Category Archives: On Reflection

“Blossom” provides a healthy dose of authenticity

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I sometimes write about deep-ish things like the power of reflection and the enigmatic nature of time. But sometimes, I trade my wannabe-philosopher self for, well, my inner fangirl. And tonight, I’m fangirling over “Blossom.” Remember that show starring Mayim Bialik that ran from 1990-95? Yeah, that’s the one.

There’s something about ‘90s TV I find irresistibly endearing and most importantly, real. While I feel alienated by the overwhelmingly artificial world of modern TV, the ‘90s put reality in the spotlight. And no, I don’t mean ‘reality’ in the context of “Jersey Shore.”

I mean ‘reality’ in the context that ‘90s TV sitcoms featured plausible problems and people.

After exhausting reruns of “Frasier,” “Fresh Prince of Bel-Air,” “Full House” and “Friends” (an era keen on the letter “F,” apparently), I turned to “Blossom.” As a longtime fan of Mayim Bialik’s Amy Farrah Fowler character from “The Big Bang Theory,” I already had a good feeling about “Blossom.”

After one episode, I immediately raved to my younger sister Jordyn about the show’s witty characters and frighteningly accurate portrayal of sibling camaraderie (or rivalry, really). Here are a few reasons I love “Blossom.”

Blossom Russo is a total badass. No, I don’t mean that in the sense that she cliff-dives or bungee-jumps. She’s a badass because she’s open about her feelings, sex and relationships. When things aren’t working in the Russo family, she’s quick to step in with a quirky solution, and in the sitcom realm, it always works.

Blossom is a feminist, yet another reason she rocks. She isn’t afraid to express what she wants and go for it, and she’s more interested in self-development than finding the love of her life (even if Bobby Brewer is ‘totally gorgeous’).

Finally, Will Smith and Blossom shared a beautiful bonding moment in the second season, and all was right in her world and mine.

While too many children are sitting at home watching some Nickelodeon or Disney Channel show in which the characters can’t have a conversation at a normal volume or discuss any issues relevant to growing up, I’ll post another episode of “Blossom” on my 15-year-old sister’s Facebook wall.

In part because Blossom’s latest hat rules (that flower, though). In part because Six’s sassiness is envy-worthy. And in part because I want my little sister admiring a character who’s awkward and talks too much at the wrong time and too little at the right time — a character who’s real.

Return to beloved hobby proves the power of leisure

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I recently reacquainted myself with a longtime love: reading for fun.

While I appreciate literature whether reading for homework or leisure, there’s a certain thrill in picking up a memoir with the confidence that no essay prompt or pop quiz awaits. In the fall, I’ll complete my English writing degree with a course dedicated to life writing; I deemed David Sedaris’ memoir Naked the ideal choice for renewing my (complicated) bond with the genre.

Already, unapologetic honesty defines the memoir, and though I have little in common with the author, I find myself clinging to the universality of his bizarre tales — all moored on the page with that trademark Sedaris wit.

Even rambling a quick analysis of Naked reveals leisure’s sneaky power. Though I’m reading for relaxation, I automatically engage the more academic, formulaic part of my mind.

And the whole involuntary rambling thing felt productive. Wait, what?

Too often throughout my college career, I’ve felt guilty after taking an hour or two off to watch a movie or delay my homework for an impromptu ping-pong match. After all, that kind of ‘relaxation’ detracted from my ‘career path’ or whatever other jargon I created for an all-purpose guilt trip.

Since taking up leisure reading again, though, I’ve realized hobbies and interests are neither conniving nor determined to invade my life and steal precious time from work.

Rather, they’re opportunities to engage a different, too often dormant part of me. And maybe, in the uncanny haven of an author’s tale about ‘that one time way back when,’ the career-minded, ‘productive’ part of me might discover something valuable — something far beyond the cubicle.

Life writing leads to meditation on concept of time

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Time confounds me. And don’t worry, this post won’t turn into one of those, “Time heals all,” monologues from Tumblr. This post is more like, “Hey, big, bad world! I’m Taylor, and here’s a nugget of the innumerable things I don’t quite get and maybe never will!”

One of the many results of my interest in life-writing is incessant meditation on the concept of time and how it manifests day to day in my world. And, again in the life-writing tradition, I’m wary of any hint of a “conclusion” or “culmination.” I figure it’s more than likely fleeting, to be replaced by a deeper, more informed epiphany reached only by an older, more worldly version of me.

But back to the concept of time and my raging uncertainty (I imagine there’s a handy “20 Reasons Being Uncertain in Your 20s is Totally Normal” listicle waiting to guide me to eternal enlightenment).

I’m particularly confounded by the ability of time to at once fly and lumber. When I park my (inevitably) senioritis-afflicted self in the library next semester to memorize that pile of Arabic flashcards (wish me luck in that endeavor, blogosphere), time will probably lumber by.

But then, in the middle of one of my breaks (Hey, I memorized 10 cards; therefore, I’ve earned a 15-minute Twitter break, right?), I’ll probably glance at my calendar (more avoidance) and realize it’s November or something crazy like that.

