. I, somehow, have acquired mumps. Who gets the mumps? It's like getting polio! I was even vaccinated against the mumps, but apparently failed to get my booster. So I spent 5 hours in urgent care, after having my face/neck swell to twice its normal size over night. I walked out with no answers except elevated white blood cells; this would indicate either an infection, for which there was no clear physical manifestation, or lymphoma, which the additional blood work didn't really indicate. So a phantom infection or cancer. I was given some let's-hope-for-the-best antibiotics and told to go to a hospital if it got worse.

Well it got worse.

It's funny, you assume your skin can only stretch so much. The skin on my neck got so swollen, it started encompassing my ears. It was a straight shot from the outside of my earlobe down to my shoulders. When the area started turning rock hard, it was time to get to the hospital. It's half comforting and half alarming when you realize you're getting high priority treatment in the emergency room. In my case, it meant a couple hours wait until I had IV fluids and morphine, and another hour until I got in for a CT scan. My allergy to anti-inflammatories put me at a serious disadvantage - they could treat the pain with morphine, but every time it wore off the swelling had increased, and the pain along with it. Finally they settled on the diagnosis: a very serious manifestation of mumps.

Which means now I'm at home, taking tylenol (I'm discovering I'm allergic to percocet, unfortunately), on self-quarantine for a week. Which means I'm not allowed to fly. Grounded, if you would. And missing the first week of class in favour of sitting on my couch, not eating, not seeing my much missed friends. Oh yeah, And I look like I'm massively overweight. What a treat.

Get your booster shots, kiddos.

Dreaming of Rain

I am overjoyed to be the new owner of  a classic, raglan sleeve, long Burberry trench. Overjoyed. I asked for a rain coat for Christmas. 

As I wandered around Holt Renfrew with my mum on the day before Christmas, and as we toured through the Burberry section I remarked "I know I will have made it in life when I own a Burberry trench." Well, I don't think I've made it, so I will have to come up with a new measure of success, but for now I get to figure out how I can make this timeless piece part of my wardrobe.

First thought; pair the trench with my new faux-Marant wedge sneakers and faux-leather leggings. Something rugged and modern. There is a definite rock-n-roll undercurrent to my style. I definitely take note on what Rihanna is wearing and take inspiration, channeling her leather ensembles, albeit in a slightly tamer, every day, Canadian way.

Or, on the other hand...
  

Maybe something more traditional. I realize that, as I move towards a professional career, my favourite spiked ring may prove more of a detriment than an indicator of my spot-on style. So a more classic, feminine look to pair with the trench, with clean lines and simple colours.

Sometimes it makes me sad that I don't have a distinct personal style. I'm much more of a chameleon, taking on and appreciating a variety of looks. I'm never going to inspire anyone with my style though. But if it means I could wear this trench like a 1930s starlet or like Rihanna I will take versatility over a distinct aesthetic.

Retreat

December is probably one of my most anticipated months of the year. It signals my birthday, Christmas, and the New Year. But, for all that, it doesn't make for much of a genuine break. I came straight from exams (or, more accurately, my post-exam party, hangover in tow), and was whisked immediately off to a much needed appointment with my hair dresser, the mall for last minute shopping, my aunt's Christmas party, a visit with my Grandma, and suddenly it was Christmas. With errands and jet lag and two days of -20 snow storms, I have yet to see any of my beloved friends, in fact. If all these flurry of activity weren't enough, between Christmas and New Year I always find myself overwhelmed with the pressure of New Years plans. So, for perhaps the fourth year in a row, I have simply opted out. For true relaxation and an unequivocal break, I have escaped to the Rockies. 

 

My whole family has escaped to our cabin in Waterton Lakes National Park. I plan to do little more than laze by the fire, get a leisurely start on my readings, and allow the clean air and fresh water to cleanse my skin and my soul. Here's a glimpse. Get ready to get jealous.

Being at the cabin means sweaters and leggings and afternoon naps, not concealer and mascara.

So, however you choose to spend your New Year, surrounded by glitter and bubbles and friends, or snow and deer tracks, enjoy it. Tabula rasa everyone. See you in the brand spankin' new year.

I Survived the Apocalypse

I am not speaking of the Mayan apocalypse. I'm talking about the apocalypse that is a law student's first round of exams. Ah, what fresh hell it is. For over a month I felt the constant nagging guilt of feeling as though any energy not expended on the law was energy poorly expended. So you have my apologies. I know I am always apologizing. But, though it was a conversation fuelled by gin and tonic, I made a blogging vow with a classmate of mine. It may even lead to a cool collabo. But first things first - to nurture and love my once and future blog. 'Tis the season, isn't it?

