Washington Square, The Book.

This post is dedicated to Alex Gomes and Elizabeth Trojanowski. Because when people cooler than you like your blog, you have to keep writing it.

So I turned 21 on Tuesday. Not exactly the best day of the week for a life-changing birthday, but you take what you get. Maybe I'll write about that next time. Today I will write about the books I'm reading. And also about my feelings. Because they're important.

I've spent my day with Catherine of Washington Square Park and I intend to spend my night with Catherine of Northanger Abbey. Of these two Catherines, Henry James' seems to have it the worst. The poor thing is stupid, silent, and unattractive. And I relate to her fully. Henry James captures perfectly the experience of being stuck around people who are not only smarter and better looking than you are but people who know (or seem to know) and fully acknowledge their superiority to you. And thus, Catherine, one of the most unappealing people ever to grace a novel, becomes a reflection of ourselves. Or... or just of me. I know a lot of times while at NYU, I look at the model-esque girls in my classes and wonder if they're not disgusted to see an inferior being contaminate their view. And I wonder if the men, who are so used to seeing such physical perfection in their female companions, are offended to see a clunky, chunky, brightly colored girl sitting timidly around. Whenever I'm alone on the NYU campus (which is about 15 hours a day, roughly) I'm constantly sure people see Catherine in my place - a clueless, homely, offensively stupid girl. I'm always sure they know exactly how many calories I've eaten today. For all the fat acceptance blogs I follow, and for all the acceptance I'm trying to give my... abnormal shape, it can be difficult. Being in New York helps and hurts, I suppose. Fewer people care what you look like or how you dress, and they're actually more likely than elsewhere to accept someone who looks different or outside the norm, but more people here look absolutely flawless. Especially students. Students who go to NYU, particularly.

Of course, it's not like I've never had any positive attention here. I guess I shouldn't even be complaining, actually, because I've received far more compliments than I ever expected here. By which I mean five people have been attracted to me at some point, as opposed to zero. (Not counting catcalls on the street - even 90-year-old women get sick of hearing those all the time.) However, my brain has played me a mean trick - all of the men (and women) who have found me attractive have not been attractive to me. It's an especially mean trick because all of these people are way better looking and much more kind and interesting than I'll ever be, but for some reason my romantic facilities seem stunted. I feel the need for a relationship and attraction and sex and all that, but when I finally find someone who's interested, I feel... nothing.

Me: "Come on, brain, let's get those positive chemicals flowing. We need to like this one - we'll never get anyone better. They're charming and attractive and for some reason they're interested in you. This is your chance to satisfy all those urges you've been having with someone who doesn't think of you as a blob with a hole."

Brain: "Meh."

Me: "Brain! For someone who got it into herself that she won't have sex without love, you sure are making it awful hard to love anyone. You've never met a nicer person than this. They're fantastic, intelligent, perfect! What do you say, brain?"

Brain: "Eh. I'm just not feeling it."

Me: "Goddam it brain we're never going to get laid."
  
I feel like we've gotten off track. What was I talking about today?

Oh, right. Catherine. I wonder what the kids at recitation will think if I say I empathize with Catherine. They'll probably think I'm simple and stupid and probably unattractive. Well, to hell with it. It's better than sitting there mutely, staring blankly at my warped reflection in the glass of TV equipment. That's what Catherine would have done, and her whole silent acquiescence to the world doesn't seem to be working out too well.

I meant to talk about the book. I meant to talk about how angry I am at Catherine's father. He's always deriding her inwardly, and treats his kindness to her as a disgusting and annoying duty, simply because she's quiet, ugly, and not very clever or interesting. What did he expect from her? A flower won't grow if you don't give it soil, water, or sunlight. He raises this child like veal, keeping her in a house all her life with little social interaction outside of her family - of course she'll be quiet and uninterested in the greater world! He left her completely under the influence of a women he knew to be dull and frivolous - did he think that somehow she would learn how to be clever all by herself? And the person who she loves most, her father, finds her repulsive - does he really think that doesn't influence her feeling about her appearance? For someone who constantly congratulates himself on superior intelligence, he certainly doesn't seem to think things through. For all his greatness as a doctor, I think all of her simplicity must come from his side of the family.

