A field guide to growing up without growing apart
As you know if you follow our blog at least a little bit, I go to graduate school— why, because I post about it all the time, that’s why. Well, as a matter of course, many of my friends (excepting three of naughty princesses, obviously!) […]
So. I am not sure if you all remember but the last time I posted about, well, guys was the rather intense Lady Mareena Encounters Even Worse Troubles. That chapter did, I believe, prove that Lady Mareena’s story is well named. Of course, you got […]
Today, I was sitting in an undisclosed Oxonian location hard at work on my dissertation – okay, maybe a slight amount of exaggeration is employed here, but whatever- when, out of the blue, a random fellow shows up and starts asking my opinion about teleportation. If you are teleported from here to New York, and in the process, your body was destroyed and recreated, is the person in New York the real you?
Now, if some unknown person on the street were to ask you your opinion about the ethical results of teleportation you might be slightly surprised. But not in Oxford. In Oxford, such a question is a quintessential pick-up line. It is the academic equivalent to ‘hey baby, you wanna dance?’– but in this instance the dancing is conversational and self-consciously erudite.
You may think I am exaggerating– surely grad students at Oxford are not that weird– but to prove my point I will list a couple other pick up lines that have been used on me in the last year or so.
The worst was probably when the ‘Medieval Romance’ exhibit was on at the Bodleian library last year. If you don’t remember let me remind you: I study the Middle Ages. Somehow these two facts cannot coexist without the result of questions like, ‘Hey Merskank, want to go check out the Medieval Romance exhibit… with me?’ Very subtle, Oxford men. Very subtle.
Let’s see. I have also been asked if I wanted to go to Roman night at the museum. Apparently there are reconstructions of classical board games we could play…
Another winner: ‘Hey do want to go visit Tolkien’s grave this weekend?’ That was a pretty good one actually. I mean, everyone knows: Tolkien is the best.
As far as conversations go, the first time I hung out in my college bar last year, I ended up talking to a guy for an hour about the theory of multiple universes: if it is sustainable, and how it interacts with the laws of physics. A month later, another guy chatted me up talking about his research into ‘ineffability’. Oh yes, we were talking about the unspeakable– how much hotter can you metaphorically get?
But yes, the gist of my post is that if a guy comes up and asks you particularly obscure or nerdy questions, or if he invites you on obscure or nerdy outings: he is definitely hitting on you. Trust me. I think half the time, girls at Oxford fail to recognize the methods of truly nerdy guys. We expect things like– ‘I was wondering, do you want to do coffee’ but instead we get: ‘hey, I was wondering what you think about vowel gradation system in German. I’ve been comparing it to Sanskrit and the Indo-European implications are fascinating.’
What is an ideal or aspiration that you held in high school but have since let go of? It has almost been six years since the naughty princesses all graduated high school. Our ten-year reunions are still a ways off but close enough to make […]
Okay, I know it’s not really my turn to post. It’s just that I’ve been having the nearly overwhelming urge to rant about something recently, and in you, internet reader, I have a captive audience! And what are blogs for if not for unplanned and […]
Saturday night over dinner I had one of those moments of self-reflection. It was the weekend so my roommates were out engaging in various social activities. Home alone, I was eating dinner: a can of black beans, prepared with salt and garlic, and a tomato salad- you know, a few diced tomatoes, a sprinkle of salt and some lemon juice. Whilst enjoying my simple meal, it all of a sudden hit me: some of my friends and other people my age are off getting married, buying houses, having babies. And here I am, Saturday night, chilling in my shared apartment, eating dinner by myself, and it was of course, random, quick and easy food–the sort of thing you make to feed yourself but wouldn’t share with a guest. In total: I was a college student.