Speaking of, have you seen a more idyllic Christmas picture? An argument could perhaps be made for switching the wine for egg nog, and hanging some additional stockings above the fire (there is my cat's stocking up there, hardly in the frame. It's white and reads "Cats love Christmas too." Which is funny, because my cat could hardly be said to love anything at all, except most certainly sleep and food, and occasionally me, but I suspect that is in large part because I facilitate the latter of her two most constant and unerring loves).

But this is exactly how I envision spending my Christmas break. Blowing off commitments to go out and socialize, which would require trekking into the cold and braving trecherous roads in horrendous weather, in favour of staying in with a glass of truly fabulous red wine, Bernard Callebaut chocolate cherries and a roaring fire. I am aged before my time.

Merry Christmas everyone.

Like a Devil's, sick of sin

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.

--Wilfred Owen 

Remembrance Day does not glorify war. Remembrance Day is an opportunity to reflect on war, its horrors, its losses, and the sacrifice of those involved. It is not political. It is reverent.

#4 - Shake It Off, or, Taking up the Mantel

My lovely friend Kathy had a blog, once upon a time. I feel like we are the generation of people who will have "had blogs." Because we are, if HBO's Girls has taught me anything, the generation of self-indulgent prima donnas who want to talk about our feelings and our emotions and try to leave behind a relic of our humanity. Or something like that, right? And then we are all going to get hit in the face with the concrete brick of reality, with real life deadlines and commutes and relationships and commitments. And thus, we abandon our navel-gazing revelry and get to work. Well don't you fret - while I completely understand my friends' abandoning their blogs for real life - I am too big a narcissist and too poor at prioritizing to give up blogging for anything less than being, meh, just too lazy. But as long as there is work to do and a library for me to sit in fruitlessly, there will be blog posts.

The point that I have been dancing around is that I am going to take up the mantel of one of Kathy's last, abbreviated, blog projects. She found a moral imperative to provide law students with tips for surviving law school. She only got three tips in, which should probably leave me with a sense of foreboding, but I find myself wanting to pick up where she left off. Because law school is overwhelming, and taking a step back to re-evaluated and decide what is important and what paths need to be taken strikes me as helpful for me and hopefully illuminating for others.

I do this, however, realizing that I begin this undertaking with the optimistic view that I will survive law school, and the humility that I almost certainly don't have any actual answers. I am no pro at law school. But I am prone to navel gazing [see above] and so occasionally am given a moment of clarity where things that are self evident become so again, after being crush by my Torts textbook or my Legal Process deadline.

Shake it Off

As you will hear, law school can be cut throat. Take every smarty pants who did well in school who you ever knew, put them together in one class, and tell them that an A (and therefor a prestigious 1st year internship that could very well lay the groundwork for their entire career) is entirely contingent not on how well they know the subject matter, or how hard they've studied or even how well they do on their exams - that A is entirely contingent on you doing better than your fellow smarty pants.

I'm not Jewish, but let me just say; Oy.

My experience has thus far not been the horror story that Selma Blair painted for me in Legally Blonde (my personal quintessential law school film). A lot of people in my classes are really supportive and helpful, and virtually no one goes out of their way to make sure their classmates don't understand a concept. 

But there will be comments. "Oh, well if that works for you, then I guess go ahead." "Do you have all your summaries done yet? Because I do, but I'm worried they aren't thorough enough." Just the other day, after trying to assure a friend of mine that she had time to eat lunch, I was on the receiving end of "I'm behind. You're really behind, but that doesn't mean I'm not behind."

Excusemewhat? I'm sure I looked like I had been slapped. It hurt. It was mean. But I have the confidence that it wasn't intended to hurt or come across as mean. It almost certainly came from a place of insecurity and stress that had exactly nothing to do with me.

And that's when and why you need to shake it off. You can spend all day freaking out about whether or not you're behind, or you can just go ahead make sure it's not true. Mind games - and whether mind games are actually being played, or we all just read way too much into other people's actions, is an assumption I would certainly contest - are not going to help you.

what is more likely to help you is this picture of a Puli jumping. Or "shaking it off," if you will.

We all (hopefully) are going to go be lawyers, and that probably means some of us will work with each other. So don't be a douche. But if some one is a douche, don't vilify them. Shake it off, and realize that we're all probably a little stressed.

