THINGS: Pictures with Santa Are (kind of) Like Meetings with the Dean

Well, folks, the Christmas season is here! 

Now that we've all tolerated those fake made-up, commercialized holidays like Halloween and Thanksgiving, we can get to the real holiday we all look forward to: Christmas. 

Confession time: This is actually the first year I have listened to Christmas music before Thanksgiving. Usually this is my sentiment about the holidays, but I just couldn't resist the crooning of Michael Bublé and the cheeriness of "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree." My sincerest apologies. 

There are plenty of things about the Christmas season to look forward to. First, there's the fabulous launch of Black Friday. 

Just a note on naming things after colors: I've noticed that if it's named after a color, it's usually a disease. Black lung, Black Death, Black Plague, yellow fever, scarlet fever, jaundice, red measles, pink eye. Black Friday...conveys my sentiments exactly.

Here in America, we’ve decided it would be a good idea to make this madness last two days and put our laziness to work; I give you “Cyber Monday”! Next, you've got the longest marathon of tacky original movies ever (Thanks, ABC's "25 Days of Christmas"!) And then there are all the chaotic, traffic-filled shopping malls you love. Don't forget the joy of choosing a Christmas tree (if you haven't copped out and bought a fake one yet) and the entire festivity that is decking the halls. You get to again realize that you suck at cutting pretty paper and using Scotch tape properly. You’re blessed with the symphony of ringing doorbells as boy scouts and other small children walk miles to sell you popcorn and chocolates and giftwrap and other useless crap. And this year, on top of all of that, you have the joy of worrying about the end of 13pik in the Maya Long Count calendar!

            Don’t worry, guys. My archaeology TA is Mayan and she promised me that the world wouldn’t end.

Am I forgetting anything?

Ah, yes! The wonderful privilege of having your photograph taken with the one and only Santa Claus!

You see, though he is only one man, Santa has somehow found a way to be in every mall, town hall, and children’s store simultaneously. I don’t know about you, but I’m impressed. Such a skill would be priceless. I’m not entirely sure where in the parenting handbook it says to place your child on the lap of a complete stranger impersonating a 4^th c Greek saint, but my parents followed the handbook.

I remember it being quite an ordeal. Mom would buy matching formal outfits for you and your sister. Matchy-matchy all the way! After at least 30 minutes of hair-doing and tights-straightening, Mom said you looked “so cute!” You turn to your sister and give her the let’s-get-this-over-with look.

Pile into the car! You’ve done this since you were born. But you can’t really remember. You were only, like, a baby then. And now you’re four, so it’s really different, you know?

Mom tries to explain what’s going to happen in her best Christmas cheer voice. You were too little to understand just how strange the entire concept was, so you just went along with it. Something about a picture, smiling, not pulling your sister’s hair this year, and Santa.

SANTA.

There was something in it for you: the wish. When it was your turn, you could tell Santa just what you hoped he’d bring you on Christmas morning. The pressure is on. What to say? You’d been making that wish list since last Christmas, and now you had to pick just one thing that you wanted the most?! Well, you had some time to think about it. You brought your list with you and mom can read it to you while you wait in line behind all those other suckers who think they’re the best kids there. Santa knows, guys. You’re all getting coal.

Your turn. Alright: picture? Check. Smiling? Check. Not pulling sister’s hair this year? Eh…Ok fine. Santa?

“SANTA?! I know him!”

Yes! This is your moment, kiddo. You’ve waited since last year. Don’t freeze up. You’ve gotta say…uh… oh! That’s right!

“Mister Santa, can I please have a pink puppy?”

Phew. Alright, that went pretty well.

And there you have it! Evidence of your successful endeavor is later placed in a frame and set on the mantel for all of the weird relatives to marvel at on Christmas morning.

We're Santa's favorites

But now that I’m all grown up, I don’t get to tell Santa what I want anymore. I don’t take wear matchy-matchy outfits with Camille and have funny pictures taken with a stranger in a pretend beard and a red suit.

I’m a serious university student now. And university scholars don’t have pictures with Santa, they have meetings with the Dean, like I had on Monday.

It turns out that the Dean is quite like Santa in some ways. And meetings with the Dean, essentially elevator pitches, are kind of like taking a picture with Santa.

It’s quite an ordeal. Mom helps you choose a formal outfit. Preppy all the way! After at least 30 minutes of hair-doing and tights-straightening, Mom says you look “so cute!” You turn to your roommate and give her the let’s-get-this-over-with look.

Run across campus! You’ve done this since you were in middle school. It’s just a teacher conference of sorts. But you can’t really remember. You were only, like, a baby then. And now you’re nineteen, so it’s really different, you know?

