This weekend I went back to Yale for my tenth college reunion. We went back. To that beautiful campus. To those beautiful years.

We logged many hours reminiscing and reconnecting under a vast white tent on Old Campus. The weekend was stuffed with familiar faces and rich conversations and contagious laughter and even beer pong. Many things, so many things, made me smile.

One thing? Seeing my books displayed in the lobby of the hotel.

But one of the most amazing things about this weekend had nothing to do with parties and people from my past. That amazing thing? My two little girls. Husband and I took them to Old Campus on Saturday morning when it was very quiet and pretty empty. We plopped our creatures down in the candy green grass and let them roam and explore. They ran and ran and jumped and giggled. They sniffed out the little white flag above. Which made me smile because we surrender to these little ones countless times a day.

The girls insisted on playing with the stakes of the big white tent even though we told them that it wasn’t safe.

They spotted a mysterious beige object outside of Connecticut Hall. And had great fun banging it like a drum before we read the faded writing on it and realized that it contained some kind of poison. (Why are kids magnetically attracted to danger?)

They ran. At times together. At times separately. They skipped toward each other. And in different directions.

We walked along stone paths and checked out the trucks unloading lunch.

We walked through archways between Here and There. Then and When.

I watched Baby stroll down Elm Street, the same street I walked so many times clutching books and gummy candy. And dreams.

The girls looked for animals.

They chased squirrels.

And each other.

Toddler ran so fast. Leaving a mess of golden curls in her wake.

She stopped every now and then. To take it all in perhaps.

But then she kept going.

Yesterday, Husband let me sleep in. He took the girls on a “safari adventure” around campus. He snapped this shot of his two little women at the Women’s Table, the scene of some delightful debauchery of latter day. The scene of so many stories. And good ones.

He caught the girls being silly. Doing their job. Having fun.

And today. I’m home again. On my new campus. Today I look at this picture of my girls, my creations, on the campus I love deeply, the campus that in so many ways created me, and I am flooded with memories and affection and awe. Today I look at this picture and tears, sweet blissful Bulldog tears, come.

And to them, I surrender.

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• Have you taken your kids to your alma maters or other seminal places of your youth?
  
• Do you remember visiting your parents’ schools when growing up?
• Do you agree that it’s important and necessary to surrender to our kids and our emotions from time to time?

**”Do you ever feel like a book comes into your life at a time when you really need it?  It’s like some force in the world told me that I needed to read Aidan Donnelley Rowley’s book, Life After Yes, at this point in my life… can’t rave enough about this book and I encourage you to go and find your own copy asap!!  I am eagerly anticipating more from this author in the future!!  This book whole-heartedly deserves the Five Star CRAZY AMAZING review!” Click here to read the rest of the review over at Crazy for Books.**

**The second installment of the online Life After Yes book club is up over at Motherese. Yet again, Kristen provides an incredibly thoughtful analysis of my work and asks wonderful questions (that I am tempted to answer!). In the event that you missed it, also check out last week’s discussion. I cannot tell you how meaningful it has been for me to witness such rich conversation about my book.**

“The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails.”

William Arthur Ward

I don’t know much about sailing. Or about William Arthur Ward for that matter. But I do love this quote. And I am very interested in the topic of optimism. What is it exactly? Is it something we are born with? Something we absorb as we navigate our days? Is it something we must choose, embrace, practice at?

I don’t know.

But I do know that these questions matter to me. I do know that I want very much to be optimistic. More than that, I want very much not to be pessimistic. Last week, at T’s Yale graduation, Bill Clinton was the Class Day speaker. And Slick Willy didn’t disappoint. He charmed us all with his trademark mix of wit and wisdom. He implored the graduates – and all of us really – to get real about the big problems we face in this modern world. But one thing stuck with me in particular. Something about pessimism.

Clinton said, “Cynicism and pessimism are cop-outs. Excuses to take a dive. Self-fulfilling prophecies.” And as he said these words, I sat there in my folding chair on good Old Campus, nodding. Nodding fiercely. I do not want to be a pessimist. I do not want to be a cynic.

But are these things up to me? Per Clinton, it seems they are.

Is optimism innate/inherited? Are each of us genetically or physiologically wired in such a way that we are more or less likely to see life’s silver lining? Do we inherit our powers of positivity from our parents? Is it hard, if impossible, to transcend the levels of optimism we witnessed and absorbed growing up?