In November, I’ll turn 22. A month later, I graduate from college. Damn it, time.

I’ve long believed I could control time — a side effect of my trademark stubbornness. From color-coding, to mapping out my entire day, to dreaming about losing my calendar (a nightmare, rather), I’m pretty good at trying to control time.

Emphasis on trying. It’s time I realize the limitations of my schedule, internal clock and even the holy grail of time-control: the multicolored Sharpie pack that recently rocked my color-coding world.

Rather than draw a thick, neon line through my next appointment, I think I’ll write my name in bubble letters. It’s one of the few things I know for certain, after all.

How-to-live ‘listicles’ offer stale, generic advice

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I can’t resist a good listicle. You know, that literary gem about the “20 Most Important Sloths You’ll Ever Witness” or the life-changing “15 Biggest Cat Moments in YouTube History.” But every time I surf the Internet for my daily helping of cute-animal entertainment, I’m hounded by my least favorite type of listicle.

And no, I’m not referring to the “20 Least Important Sloths You’ll Ever Witness.” I mean the dreaded 20-something how-to-live listicle. Every time I scroll through my Twitter feed, at least five “[Insert arbitrary number] Things Every Girl Should Do In Her Twenties” listicles appear, providing the conclusive handbook for the next nine years of my life.

But frankly, I’m done glancing at them with the inevitable eye-roll and audible groan. Today, I’m fighting back (all right, more like ranting back) about the inclination of nearly every web writer to inform me what I have to do in the next decade.

The 20-something how-to-live listicle employs a one-size-fits-all approach in processing life milestones. Suddenly, landmarks like living on your own, traveling abroad and quitting a terrible job are equally beneficial and impactful for all 20-somethings. Though they initially appear inspiring and informed (seeing as they’re usually written by some wistful 30-something), age-specific, how-to-live listicles generalize and trivialize.

My stubborn side is probably coming through as usual, but I’m a big believer in the freedom to make my own mistakes. Now, I don’t mean I’m living my 20s in pursuit of grievous errors and subsequent regret. Rather, I’d like the freedom to make mistakes organically and learn from them in a way catered to my life and future.

The 20-something how-to-live listicle provides a ready-made conclusion about the impact some experience or error should inevitably have. Please let me make my own mistakes on my own timeline, and more importantly, please give me the freedom to reach my own conclusion.

Clearly, if you read the post before this one, I’m all about unanswered questions as a means of self-growth and reflection. Twenty-something how-to-live listicles strip life experiences of their innate ambiguity. Sometimes, a conclusion or sweeping statement of growth and learning simply doesn’t exist. Sometimes, the uncertainty is productive in its own unexpected way.

So, this summer, the only listicle I need is the “25 Most Important Hedgehog Moments This Week.” Or the even more important “10 New Ice Cream Flavors to Try This Summer.” If you write that listicle, I swear I won’t groan or roll my eyes.

Milestone commemoration a source of unanswered questions

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My collegiate plunge into life writing produced an unexpected but welcome habit: unremitting reflection. Add in a life-changing trip abroad and an academic year defined by change and fear, and well, I have a lot on which to reflect.

All that fodder for lingering led me to think about the modern commemoration of the life landmark — a peculiar moment defined at once by the individual and the culture.

With a quick click on Facebook, for example, one can take a brief tour through each important “life event,” decided by the profile owner. And that’s where I begin to feel particularly unmoored: the ownership of life events.

Though I immediately placed my January 2014 trip to Turkey in the “high impact” category in my life, I worry adding it to an arbitrary “timeline” could trivialize the power and tangibility of it. If I type it into an electronic timeline, it’s available for a few hundred “friends” to imagine, conceptualize and ultimately, define for me. But I’m probably overthinking it.

Additionally, I’m baffled by the ownership of memory in relation to the tangibility of it — the tickets, the souvenirs and the leftover Turkish lira in my back pocket. They traveled from one retailer to another, one gutter to another, one pocket to another, one continent to another and finally, wound up in an Arabic-decorated trinket box in America’s Heartland. Yet, do I really own those mementos?

I can’t help but wonder if a traveler before me experienced a more poignant moment with them. But in the box they’ll remain, harboring my memory — and undoubtedly, many more I’ll never know.

Finally, I worry about my ability and more broadly, my generation’s ability, to comprehend the gravity of life’s milestones and memories. With the ability available to “delete” a “life event,” with an album requiring a click rather than a week of paper-cutting (and a paper cut or two, given my lack of crafting grace), are we missing valuable opportunities to linger on life experiences? Have we made memory commemoration too easy, too quick and frankly, too public, for it to impact us in a lasting and meaningful way?

Well, I’m going to try to find out. I plan to create a tangible project from my Turkey experience (with the guidance of my creative younger sister, of course). And no, I don’t mean adding a bad clip-art flower or “xoxo” to a photo and placing it in a glittery photo frame.

Whatever the project, I hope I’ll find a new kind of reflective experience and maybe, an epiphany the Facebook “timeline” and “like” could never provide. And maybe, I’ll even avoid the dreaded crafting paper cut.