Op-Ed
Dr. Phil's Wet Dream
Email: 
Share: 
Silk Blue Stockings
Silk Blue Stockings
.jpg "Silk Blue Stockings")
I am Dr. Phil’s wet dream. I sleep eight to nine hours every night; I eat five servings of fruit and vegetables each day; I exercise regularly and always use a condom.
Dr. Phil would be so proud.
In addition to this, I have given up my vices: cigarettes, booze, coffee, older men/philanderers and trouble.
Where does this land me?
Firstly, my recently acquired virtue does not supply much fodder for my column. In addition, I find myself, for the first time in my life, listening to my friends’ problems and drama with pangs of nostalgia and envy.
But, after detoxing my body and personal life, I am slipping quickly into boredom and mediocrity. Maybe the mediocrity was always there, but because I was so wrapped up in nonsense, I didn’t notice.
Trouble and drama add a sense of purpose to my life — they imbue my existence with meaning, not to mention entertainment. Who needs The O.C. when your own life reads like a soap?
Well, actually, I do.
Contrary to anything Dr. Phil has preached, leading a “balanced” existence does not make me a more productive person. For example, the semester I made Dean’s List was the one in which I was consistently going out every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night. As opposed to this past semester — okay, I wasn’t a girl scout — but I significantly reduced my alcohol intake and bar frequenting, and my GPA plummeted. (And by plummeted, I mean that I missed the Dean’s list by .02 points).
Yes, I’m one of those GPA whores. I try to comfort myself with the idea that I actually learned a lot last semester, but really I’m mad that I don’t have that little piece of paper declaring my nerdiness in elegant calligraphy.
I guess the piece of paper is so important to me because:
a) I occasionally suffer from mild self-doubt
b) my success in ballet was so ephemeral that to have a palpable display of achievement is somehow comforting.
Back when I was a ballerina, my older brother used to visit me a lot more often — basically to hook up with my beautiful ballet friends. On one of these occasions, he came to the studio, and at the time I was getting physical therapy on my floating patella — turns out that none of my joints are properly connected. In fact, my sacrum never fused, so I am literally missing a piece of my spine.
I think that explains a lot.
Anyway, so my brother was in the physical therapy room hitting on someone, and then in a fit of comic improvisation he lay belly down on a huge pilates ball, lifting his legs and arms imitating Superman flying through the air. “Look at me,” he shouted, “I’m barely above-average man … barely-above-average man!”
Okay, that story is really random, but whenever my professors write the distribution of exam grades on the blackboard, I am always barely above average, and that image of my brother mocking Superman immediately leaps to mind.
Like my brother, I sort of view myself as a barely above-average super hero (I’m aware that is an oxymoron): confirmation that I am, indeed, a nerd. But, as Andrew says, “You’re not a nerd if you say you’re a nerd.”
I think I may be an exception to that rule.
So, here I am, the barely-above-average superhero, flying through life as an undergraduate. My special power (singular) is that I am so much older than everyone else on campus.
What does that do for me?
Nada.
But, before I get too carried away with this indulgent self-deprecation/public-self-flagellation, I want to return to the issue at hand: Why doesn’t Dr. Phil’s formula work?
I’m confused. Why have I not been rewarded for abstaining from my vices? Why am I always more productive and successful when I’m drinking like a fish, smoking like a chimney and dating raging assholes?
Seriously, what is my incentive for being a better and more balanced person if it isn’t going to get me into Harvard Law? Plus, being balanced is so much less fun, and it makes me feel uncool.
Yes, I am that immature.
Maybe there is some long-term benefit that I’m not seeing.
Okay, try this one on for size; the only time I ever got an A+ at Cornell was when I never went to lecture.
What does this mean? Why are the cosmos constantly rewarding and reinforcing my bad behavior? The only thing keeping me a marginally moral person is a fear of herpes.
Clearly I’m having some kind of post-post-adolescent-existential-crisis here.
If you don’t believe the Big G-man is handing out lollipops at the end of the road, and there are no earthly rewards for morality, why bother?
When I get in this frame of mind, I talk to my brother’s best friend, Micah, who is the voice of my conscience. He lectured me on how I needed to grow a moral backbone.
Ouch.
According to Micah, on my current trajectory I’m going to end up a single mom — oh horror!
I can’t tell if I am going through my Feminist-101-rejection-of-social-mores phase, or if I am genuinely pissed off that being a good person won’t get me into Harvard or Heaven — in that order.
Some famous person, maybe Mae West, said something along the lines of “Not smoking, drinking or having sex does not make you live longer, it just makes life seem longer.”
Claire Readhead is a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be reached at clr39@cornell.edu. Silk Blue Stockings appears alternate Mondays.