The Wildly Obscure Halloween Costume, Well Executed

There are a number of ways that you would be able to deduce that I went to a liberal arts school. I have been known to espouse the virtues of the oxford comma. I tuck my pants into my socks. Just this week I made a bell hooks joke. But I feel that at no time is my socially-crippling liberal arts background as cogent as it is at Halloween.

The rest of the year I can avoid engaging in debates about the relevancy of Hegelian historical theory, or restrain myself from suggesting we move to a political system that honours a philosopher king, but at Halloween my desire for a witty and unique costume makes these engrained ticks unavoidable. I will wear a wildly obscure costume, well executed.

This became evident in just my second year of liberal arts education. Two friends and I, based on a ludicrous rant about over zealous leftists, went as communist cats.

Chat Guevara, Chairman Meow and Fidel Catro, here to empower the proletariat and look just adorable. Now gimme candy.

This was well received at my university. We were all stars! The wittiest! This costume, in its absurd specificity, was topped only by my friend Geoff, who one year went as a Beatle in a box. I think he was Ringo. Wittgenstein joke - get it? No? Congrats - you're a normal, well socialized individual. I'm jealous.  This sort of reception, of course, set a very unrealistic standard for my young malleable mind; I was left with the impression that this sort of vaulted humour would enshrine me in social scenarios as the charming and hilarious heroine, here to turn life into an HBO comedy. Notsomuch.

I have endeavoured since then to make my costumes related more directly to pop culture icons. You know, something to avoid coming off as an ivory-tower elitist. A costume relatable to the every-man! The self realization of my Chat Guevara facade, as it were. However, liberal arts has clearly gone so far as to taint my mind as to what exactly qualifies as an icon.

My point? My Halloween costume:

Robert Palmer Addicted to Love Band Member! Duh. My mum and dad and 38-year-old former colleague Shannon got it. And Heather (the lovely little kitten in the middle, who, incidentally, went as  Kim Kierkegaardashian this year. "My wild hair, black ensemble, popped blazer collar and general ruffled and mournful demeanour are the Kierkegaard elements. My fake lashes and amazing ass are the Kim Kardashian"). That exhausts the list.

But, seriously, this is not a bad likeness. But familiarity with the original is a prerequisite to appreciating a likeness, and this costume just did not have a large enough fan base for that. But check it out!


The curse of the upper middle class dedication to meaningful, not pragmatic, education rears its ugly head every Halloween. I'm just a misunderstood victim of circumstance, really.

Next year I should probably just be a Spice Girl.

Law School Ladies Look Bomb

Today proved the first ideal opportunity to capture a phenomenon that I have found both surprising and awesome about law school.

Namely, the girls here are babes.

Or, to be more clear, are sartorially brilliant. So many of the girls I go to school with have distinct personal styles, and you very rarely have anyone in class roll in in yoga pants and a t-shirt (sorry girl in the front row who rolls in daily in yoga pants and a t-shirt - no jibe intended). While some may find this standard a daunting one, I have personally found it inspiring. The freedom to express myself with clothing without worrying that I may be made to feel overdressed has inspired me to be ever more creative in constructing a morning ensemble. I have been plumbing the depths of my closet with an increasingly perceptive eye for possible outfit constructions, making use out of old and new garments alike. And it's fun!

I discussed my fascination with the fashion law school studies has seemed to evoke with a couple of my girlfriends here, and the sentiment was mutually felt. We did, in fact, decide that it would be a great idea to start immortalizing some of our favourite outfits.

Today was a less formal photo shoot than certainly what I had in mind (see: trans-friendly bathroom backdrop), but the hilarious coincidence of nearly identical outfits seemed like fair grounds for a picture. Let me present to you Law School's "Who Wore it Best?" Black and Blue edition:

So, some notable differences here. Caroline opted for a Victorian-style high-necked lace top, a structured blazer and, not clearly captured, a distressed-gold flat. This amounted to a much more classic look, though her more brightly blue pants serve as an edgier element in light of these classic pieces.
My interpretation of the blue-pant-black-top-black-blazer phenomenon was much more rockabilly-cum-rock star. My pompadour bouffant, black leather booties and slouchy blazer, paired with a low cut leotard which, yes, bears my bra, made for a much less professional, and somewhat less conventional, take on the look. Less See Jane, more Wheredidugetthat, Street or otherwise.

What should this installment be called? Law School Looks? Sartorial Solicitors-in-training? Attourney Attire? I'm going to go with Vestiary Capacity for the time being. Because it's like testamentary capacity! Getit??