The office assistant tries to explain what’s going to happen in her best collegiate cheer voice. You were too little to understand the entire concept, so you just went along with it. Something about forms you had to fill out, smiling, not pulling any funny business, and the Dean.

THE DEAN.

There was something in it for you: the wish. When it was your turn, you could tell the Dean just what you hoped she’d approve for you – a custom major called Cosmopolitanism. The pressure is on. What to say? You’d been working on this idea since last year, and now you had just one meeting to express the entire premise of the major you wanted most?! Well, you had some time to think about it. You brought your list with you and you can read it to you while you wait in line behind all those other suckers who think they’re the smartest kids there. The Dean knows, guys. Your majors aren’t as cool as mine.

Your turn. Alright: forms? Check. Smiling? Check. Not pulling any funny business? Eh…Ok fine.

The Dean? Yes!

This is your moment, kiddo. You’ve waited since last year. Don’t freeze up. You’ve gotta say…uh… oh! That’s right!

“Dean Bergquist, I would like to create my own major called Cosmopolitanism. I have all of the paperwork right here and I’d love to chat about proposing it as a departmental major.”

Phew. Alright, that went pretty well.

And there you have it! A beautiful, signed and approved form; evidence of your (hopefully) successful endeavor will later be placed in a frame and set on the mantel for all of the weird relatives to marvel at on Christmas morning.

Psych! I totally took a picture with Santa this year. Merry start of the Christmas season!

That's little, enthusiastic me in the bottom right!

PEOPLE: “How Are You?” Is (kind of) Like the Penny

Vanderbilt’s campus is more than four times the size of Belmont’s campus. I learned this from personal experience before I looked up the numbers today.  I also did a little mapping and found out that in my daily trudge back and forth and back and forth, to and from classes, I cover around five and a half miles a day.  Though the student population is relatively the same between the two schools, I do not run into as many people I know here at Vanderbilt as I did at Belmont. 

Now, obviously there are many other factors that influence that truth, but I’m not a statistician by any means. Nor would I ever care to be one. Actually, I am entirely uninterested in the numbers. (You can read my bio if you’re not sure why).

Instead, I am fascinated by what the numbers represent; their effect on my daily experience.

Because what happens when you do run into someone you know?

You are polite and courteous, of course. And you probably like being friends with this person. So you reach for a familiar phrase that you’ve been taught all of your life communicates care and consideration:

           

“How are you?” you ask.

If I am this friend you are asking, you do not know what you have just gotten yourself into.

            “Well, do you want the short version so you can get on with your day or do you want to actually know what I really feel?” I think.

And I may or may not verbalize this thought, depending on the key factors of how well I know you and how well sleep did it’s job repairing my social-verbal filter the night before.

I know I am not alone when it comes to this obvious inconsistency between question and desired answer. Generally, when people ask “How are you?”, they are looking for a short response. The list of polite and socially-approved options goes as follows:

            Good (or Well ,if you’re a grammar nerd like me)*

            Great

            Awesome

            Swell

            Fantastic

            Ok

            Alright

Fine

            Dandy

*some variations may include the gerund “doing” before the adjective

But the question “How are you?”  is not a very good vehicle for the endgame of one-word reply. The word “how” implies an answer with description and depth, not a meaningless race to finish the sentence before the other person walks off in a different direction.  I am endlessly frustrated by the blatant disregard for true human connection that this question begs.

            Nevertheless, I engage in the monotony and meaninglessness of hallway “How are you?”s, wishing for the day when someone will actually mean what they say. For now, “How are you?”s are pretty much worthless. They are quick, little exchanges that people glaze over without the slightest thought.

           

“How are you?”s are the penny in the currency of human conversation.

 A penny does not have much value. In fact, the cost of making a penny is greater the value of owning a penny. Similarly, the time it takes to hurl social courtesies at one another is greater than the actual depth of relationship gained in that time.

Heck! Sometimes you ask someone how they are and you don’t even get a response! And where does that leave your kind question? On the ground, passed by, like it's only a penny – not worth picking up or responding to.

But we still do it.

We still ask “How are you?”

And the penny is still in circulation.

It’s not because we are unaware of the façade of our question, or because we have some illogical notion that the penny is a valuable form of currency.

Have you ever had a rough day? (Where I’m from, we like to call them “shambly” days because everything around you – maybe even including you – is in shambles).  And then on your way to class, that kid you sit next to in calculus tosses a meaningless social gesture your way:

“Hey! How are you?”

            You make exact change.

            “Good. You?”

            “Good.”

For some inexplicable reason, today that question meant something. No, I’m not going all mushy on you here. It didn’t change the fact that today was shambly. But, today it meant that somebody cared enough to string together some words and verbalize them. And that’s enough for today.              