Is optimism contagious? Are we more likely to see the sunshine in our days when surrounded by others who are optimistic? [Once upon a time, a young (and super-cynical) girl who wore tons of black and whose default face was a bitchy scowl met a young (and shockingly-optimistic) boy who didn't care what he wore and was prone to smile. They met in a bar of all places! And days passed. And months. And years. Seven-ish years later, that same girl has two girls of her own and is much much more optimistic about life. And she wears color!]

Is optimism a choice? Whatever its source, can we choose to add more optimism to our selves and to our stories? Can we make efforts to alter the ways we see things and process them? Can we train ourselves to see sunshine instead of storms? Can we, with devotion and diligence, avoid Clinton’s cop-outs of cynicism and pessimism?

Again, I don’t know. But, hey, at least I’m asking, right?

Today, I would say I’m a realist. One who suffers soggy moments of cynicism and poisonous bouts of pessimism. But one who is committed to optimism. Optimistic about optimism.

Today, I am awake. Alert. Aware of the robust reality of existential wind. Poised for change. Even cruel change. Always adjusting the sails of my own expectations.

Because I must. We all must.

(How can I possibly look at this sunshine-soaked picture of my three creatures in the fountains outside the museum where I celebrated my wedding and be anything but optimistic?)

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• Do you think optimism is a choice?
• Do you agree with President Clinton that pessimism and cynicism are self-fulfilling prophecies and cop-outs?
  
• Where do you fall on the optimism/pessimism/realism spectrum?
• Are you more or less positive about life and love than you used to be? What has affected your outlook?
• Are you suspicious (like I am) of people who seem optimistic all the time?

** Today is the very first day of the LIFE AFTER YES book club discussion over at Motherese. Click and come on by!**

** For a chance to win a signed copy of LIFE AFTER YES, please click over to BlogHer at Home and leave a comment! (Thanks, Nic!)**

Rumor has it that a certain something helps tremendously in the optimism department. That something? Book sales

I woke up this morning and realized something: I am really really tired. Exhausted.

Exquisitely exhausted.

It’s been a long and lovely week. On Saturday, I headed to New Haven for Sister T’s graduation. Cozy on Yale’s campus, I felt very much at home.

I walked the streets of my past, noting the gorgeous green of the ivy. In the bold May sunshine, I watched my littlest sister graduate.

As we walked from Old Campus, I hung back to get a shot of the graduate. Flanked by sisters. It’s all about sisters.

Oh. Forgot to tell you. During the ceremony, there were a few fun celeb sightings. (I spy Steven Spielberg.)

We made our way to Pierson College. Where four of the five of us Donnelley girls spent our undergrad years. I studied the familiar swirls of a welcoming gate and the beckoning blue of a happy sky.

We posed for pictures. Five daughters. One Mom. The Donnelley girls. Here are our feet.

On Monday, after a whirlwind of commencement activities and a couple of late nights, we came home. On Tuesday, there was a soccer class and a science class and a wonderful luncheon at the Natural History Museum. There was a tearful dedication of a plaque to a certain beloved man of nature. There were construction meetings. There was a panicky and very last-minute trip to Bergdorfs to find the perfect LBD (little book dress). At 8pm, as the store was closing, said dress was purchased.

And yesterday, after an afternoon of signing stacks of Life After Yes at BookExpo America for scores of splendid strangers, I donned my little black dress and indulged in a contemplative moment before my book party. I stopped and said to myself, This is really happening. This is my Now.

We made our way there. To the Library Bar at the Hudson Hotel. A stunning spot with vast portraits of cows and countless books. And perfect peonies from a good and loyal friend.

In the center of the room, there was a beautiful blue pool table. Which kept the boys busy and in good spirits.

Before the guests arrived, my man snapped away. He captured the sublime setting.

He got candids of his wife. Like this one. Note that the only reason I am including this shot is because I kind of like the way my arm looks

It was meaningful, magical, to be surrounded by so many old books while celebrating a new one.

I like this picture. The juxtaposition of books and cows makes me giggle. It was a night of sweet smiles and friends and family and love and laughter. After the party, I stayed out for a bit with the girls. C, T, and I went for a late night meal. Like old times.

And when I got home, I paused before the mirror in our lobby. I did something strange. Something I have been known to do. I looked at my reflection. I looked at my dress. At my side-swept hair. At my vast smile. And then I took a picture. To have evidence. To memorialize a moment, a fleeting and joyful and hushed moment, with myself.