The Short Hair Debate

It is that time of year again. No, I don't mean autumn. And no, my midterms just passed actually. It is the time of year when I realize I have put no effort into a Halloween costume and it's right around the corner, yes, but that is also not what I am talking about. It is that unanticipated and entirely unpredictable time of year, coming approximately twice per annum, that I am in the throes of an insatiable desire to cut off all my hair.

No, not G.I. Jane style. I don't think white girls can get away with that in every day life, certainly not without prompting questions about what cancer society you were fundraising for and how much your femininity earned them. This time around (because, as I say, I fight this urge every few months) I find myself adoring Miley Cyrus' cropped cut. It's so versatile - it can be edgy and modern, or subdued and classic. A friend of mine even suggested that if I do it, do it all the way and go blonde. That one is probably not in the cards

Whether or not this particular cut would suite me is beside the point, however. It is less this particular cut that I crave, than simply short hair itself. However, I have found myself torn by other considerations.

First, and deplorable as I find this to be in myself, I am very concerned about what people would think if I were to have short hair.

I should say, short hair again. I wore my hair in a pixie cut for well over a year, almost four years ago now. The growing out process has been taking place ever since, and has included all sorts of eccentric behaviour to encourage long and healthy locks, including, but not limited to, taking a weird American hair-thinning supplement, the box of which warned that the contents may contain traces of shark. So, given those endeavours, I find myself trying to remember why I decided to grow my hair back out at all.

I have friends who rave about my short locks. Some friends even tell me things like "you have such a good face for short hair," which really just feed my ego unnecessarily. I may cut my hair just so that people will compliment my face. But I also love what having short hair says about a woman. To me it says that she is not concerned with traditional notions of femininity and sex appeal; she's self confident, stylish and modern. And I like to think that those are all things I see in myself. But, while I gaze at model shots like the one of myself on the boat there, I know that, in reality, a lot of my life with short hair resembled:

I'm the one on the right, just to be clear.

Less appealing. But, altogether I put more effort into my appearance, I justify to myself. I could avoid looking like a boy! I will not ever again try to grow in my eye brows! So when I find myself trying to justify cutting my hair, even when confronted with truly unflattering pictures of my beloved pixie, I realize that how I think I look with short hair is really not what gives me pause. What bothers me is the opinions of ignorant people.

I know that sounds truly ridiculous. Why would anyone care about the opinion of ignorant people? Because I have friends who, in this regard, are ignorant people. To be clear, I do not for one second assume that everyone who tells me that they like my hair better long is saying so because their opinion comes from a place of anti-feminist woman-shaming. That is totally a legitimate opinion, and one that I must at least in part share - if I thought I looked like crap with long hair, I hope I would not leave it long just because I put the time in. Like eating an entire plate of food you ordered even though you aren't hungry, because goddamnit it's there. But, there are people who I love and respect who, nonetheless, have very entrenched and traditional notions of femininity. Men and women. And I just hate to imagine facing people for the first time since the cut, knowing some would commence trash talking my new "butch" style the moment I exited the vicinity. Short hair automatically excludes you from the ranks of beautiful people in the minds of a lot of men and some women. I have a hard time convincing myself that I don't care about that.

However, and more alarmingly, do I perhaps need to consider how short hair could impact my career? Would a young and edgy hairstyle read as immature and unapproachable to an interviewer from a more conservative law firm? Is it possible that looking as common, or at least as uncontroversial, as possible will be the safest avenue to help ensure future employment? Law hasn't been unaffected by the recession, and new lawyers are having to fight hard for jobs like everyone else.When I hear about articles advocating and explaining why female lawyers should be wearing skirts or just generally how high the standard of professional appearance (I say euphemistically) is for female lawyers, I realize that these are factors I probably need to consider. Could cutting my hair be a career killer?

When I asked my mum what she thought about me cutting my hair she immediately began listing advantages of long hair, citing the time I had put into growing it, how versatile it was now, and the like. It was as though I had proposed the idea of dropping out, or moving to Nebraska - my mum's speech made it seem as though it was her motherly imperative to dissuade me from this simply foolish course of action. When she realized that these arguments were seeming to have the opposite of their intended affect - as strongly felt parental opinions are wont to do -  just short of actually making me promise, she pleaded with me to wait to cut my hair until I come home for Christmas, telling me that she would call my hairdresser once we were off the phone to make me an appointment for the day after my plane lands. I think she's hoping that this fever for Farrow-length locks will abate by then. And maybe it will. But there's something about that possibility that makes me a little sad.