           

            So, I will continue to ask how people are when I see them on my quarter-marathon of a walk to class.  Join me in perpetuating this seemingly empty phrase! Even if it is simply out of social grace that we exchange these one-cent questions. You never know when someone might find your “How are you?” heads-up and call themselves lucky.

THINGS: College Exams Are (kind of) Like Valentine's Day

If either part of this analogy stresses you out, you're in good company. 

I am currently preparing to take my first midterms of my fall semester and I got around to wondering why exams stress us out so much. It's like going on a really important date.

I've had my fair share of terrifying exams and super awkward Valentine's days. 

The thing about both of these events is that they have the potential of ending two very different ways:

in an I-just-won-the-gold-medal! success...or in a my-heart-is-in-the-gutter despair. 

In the weeks leading up to a midterm, study rooms are packed, all the books you needed from the library are checked out, and every conversation somehow finds its way to the question "How much are you going to study?" Seriously? Because how I answer is going to affect how much you study?

I've never liked the drumroll to an exam. It takes over your life and drives you to stress-eat ungodly amounts of Nestle chocolate chip cookie dough. When I study (though, truthfully, the occasion is rare), I like to hull up in my room, spend about an hour complaining, and then about two hours reviewing slides of Athenian agoras and remembering which dead guy wrote which poem about London in 1893.

And then the dreaded hour arrives.

If you’re like me, you put on the most comfortable clothes you can find, down as much coffee as you can afford on your cheapo college-kid budget, and roll to class with a can-do attitude.

You open the door to find a room full of equally strung-out students. There’s an obvious unspoken agreement to pounce on any sucker who tries to make a joke this morning. We know you think you’re trying to lighten the mood, but the rest of us are still cramming Kirchhoff’s Laws.

The professor hands out the exam and suddenly everyone finds time to talk to God.

This is your chance to prove that you actually know your stuff. This is your chance to prove you’ve been listening when it probably looked like you were, oh, I don’t know, texting or checking your Facebook. Because you’d never do that in class. Laptops are only for taking notes, right?

Your hand cramps up as you write that last sentence of the essay question and THERE! You’re done!

Even though I admit to mildly enjoying tests, for reasons unknown, I am still very glad when it’s all over. In the aftermath, you hear whispers that confirm you probably answered number three correctly. And you’d love to stay and chat, but you’d rather just move on with your life.

Then there’s the day you get grades back. Well, there’s nothing you can do to change the past.

This is that part we talked about earlier; where you’re crying with joy…or because you’re parents are going to kill you if they find out about this one. I hope that you find yourself more frequently siding with the first reason. Either way, I’m not one to discuss my grades with others. There’s something so utterly tactless about asking your lab partner what he got on the physics exam. Again, seriously? Because how I answer is going to affect your grade?

Instead, once I note that letter at the top, I like to tuck my test deep inside an unmarked folder and entirely forget about the whole experience until fate requires me to dig it up in preparation for the next exam.

Right next to that folder is another unmarked folder full of letters. These letters, however, were not assigned to me by a professor, but were written to me by various individuals in my life. And deep inside this folder are a couple of letters from my more recent Valentine’s days.

In the weeks leading up to St. Valentine’s Day, restaurants you wanted reservations at are booked up and every conversation somehow finds its way to the question "What are you doing for Valentine’s day?"

February 14th makes you overanalyze your relationships and drives you to stress-eat ungodly amounts of Nestle chocolate chip cookie dough. When I go out on Valentine’s Day (though, truthfully, the occasion is rare), I like to hull up in my room, spend about an hour complaining, and then about two hours trying on fancy dresses and attempting crazy hairdos until I feel like I look alright.

And then the dreaded hour arrives.

If you’re like me, you put on the nicest outfit in your closet and wear a charming smile to hide all of your anxiety.

You open the door to find an equally anxious date. There’s an obvious unspoken agreement to ignore this elephant named Putting-on-a-face. After all, there’s not really room for the elephant at our two-top at the French bistro.

The waiter hands each of you a menu and you know the time has come to start the conversation. 

This is your chance to prove you’ve been listening to everything the other person said.

Even though Valentine’s Day can be quite fun, I am still very glad when it’s all over.

Then there’s February 15th.

We are again at that place of happy or sad tears. Ladies, he calls or he doesn’t. Gents, she says she had a good time or you hear from her friends that you totally botched it. Hopefully you have more fun Valentine’s dates than disappointing ones.

Either way, I’m not one to blabber on to other people about my dates. There’s something so utterly tactless about a post-Valentine’s fairytale replay or disastrous rant. Haven’t you ever heard the phrase “Don’t kiss and tell”?

All in all, I am very thankful that February 14^th only happens once a year, and exam time only two or three times a semester.  Because I’m not sure I have room for anymore cookie dough in my freezer.