And I wish the narrator wouldn't be so hard on Catherine. It makes it awful hard to read, especially since I sympathize with her. However, that might be the point. Henry James may have thought to himself, "You know, I'd like to write a novel that reminds everyone of all the times they've felt shitty and ugly and stupid. It'll be fantastic. I'll be revered forever."

And he was.

The End.

Stepping Out...

I expect to be clubbing later tonight. I have heard on the pop songs that this is what young twentysomethings are supposed to do with their time. And when society demands, I deliver. I was expecting to put on extravagant clothing and step out in a nuts crazy fashion, á la club kids, minus the copious drug use. However, it seems all the DC clubs have very strict dress codes now, and you must look like a little lady when grinding on your neighbor. The website informed me (to my horror) that I would not be granted admission to Ultrabar if I wore my Doc Martins, or "work boots" as they so derogatively called them. So I'll be stumbling in heels instead of stomping triumphantly around the dance floor. But that's fine, I guess.

The only real concern I have is that they won't let me in because my coat - what I'll be taking off once I get inside - could technically be called "athletic wear," a type of dress that makes the bouncer's noses wrinkle and the go-go girls' skin crawl. But I won't be wearing it in the club. I'll be depositing it in the basement, in the small room in which they stored a coat-check girl and a couple million hangers. However, if they do deny me entry, we'll go to another club - a better club, even. And we'll never patronize their patronizing club ever again. So there.

This Year

I was sitting on my couch reading "Our Bodies, Ourselves" wearing a high waisted skirt, tights, and a cardigan - a variation on my usual dress/sweater/tights/boots combo. My hair was cut short at a recent trip to the barber, and I was looking forward to literature classes at NYU and an internship at the New York Daily News. I was somewhere between putting on my Doc Martins and reading a new Entertainment Weekly when I realized I had finally made it. I am finally the girl I hoped to be at this point in my life. I'm studying what I love, I have (unpaid but resume-building) work lined up, and I go to a prestigious school in the most wonderful city on earth. Plus, I've created my own personal style, which is just as important as anything - no one pities the well-dressed. And, thanks to certain feminist tumblr body acceptance movements (who knew?), I've finally made peace with my body, and that's given me more confidence than I ever hoped to have. This is a good time in my life. Everything is great. With one notable exception.

I'm not writing enough.

I expected that by 2012 I'd be churning out masterpieces, but instead I'm sitting in my pajamas at 2 PM watching Naruto on Netflix. And this is no one's fault but my own. I have not been practicing. Writing is like marathon running or painting or fixing computers, or anything that isn't riding a bicycle - you need to do it regularly or you'll lose your touch. And once you aren't as connected to your art, and once the muscle memory goes away, it gets harder and harder to get back into it. And the harder it is, the more cartoons you watch and the less stuff gets done. And you create a new pattern without your art, and it slowly phases out of your life. Which sucks. So, this year I'll write more. I will. I'm already halfway there with my creative writing classes, but I need to feel the push to write even when deadlines don't loom and teachers don't remind me to work. One thing I've learned in my short period in the Professional World is that those who start passion projects are the ones who are ultimately successful in the end. Those who put their ideas in motion, instead of worrying about whether they'll be a waste of time before they're even begun (like I do) are the people who end up with fulfilling careers and pride in their work. I'm a coward - I would rather be told what to do than think of something on my own, simply because I'm so afraid of failing. And that's no way to live, especially when I know I have good ideas and opinions. This year I will start more projects. And I will write. Maybe in here, maybe elsewhere, but I will write at least once a day. Even if I don't produce anything spectacular, I'll at least be back in practice.