Maybe I'll just start smoking like Mia Farrow instead. I mean, look how cool she looks. And that sort of live-fast-die-young attitude seems entirely consistent with what I hear of the alcoholism and cocaine habits that run rampant in the legal profession.

But short hair? That's probably pushing it...

Wedding Bells Ringing

A very warm congratulations to my beautiful friend Aly and her very lucky new husband on their nuptials! The trip to Halifax may have left me a little worse for wear - what can I say, I found myself overwhelmed and, accordingly, over-imbibed - but I could not have been happier to have made the trip.

I got to see my brilliant life-role-model, Kathy, who, finishing her third year of law school, is a shining example of someone who I hope I can come even close to emulating. I also spent so much of my weekend with the amazing and kind Genny, who always overwhelms me with her consideration, hospitality and hilarity. I wish I could have spent so much more time with them, but alas, all three of us are in professional school (Genny is on her way to being the most kick-ass nurse) and therefore time is not something any of us have.

And Aly. Holy smokes. I knew I wouldn't get to see much of her this weekend, aside from staring adoringly at her in her happiness and her dress (which was stunning!). The weekend made me very excited that she and Mr Aly will be my relative neighbours here in Toronto in not too long.

I have some truly amazing and lovely friends.

Grown Ass Woman?

The facebook status of a friend of mine recently read:

You are what you eat. That's funny, I don't remember eating a fucking legend.

Hilarious, right? But also, this reminded me of my deeply held opinion that you are what you eat. Not quite as literally as my friend, but just that what you eat says a lot about you. But what it says about you may be just as irrational as the literal "I am spicy lentil soup."

Illustration: I am of the opinion that grown ass women should eat salad. Well, more accurately, I think that society expects grown women to eat salad. Ok, ok, lets refine this even more: society holds that grown women should want to eat salad.

I don't know that on any criteria - external to the eating of salad - that I qualify as much more than a conspicuously old, large child. I spilled lunch all over myself today, for instance. Pure toddler move. However, if I did, on some narrowly defined and strictly age-based definition of "grown," qualify as a "grown woman," on the matter of salad I would undoubtedly fail. I occasionally eat salad, yes. And I want me to want to eat salad. But do I get out of a stressful class and think "I really just need a kick-ass salad right now"? No. "I really need a muffin," maybe, or, more likely, "I really need a drink" sooner come to mind. I need mashed potatoes or peanut butter cookies. I do not psychologically need romaine.

I see girls bring sliced, raw vegetables - the to-go salad, if you will - to class as a snack, and it makes me feel ashamed that not only do I not have sliced veggies of my own with which to flaunt my mature femininity with, but I don't even want to eat sliced veggies. I want sliced veggies only insofar as I want to give the entirely false impression that I enjoy eating barren cucumber slices and carrot sticks. I want the status of vegetables.

Furthermore, when I do try to eat salad the delicate grace expected of, not just grown women, but functional adults, eludes me, and I end up with obscene mouthfuls that my lips can't quite entirely conceal. Or I end up wearing it, as per my lunch today. Trying to ensure the proper ratio of delicious salad elements in a manageable bite is quite outside my wheelhouse, it would seem.

So I add this to the ever growing list of reasons I am not a grown up. Salad.

Five Senses Friday: Trois

Feeling:

Content. The long weekend is underway, and I am spending it recooperating and nesting. My apartment is clean, my garbage taken out, and all my missed readings caught up on. While other people will go home to their families, I'm cuddled with She Ra and looking forward to watching a rugby game with the incomparable Heather. I got myself to the gym today. I went grocery shopping. I had a glass of wine at lunch and a dirty martini with dinner. It has been a fabulous start to a promising weekend. 

Smelling:
brownies that I fully intend on giving away. I just wanted to bake them, eat two, and be the generous brownie gifting stranger.

Hearing:

Macklemore. I downloaded his album Language of My World, and I'm in love. As you know.

Tasting: 

I had a fabulous array of food today, courtesy of a much needed Costco trip. I enjoyed falafal with hummus for dinner, brownies for dessert, and the indulgent dirty vodka martini. I do, however, need to purchase myself a shaker and actual martini glasses - this stirred-martini-in-a-juice-glass nonsense will do the trick for now, but I DEMAND THE BEST.

I had not anticipated that a google image search of "dirty martini" would result in quite so many pictures of strippers.

Seeing:

This amazing video, courtesy of The Spartan Warrior. What a great message. It really spoke to a number of adventures I'm in the beginnings of in my life.