And then I took a few silly ones. Because in that moment I was feeling good and silly. And I decided there was nothing wrong with that.

And, home again, I slipped out of that black dress and into pajamas and crawled into bed with my snoozing and supportive man. Before nodding off, I kissed the back of his head. And then I slept. And continued to dream.

And I woke up this morning and realized something: I am really really tired. Exhausted.

Exquisitely exhausted.

The truth is I need a nap. And today, instead of racing and chasing and checking my Amazon ranking in ten minute intervals, I am going to take that nap. And if I have my way, there will be a little girl on either side of me cuddled up. And maybe even a cat or two purring at my feet.

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Have you ever experienced exquisite exhaustion? Do you think it is silly (and narcissistic) that I periodically snap pictures of myself? Do you ever do this? Do you need a nap?

Bright College years, with pleasure rife,
The shortest, gladdest years of life;
How swiftly are ye gliding by!
Oh, why doth time so quickly fly?

The seasons come, the seasons go,
The earth is green or white with snow,
But time and change shall naught avail
To break the friendships formed at Yale.

In after years, should troubles rise
To cloud the blue of sunny skies,
How bright will seem, through mem’ry’s haze
Those happy, golden, bygone days!

Oh, let us strive that ever we
May let these words our watch-cry be,
Where’er upon life’s sea we sail:
“For God, for Country and for Yale!”

“Bright College Years”

(Written by H.S. Durand, 1881 and Composed by Carl Wilhelm)

Ten years ago, I graduated from Yale. I remember the day. The weekend. The profound perfume of pride and sadness wafting through the New Haven air. I remember wanting so badly to stay, to pause time, to soak up the sentiment I feared I wasn’t appreciating in full measure. But I also wanted it to be over. To move on. To enter that fabled real world that beckoned.

Today, it’s my youngest Sister T’s turn. She will don that standard issue polyester. In that cap and gown, she will walk. She will receive that heralded document, that diploma. She will shake a dean’s hand and smile big for photographs. At lunch, we will toast her insane 3.99 GPA which she managed to achieve – and maintain – while watching Dad get sick and say goodbye. We will also raise a glass to more intangible things. To bright and bygone college years. To heaps of happiness. To a good life beyond Ivy.

And so. On this day, I’m a proud Yalie and a proud big sister. Overwhelmed, exquisitely overwhelmed, by love and legacy and loss. At once aware of the monument that is this (fifth and final) moment and oblivious to its ultimate and unwieldy weight. For T. For me. For my family.

This post is for God, for Country, and for Yale.

But mostly?

It’s for T.

Congrats, baby sis. We are all so so proud.

And so is he.

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• Please congratulate my littlest sis on her big day! Any words of wisdom to pass along?
• Do you remember your own graduation day? How did you feel? Were you ready to move on?
  
• I still owe T a graduation gift. Any stellar ideas?

(Apologies in advance. Because this post is unedited. These words will lack the telltale gloss I apply after composition. And maybe because of this, because of their tattered edges, they will be more real?)

I live in a bubble. A bubble full of fancy educations and success stories. Of fast cars and summer homes. Of big diamonds and tiny dogs. Of wealth and health.

I live in a bubble. And in this bubble, sleep is lost over private school admissions, SAT points, waist size, comment count, book sales, and broken iPhones. In this bubble, there is bartering of existential truths and bantering about insecurities.

I live in a bubble. And it is cozy and clean. It is my world. And I love it. It is what I know.

There is life outside my bubble. There are kids who are awakened in the night to the staccato of gunshots, to an avalanche of tears, to the breaking of hearts. There are kids who are given no chances, no opportunities, no snuggles. There are kids who are told they are dumb, dim-witted, good for nothing. There are kids who are lost, failed, trampled upon by broken families and systems and hopes.

I glimpsed this life and these kids at Community-Word’s Writing Our Future benefit at the National Arts Club last night. My new friend, the brilliant Michele Kotler, started Community-Word Project over ten years ago. A bit about this phenomenal organization:

Community~Word Project is dedicated to helping at-risk young people become critical and creative thinkers who are prepared for the challenges and opportunities they face in these rapidly changing times. We work in struggling communities in New York City, reaching young people in the one place they must be every day, the classroom. Community~Word Project residencies, which are at the heart of our work, transform those classrooms into learning environments where children are not taught what to think, but how to think, where young minds are not filled, but formed. Since our founding in 1997, