Graduation: The Real Story

The real reason graduates are extinct.

Breaking News: The Crocs Update

Oh no, the coincidences (yet still the disgust): An article from yesterday's New York Times is titled "'Crocs' and 'Style' in the Same Breath."

Is that your gag reflux kicking in, I hear? (It could just be mine.)

Read Said Article Now

(Thanks to @John_D_Fisher for supplying me with the [atrocious] article and for sharing my strong dislike of the nonsense that is the foam "shoe.")

Why Crocs Should Be Extinct (No, PETA, This Doesn't Concern You)

I'll be the first to admit it, I've owned (and, sadly, worn) some pretty hideous shoes in my day. I've worn light-up flip-flops, grandma boots, this pair of red and yellow floral-print mesh slip-ons from Mexico my sister proclaimed the "ugliest shoes she'd ever seen" the other day (she said this the other day because we were cleaning out old closets at home over Easter weekend. I don't wear them in real life. Swear.), and I owned jellies in about every color at one time or another, I'm sure (although they're making a comeback?).*

But on my life, on the career I don't have yet, and on the Coach Madison Floral Audrey handbag I'm absolutely dying to have, there is one shoe that has not, nor will ever be seen on any foot of mine.

The Croc.

Sure, they're "odor-resistant," relieving you from those smelly foot issues, "lightweight -- like they're not even there" for those of you who are wearing iron-plated boots with your suits of armor, and give "form-to-fit support...like a hug" to those of you who just weren't shown enough affection as a child.

And sure, they come in every color imaginable so you don't have to worry about those terrible times when your shoes don't match your sweatband or granny panty underwear,** and you can shop for them by "use" or by "lifestyle" (important business meeting? Don't leave home without your "stylish-looking yet comfortable" Mary Jane-ish Croc slip on! Hiking Pike's Peak? The multi-sport Trailbreak Jesus sandal is the one for you! 94 inches of snow barricading your front door? That shovel won't help you one bit if you aren't wearing your fleece-lined winter clog (fleece available in chocolate, black, oatmeal, or plaid, of course--or go for the versatile corduroy version!)).

And what could be better than a neon foam slipper thing--unless it's a neon foam slipper thing embellished with rhinestone flowers, your favorite Disney characters, a tribute to your sports team, or even a 3-D Jibbitz Shoe Charm? No shoe is EVER complete without personalizing its topside ventilation holes (included for extra airiness, of course)!

But seriously, guys. Unless you're nursing an endangered species back to life in your bedroom in your home in the swamps of the Florida Everglades,*** you should not have anything called a "croc" in your closet. Ever. Remember that.


(The 3D green triceratops Jibbitz. Priceless.)










* In my defense, these terrible, terrible occurrences all took place before the year 2000. Swear. Which means I didn't buy them myself and was rudely coerced into forcing them onto my tender, innocence feet. I blame you, Mom, for buying such atrocities. And you, Sister, for the hand-me-downs. And you, Henchman Holding Wrench...

** No offense, grandmothers of the world. You wear your granny panties with pride, and don't let anyone ever tell you any different.

*** Actually, no. Put the crocodile back. And the alligator. And the panther. They will eat you.

How to Get a Job 101

So I'm thirty-three days away from graduation (but who's counting?), and I feel, like most graduating seniors, that I have learned every single thing there is to learn about my major. And both my minors. I've learned everything, I've practiced everything, I've even gotten hands-on experience--the epitome of ISU's "experiential learning" motto--by making entire PR campaigns for companies in the community* and being an intern. In short, I'm already a pro.**

But as the days grow longer and the count grows shorter,*** I've come to the realization that in all the classes and experience and everything Indiana State includes in their undergraduate programs to prepare students for getting a job in the "real world," they've forgotten one tiny, insignificant thing.

How to actually get said job in said "real world."

