I have an account on a dating site. But I never use it. Unless I want to depress myself. Then I use it.

It’s easy to depress oneself on an online dating site – especially if A) you know for a fact you’ll never find the person you want online and B) all your “matches” are either really unattractive or cover their profile with flowery prose that’s so full of sh*t there’s no room for actual talent.

Aside from the shirtless mirror shot attached to a Faulker-esque description of New York City in the winter or a predisposition for “coding computers”, there’s nothing that turns me off faster than when one of my weird, douchebag-like “matches” has NPR listed as one of their loves. Which is strange. Because I love NPR.

I love being serenaded on long Sunday car rides by Ira Glass’s calming monotone during This American Life. I enjoy All Things Considered, BBC World Service updates, and the occasional funny op-ed by a slightly famous quirky writer. I feel comfortable with NPR’s obvious liberal bias – as I myself own such a bias – and there’s nothing better than sitting alone in my apartment with a glass of wine as deep-set, unhurried voices click their well versed tongues against my eardrums. NPR is like a womb. A liberal, literary, sophisticated womb where I take comfort at least twice a day (if not more).

So why the shuddering when I notice a potential mate might enjoy themselves some Fresh Air with Terry Gross?

I’m not sure, exactly. Maybe because most of the people I know who listen to public radio are bleeding heart liberals, and even though I consider myself one of those bleeders (with a shot of hippie thrown in), I get a little nervous when a guy describes himself that way. Read More »

Many years ago, I decided to make a major career change, and, oddly it was just when I finally began my career as a professor. At the same time, two life major events happened. First, my mother suddenly passed from away colon cancer – the deadliest of cancers. She was diagnosed and died three months later, marking the exact day of the doctor’s discovery.

On top of that, and, as the cliché goes, my big “3-0” was right around the corner. Like most vain woman, the mere thought of turning thirty made me frantic, and despite my youthful appearance (I was still lucky enough to be carded for cigarettes!), I was resigned to the idea that Botox would soon be part of my regular regime for maintaining my present natural beauty.

At least I could claim to be happily married, a rare gift that I possess to this day, so I knew there were other qualities besides my looks that I had going for me. And, despite my looks, I am not the most exciting lover. Nevertheless, I knew that my new job, that of being a junior professor, meant that I’d be drowning in more work than I had had previously.

I was in the first stages of becoming a young scholar, but given my mournful state, which was becoming an ever increasing strain on my personal life, I had serious doubts about this chosen career path. Up until that time I had always planned on becoming a scholar. After all, my own mother had been a leading scholar in feminist studies, and she had made it clear that I too was destined to become a professor, just like her. She was my goddess, so why would I have ever doubted this plan that she’d laid out for me? Read More »

After a request from female Muslim students, Harvard University recently created women-only workout hours. According to a representative from the Harvard Islamic Society,

These hours are necessary because there is a segment of the Harvard female population that is not found in gyms, not because they don’t want to work out, but because for them working out in a co-ed gym is uncomfortable, awkward or problematic in some way.

Sounds reasonable. Harvard is facing some heat from their male population, but that is to be expected. In the spirit of this Ivy League move, I would like to do them one better. I am proposing special hours for Non-Gym People. Allow me to explain.

In what will later be called a temporary bout with insanity, I am currently training for a triathlon for charity.

I am not athletic. Far from it. Thanks to a crippling cocktail of embarrassment, fear and laziness I’ve stayed away from the gym at school for the better part of college. But with the triathlon quickly approaching, I’ve been forced to face the building and people I’ve feared. Read More »

I pored over the U.S. News and World Report’s college rankings when I was a senior in high school. How far up could I go, I wondered? What was the most-highly ranked college I could get into?

I mean, I knew I was Harvard-caliber, I just didn’t have the grades– I was above grades! I could have totally gone Ivy-League if I had wanted to, but I chose the route of a small school with a philosophy, a mission (and a respectable ranking).

My freshman year, I ended up at a small liberal arts school that was ranked #30. Not bad, considering it was ranked #25 in terms of selectivity. I figured its teeny endowment brought the main ranking down. I was satisfied, my family was satisfied, my peers were satisfied. I had landed.

But when I got to college, of course, I realized that these rankings meant absolutely nothing. What did I care about my college’s freshman retention or alumni – giving rate? And the insidiously low student to faculty ratio was moot if you were in a crappy class in which none of the other six students talked. I found myself pining for large, anonymous lecture classes. Did I wanted a lower – ranked education?

The old, corny adage rings true over and over again: college is what you make of it. Seriously. All campuses have pretty trees and old buildings. All student bodies have geniuses and idiots. Yale has a dining hall. Podunk University in Mississippi has a dining hall.

And they both have horrible food. It’s all the same. Read More »

Kids in the Ivy Leagues must be huge brains, right? They must love to challenge themselves. Relish the competition and the long hours spent in the library spent pumping out the next big thing in organic chemistry.

Or maybe they’re just as lazy as everybody else.

The snarky little devils at Gawker recently stumbled across an email from a Yale junior named “Nick” which details (and I mean details. This is the longest email I’ve ever read in my life.) all the classes on campus that enable one to coast. Basically, “Nick” is all about helping his fellow students get an A without trying.

“Hopefully, all of us will be on the same page [regarding classes] so we won’t have to worry about having section with all those randos we have never met who talk funny.” Nick types in his email. “I mean, don’t you feel good when you show up to class on day one and you see a lot of baseball caps and blue and gray warmups. I know I do. I know I am home – at Yale, trying with all my might to not overexert myself.”

He goes on being hilarious (or douchey, depending on your humor gage) while decoding one particularly easy PolySci course entitled Public Opinion:

“Adam F Simon is probably the easiest professor at Yale…Basically, Adam F will complain to you about how network tv is retarded, people are retarded, and tell you random anecdotes about his dog, family, time at ucla, or his next book. You will know a lot of about current events if you show up. You will get an A even if you dont. This class generally migrates directly to the varsity weightroom [sic] right after letting out.” Read More »