It was one of those moments when you are struck by how different your life is from what it could be; a few different choices and I could be living right now in a home I could my call my own, maybe even with a family. Now, I am only twenty three and I feel very young—I am not saying I should or need to have a settled family life by now—only simply that I could. It is strange to have such a different life from the other naughty princesses. Snow Whore and Cinderslut are married, and although Sleeping Booty isn’t, she is off working a real job in the real world. I know the twenty-something condition affects us all in different ways, but sometimes I feel like I am the only one of us that is still in an in-between state: neither a crazy college student nor a self-sufficient adult.
This moment of reflection brought back a conversation between my thesis advisor and myself that occurred in the fall of my senior year of undergrad, two years ago now. In that conversation my adviser had, in a nice but blunt way, urged me away from going to graduate school. What he described was akin to what I was feeling Saturday night: ‘If you get your PhD,’ he had said, ‘you’ll end up in your late twenties- you will still be in school. Your friends will be getting jobs and getting married, but you will still be a student under someone else’s authority: a kind of prolonged adolescence.’ He then went on to describe the unlikelihood that even if I were to follow through and get my PhD that there would be a job available for me. It was a tough conversation. But I have realized since then that what he said was true. Sometimes graduate school does feel like a prolonged adolescence. In many ways, the details of my life are much the same now as they were three or four years ago. I live in a little room in a shared house. I eat whatever I want, whenever I want. I don’t have a husband or even a boyfriend. I have no free time. I am a student.
Now. Perhaps I have set up a case that seems depressing, and, indeed, when my advisor outlined such a life it did sound depressing. But really, what it comes down to, is that I get to do the things I love. I spend my days learning dead languages, and working on my German. I read Augustine, Anselm, and Aquinas—sometimes even in the original. I get to work with texts and ideas that have been left untouched for years, if not centuries. If the exterior of my life is dull, mundane, adolescent, the interior is rich, varied, and fulfilling.
So when I mentioned my revelation before of how different my life could be, it wasn’t exactly that I was longing for that life—although sometimes I envy its comforts. It was instead simply a moment of clarity. I could see the choices of my life lined up, side by side, with other choices I could have made. Somewhere along the line, I picked black beans over salmon dinner, and books over family nights around the table. Now I am not saying having both things is impossible, indeed, I do hope that my future will contain a little of both worlds. But I realized that for this moment I had made a choice.
I wish I could go back and tell my thesis adviser: he was right about graduate school– but I don’t regret it, not for a second. Somehow I don’t think I ever will.
So, apologies in advance, this week I sort of went into mini-diatribe mode. I’m just tired, and sort of grumpy, and well… a graduate student– and we like to argue, especially about things that have nothing to do with our practical lives! If you can […]
I love getting my hair cut. It is kind of a ritual now for me. I don’t get it cut that often– only twice a year– but I always go to the same little salon in Seattle and have the same stylist cut it. Her […]
So, remember way back when I said my love life was too pathetic to write about, and that I preferred to render it into charming fiction? Well, sadly, this is still the case. After the events of last week, however, I don’t even know if pathetic is even the right word—how about depressing? Earlier Sleeping Booty suggested (or urged rather) that I write a blog entry about the things that have been bothering me. And reader, I tried! But somehow, once again, I have found I prefer to hide behind a fictional façade, it makes things more comfortable. So please, bear with me, as you read of Lady Mareena and Herman and take from it what you will!
Chapter Three
It has now been long since we last heard tell of Lady Mareena. When last we saw her she was burning with unvoiced rage. She had seen Herman with another woman: her Herman! Wounded in her heart she retreated back into her room in the castle. She wept, flinging herself on her embroidered coverlets. Oh Herman, she thought, how could you do this to me? In her heart she decided, it would simply be for the best if she didn’t talk to him or see him at all. She was tempted, even, to banish him from the castle but something held her back. After all, maybe she was wrong: could she trust what she had seen?
Conflicted inside and sore of heart, Lady Mareena chose a middle path. She distanced herself from Herman. No longer did she receive lessons from Herman on plant lore and ancient books; no longer did they meet by chance in his favorite haunts. No, no, she thought, Mareena you must protect your heart.
Herman surely noticed the change. All of a sudden, it was he not she that was appearing around every corner, He would even make excuses to come to her room and drop of a poultice or a drought that was hardly needed. Part of Mareena liked this arrangement: it felt good to be chased, to feel wanted. Slowly, as the weeks passed, Lady Mareena weakened in her resolve. She began to forget Herman’s instance of treachery—it faded into a distant memory in the back of her mind. Still, though, she was unhappy. Try as might, part of her still longed for Herman—longed that they might have something truer, fuller than what they had now. Yet, distant though it may be, she still remembered Herman’s words eons ago: of his desire to join a monastic life, of his lack of desire for her and for her love.
She had resolved: friends they must be. But, Herman made it hard for her—he would suggest strolls in the moonlight and close conversation. Did he not know how this tried her spirit? Then, one day in early December, Herman took things too far. “Please, “ he had said to her, “take riding lessons with me. The air is so lovely and fresh, it would do you good—and besides, I so desire your company.” Lady Mareena was taken aback. Why would Herman petition her to such intimate outings if he did not desire her—did he not care whether he was hurting her heart?
Lady Mareena had given him no answer, but back in her room after their conversation, she picked up a quill and penned a few words:
‘Herman,
I really think it’s best if we don’t ride horses together. I am afraid that spending too much time together is hurtful to me. Please understand.
M.’
She sealed the letter, proud of her honesty. Surely, Herman was a man who would understand—surely he wouldn’t want to hurt her.
The next morning, Mareena sat having breakfast in her room. She drizzled syrup on her breakfast cakes with contentment—the sun was rising out her window. Suddenly, however, she heard a light tap at her door. Throwing a shawl around her shoulders, she quickly answered the door. Low who was standing there besides Herman himself! With forceful strides he stepped into her chamber. He bore her letter in his hand.
‘Mareena,’ he said, ‘tell me—what do you mean by this letter?’
Lady Mareena was taken back. She had thought the letter rather simple. ‘Well, Herman, you see—I just meant, well, that I shouldn’t see you anymore, at least, not as often as you would like.’
‘I don’t understand, Mareena.’ He answered, looking into her eyes. ‘It seems as though you still love me—but don’t you understand Mareena? I am rogue.’
Mareena tried to answer, to say that maybe he wasn’t a rogue, but he never let her finish. ‘When we talked last summer, Mareena, I told you that I didn’t need a wife. I no longer see the church as my destiny, Mareena, but I still don’t need a wife. I don’t want the commitment and the energy.’
Mareena, tittered, she wasn’t sure what to say, other than that her letter was never meant to reopen the conversation again from this summer—it was simply, as it said, a sign that she needed time and distance to heal. She didn’t get the chance to say this, though because Herman kept talking.
‘So, Mareena, I don’t need a wife—but there is something I want. I want to end my long years of chastity. Never before have I laid with a woman beside me. So, as I see it, we can both get what we want.’
Mareena was shaking. She couldn’t even comprehend what Herman was offering her. How could he dare to say such a thing to a lady? Herman took her stunned silence as indecision. ‘Feel free to think about it, my lady,’ he said, kissing her hand. He stood up, walking to the door. As he left, he turned to her: ‘please do still think about horseback riding, my Lady.’ With those last words, he was gone.
Lady Mareena was shaken. She grasped the side of her bed. What had just happened? Had her Herman really just spoken to her in that way? Where had her quiet physician gone, the one who had longed for the church. Instead, now, he was replaced by this dastardly blackguard!
Herman’s words circled in her mind. He had been so cold. So calculated. She felt sadness, shock, and pain. Her breakfast was now ruined, and her day ahead. She canceled her sewing and her lessons for the day and called instead for a hot bath—wishing to wash away the foul feel of Herman’s words.
After she had cried, and bathed, and napped, she was ready for action. Something must be done. She had to expose Herman’s offer for the depraved and rancid thing it was. She picked up her quill.
‘Dear Herman,
I am sending you away from the palace. Today, you tried to solicit me as a whore. This is affront to me as a lady and as someone who thought they were your friend. I can no longer respect you and I no longer wish to see you or talk with you.