Sure, they teach you what to do when you get there--writing, speaking, researching, blah blah blah. I can crank out a twenty-page research paper in under a day and a half.
Perfect.
I can supplement my disgustingly intriguing persuasive speech with a stellar PowerPoint presentation.
Lovely.
I can define pages upon pages of PR terms, explain marketing theories, draw you a detailed diagram of the communication model in my sleep.
Delightful.

But does that tell me when to start contacting employers or how often to call them back before they slap a restraining order on me for stalking them? Does it help me decide how much of my own style is "acceptable" to wear when meeting potential employers or interviewing?**** Is green nail polish okay? Will they take off points if I wear adorable confidence-inspiring hot pink stilettos instead of plain Jane boring black ones?

For all the money I shell out in tuition payments,***** you'd think they could at least teach us something useful.









* Read: slave labor

** Obviously, I should basically be starting out at the very least as a top-level manager (okay, you're right. I should be a CEO now.), but for some reason the Gods that Distribute Jobs don't seem to think nineteen years of schooling (counting two years of preschool, of course. That extra year really helped solidify my lego-building skills) is equal to the same amount of experience in an "actual" job. Go figure. (The jerks.)

*** And my job search continues to turn up empty...by the way, if you're reading this, my name is Hannah Shaner and I'm ambitious, motivated, and hard-working, seeking a creative fast-paced PR/marketing career, and can send you my fantastic resume on demand...

**** Okay, so they do have "interview dress" guidelines: http://www.indstate.edu/carcen/studentsAndAlumni/dress/default.aspx (Love you, Roomie!!). But seriously, suits make me vomit. And it is the 21st century.

***** Read: for all the money my parents shell out in tuition payments

I Brake for Style

I was driving through campus the other day, when I stopped to let a twenty-something woman in a soft gray blouse and an emerald green mini paired with floral-print slingback peep-toes pass through one of Indiana State's eighty-four thousand crosswalks. It was seriously one of those looks that you should find in one of Cosmo's "looks from the street" articles, one that felt so springy and chic and cute you wanted to erase everything written in your planner for the afternoon so you could speed off to Macy's or Bloomie's and buy something similar in every color possible*, so naturally, I stopped to let her cross the street (AKA so I could admire the artwork that was her outfit).

A few seconds later, I was approaching another crosswalk (there are at least seventeen for every block), when I saw a girl coming closer to the street--a girl in a worn T-shirt, a pair of dirty, nasty sweatpants, and some unmemorable tennis shoes. Needless to say, I didn't stop.

And it wasn't that I consciously thought "Good Lord, who goes in public like that?" or anything--I honestly don't remember having any such specific thoughts at all. It really wasn't until a little later (when, I admit, I was still daydreaming about those floral peep-toes) that I even realized what I had done--and hadn't done. I had stopped to let a cutely-dressed girl walk across the street, but I had sped through the crosswalk when it was someone dressed like crap. And I don't really think it's the first time I've done it.

In short, I'm fashion-ist. Or style-ist. Or prejudiced against style-less people. Whatever you want to call it.

Now, I understand there are those certain situations you absolutely have to run somewhere for a second or two--a quick trip to the creepy gas station down the street for hangover-curing Gatorade or something--and you don't have the time to take off your dirty, nasty, ex-boyfriend's sweatpants** whose waistband is missing the elastic and that you have to hold up like a ballgown so you don't trip over them when you walk and change into something appropriate for wearing in public. But let's be honest here. Does it really take more than two seconds to throw on a pair of jeans? And is there really any situation where such a level of sloppy clothing is appropriate?***

Overall, all I'm saying is that it's easier to be nice to people and to respect people when they're dressed nicely or chicly or with some kind of style--guys, this means you, too. Which really means that it's easier for people to be nice and to respect you when you're dressed to impress.

So the next time you're headed somewhere--a job interview, the grocery store, whatever--maybe, just maybe you should leave those nasty, dirty sweatpants at home and put on some clothes that don't make the neighbors start a petition to declare you a community eyesore.

On second thought, just burn them.







*Not that that was an option for me--the sad excuse of what Terre Haute terms a "mall" would offer nothing even remotely close to the artistic masterpiece this girl had on. It's practically like living in a town with no stores at all. Which I've done. But that's another story.

**I realize this sounds like I'm calling your ex-boyfriend dirty and nasty, but that's not the case. I'm referring to the sweatpants he left at your house one time that are so comfortable and worn-in (obviously guy clothes are more comfy than girl clothes) that you still reach for them whenever you're lounging around. Although, for all of you out there whose ex-boyfriends are also dirty and nasty, I'm clearly referring to them as well. You're welcome.

***Clearly, if you're sleeping or maybe if you're on the way to the gym, your clothing choices aren't quite as important. Or if you've permanently taken up residence on your sofa in front of the TV in said ex-boyfriend's sweatpants while the Lifetime Movie Network spews out daily marathons of anti-male made-for-TV "Lifetime Original Movies," eating your miserable, pitiful feelings about said ex-boyfriend (You know who you are. Stop now.).

My New Loves

Steve Madden Trinitie Pumps, found at--you guessed it--the shoe department of your neighborhood Macy's.

Sighh.

Need I say more?

Pastels Are My Prozac

I’ll admit it, I was completely and utterly dreading the hour and a half (although it should, in reality, only take me an hour and fifteen minutes, but morning traffic in the city and the presence of less-than-qualified Indiana drivers who are eternally either:

1. Passing me only to swerve back in front of me and proceed to drive ten miles per hours slower than I had previously been driving,
2. Forgetting that there are other people driving besides just them and never moving out of the right-hand lane, causing me to almost miss my exit almost every time, or
3. Committing a combination of the aforementioned,

and who are always and without fail dominating the interstate, causing my level of irritability to increase exponentially and my travel time to increase by at least fifteen minutes.¹) drive home from my boyfriend’s apartment this morning. The universe was absolutely screaming at me to stay indoors,² and the fact that it had started raining motivated me even less.³ Finally, I somehow forced myself to get up and get ready. I grabbed an old hooded sweatshirt out of my bag to throw on for the trip back, when all of a sudden, a flash of color in the depths of my crimson-seamed, black and cream zebra-striped weekend bag peeked out at me. The heavens opened, the angels sang, the world turned to light⁴ as I pulled out the short-sleeved, powder blue, deep v-necked Henley shirt with soft ruffles coming down from the collar on each side that I had completely forgotten I’d purchased earlier in the week. I could feel my laziness subsiding and my pulse increasing as I paired the soft cotton shirt with my go-to ankle-length skinny jeans and a pair of tan Steve Madden gladiator sandals. In the few minutes it took me to get dressed, my energy was almost completely restored—not enough to make me actually want to leave, but at least enough to give me the “oomph” I needed to make it out the door.

I was driving back, happy that the rain had stopped long enough for the sun to crawl out from behind the clouds, and was just opening the sun roof in my car when it hit me—had I not found some as small and insignificant as a light blue shirt to pull me out of my rainy morning grogginess, I’d probably still be in bed counting the reasons I should stay there. I was recently talking with a coworker about how we could both feel a positive change in our attitudes now that spring has started to move its way across Indiana (commonly referred to as seasonal affective disorder, or SAD). In much the same way, I realized that I’d been suffering from DCCD (dark-colored clothes disorder)—and just like a little sunshine cures the “winter blues,” a hint of color cured my low feelings. In other words, I realized that pastels are my Prozac.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m well aware that there are many reasons a person may feel down or depressed that are not season- or apparel-related, but for those of you with similar struggles as me, there’s a good chance you just need something small—like a flash of blue in your duffel bag—to get you going again.⁵

So what’s your Prozac? What peps you up those days you struggle getting up from the couch or out the door? What cures your disorder?