Please, go hence from here as quick as you are able. If you reply to this message I will burn it.
Lady Mareena.’
Sealing it with her initial, Lady Mareena gave over the letter to be delivered to Herman. With her deed done, she went back to her room and wept over the loss of a friend.
Okay, so don’t freak out. I know all of you are thinking: ‘what? I thought this was a fun blog and now Merskank is going all preachy on us…’ But, please, hang with me for a second. So, yeah ‘modesty’ is a slightly loaded word—I […]
I have been reading ‘the Confessions’ by Saint Augustine lately. If you haven’t read it you probably should: Augustine is the best. Not only is he is crazy-wicked smart (ever want to have your mind bent inside out?– try book xi of the Confessions ‘On […]
Now, I think I mentioned a few days ago there might be another chapter of Lady’s Mareena and Her Torrid Troubles on the way. However, although you all have been undoubtedly on the edge of your seat waiting, I wasn’t at first planning to write this chapter so quickly. I thought that Lady Mareena was in a sort immobile place– surely nothing really worth reporting would happen for a few weeks at least. I mean, of course there would be more moping, more sad poetry, more lonely autumal walks– but, hey, nothing really novel worthy. Well, I guess I was wrong. A plot twist arrives on the scene! So, please enjoy the newest episode in my, ahem, I mean Lady Mareena’s life.
Chapter Two
It was early morning and Lardy Mareena had decided to take a walk in the park. The park was always lovely in the morning mist. Sitting at her favourite bench, Mareena breathed deeply, catching the sweet smell of lavender from a nearby hedge. Everything was so lovely here—if only she could share this moment… If only she could share it with one man: Herman.
Mareena sighed, trying to ease her aching heart. Maybe someday Herman would come for her, maybe he would give up his dreams of a monastic life. Deep in thoughts like these, Mareena hardly noticed when a couple approached her bench. Hidden behind the hedge she could barley see their outline but their voices pierced the night.
‘My dear, your eyes are lovely—like the stars shinning in a black sky, and your cheeks, they are like rosebuds yet unopened.’
The lady giggled, obviously pleased with his flattery. Her dress swished as they stepped closer around the hedge. Mareena arose quickly, wishing to spare her aching heart any reminders of love. Fleeing her compromised sanctuary, she stole a quick glance over her shoulder at the approaching couple.
She stared in astonishment: did her eyes deceive her, or was it Herman standing there holding a fashionable lady’s hand. Alas! She was not wrong, for she caught the eyes of the young man standing there and they were Herman’s own chocolate ones.
Fleeing the garden, Mareena took swift steps to her chamber where she could be alone. She felt shock and sadness. But surely, Herman loves me? She thought—how could he love anyone but me? Would this mysterious lady share his love of pharmacy with him? Would she understand his quirky jokes? Would she, ever, if she dared, be able to beat him in an argument? Thoughts like these battled inside Lady Mareena’s chest, and she wept tears of betrayal. Oh cruel life that delves such hard blows!
Soon, however, when her tears began to ebb, her grief began to blossom into something new—a feeling of anger rose in her chest. Herman had lied to her—he had claimed that nothing besides his own purest desires could separate them. And she, fool that she was, had believed! So often she had listened to Herman, so often they had bent together over their beloved books—he knew of her innocence and yet still he deceived her. Yet as she raged against Herman, she raged against herself. Oh the time she had wasted, oh the tears she had spilled—for what? An undeserving knave. One unworthy to be called a friend.
Oh sweet fate, what a dish you have served this unknowing maiden! A bitter brew has been set before her. Yet will she learn from this experience and go forth a stronger and wiser lady? Or will she subcome to the madness and the folly of her grief? Is Herman truly the traitor he seems, or was she too hasty in her judgement? And what, after all, has become of the Duke? These questions and more will be answered in Chapter 3 of Lady Mareena and her Torrid Troubles.