¹ In situations involving construction sites, the irritation is multiplied by 17 and the travel time is multiplied by 24⁹⁶⁷, but thankfully today’s trip was construction-free so I don’t have to actually dig my calculator out of my 12^th grade backpack or my ability to do math out of the dark, swamp-like, math-storing abyss in the very, very back of my brain. AKA I used to be somewhat adept in the subject of mathematics and somehow even made it through Calculus 2 in high school, but the four years that have passed since I’ve had to do any calculations beyond balancing my checking account or adding up purchases before checking out to make sure I have enough in said checking account to cover said purchases (both of which I can complete only with the help of the calculator on my trusty Blackberry, of course) have proved to extinguish any and all memory of being able to do such things or desire to ever do them again should my memory miraculously restore itself. AKA I hate math.

² As you scholars out there may note, “the universe” was not literally screaming, per se, but I maintain that the basically lethal combination of:

1. The sound of the soft rain on the windows,
2. The massive gravitational pull of a cozy bed,
3. The hours of reruns of Reba, Frasier, and Will and Grace on Lifetime in the morning,
4. The presence of enough cans of Diet Coke in the fridge to last me at least two days,
5. The amount of which I wanted to spend more time with my boyfriend,
6. The amount of which I did not want to go back to my internship or my evening serving job or being productive during Spring Break, and, of course,
7. The level of which I wanted to avoid at all costs the obviously elongated aforementioned process of driving (see the first numbered list in the text above)

was thrown together in a decidedly not haphazard manner, ultimately signifying that some superior force was guiding the cosmos in an effort to detain me from departure. AKA it would take much more effort to fight against the universe to force myself to leave than it would to simply accept the fact that I should really just stay. AKA I was dreading the drive (see the first numbered list in the text above).

³ I have nothing against the rain when I am either inside and don’t have to deal with it or have nothing to do and can jump in puddles in my teal and purple polka-dotted rain boots for fun. But that never really happens, now does it? No. It only rains when I’m about to go somewhere or leave somewhere and would prefer to avoid the whole drowned rat look (so not in style right now) but don’t have enough free space in my bag(s) to carry a just-in-case hairdryer so I usually end up with the drowned rat look anyway. Also, I never have an umbrella. In a very Girl Scout-esq “be prepared” effort, I tried to keep one with me at all times for awhile, but I somehow managed to go through about four of them in a little over two months because any form of precipitation over a drizzle or a sprinkle would somehow manage to either:

1. Rip large holes in the fabric, effectively covering approximately two-thirds of my head but still causing water leakage onto the remaining third, thus being ineffective;
2. Cause the spoke-things to poke out of the fabric, thus causing my umbrella to not only scratch up and/or catch itself on other innocent miscellaneous items in my bag(s) but also to then act as an unsuspecting weapon to other innocent bystanders victimized by said spoke-things poking out of my umbrella’s fabric when it gouged out their eye(s) when all they were trying to do was walk past the annoying girl taking up the entire sidewalk with a broken umbrella who was still getting wet because when the spoke-things poke out of the fabric, there is nothing then holding the fabric in its umbrella-shaped form, thus being ineffective;
3. Mary Poppins the umbrella so that not only am I struggling to huddle all of my bags and myself under the umbrella but also am struggling to un-Mary Poppins it before said drowned rat look hits, which of course fails because once an umbrella has Mary P-ed, it feels as if it now has the right to do so whenever the hell it feels like it, which of course isn’t even fair because if my umbrella is going to Mary Poppins itself, it should at least have the decency to Mary Poppins me across campus or through a parking lot or wherever I’m needing to go and turn my bags into one easy-to-manage magical carpet bag, but of course since umbrellas are notorious for not having decency, the only thing it manages to do consistently is to not keep me dry, thus being ineffective; or
4. A combination of the aforementioned,

so naturally, I do my best to avoid umbrellas and usually end up looking like, you guessed it, a drowned rat. AKA I strongly dislike umbrellas.

⁴ This may be a bit of an exaggeration.

⁵ Note: For anyone taking anti-depressant/anti-anxiety/anti-anything medication that is doctor-ordered, court-ordered, spouse-ordered, parent-ordered, or anyone else with authority-ordered, I am not telling you to swap it for a pair of shoes or a toe nail polish that might make you smile. I am not a doctor. Do not rely on me for medical advice.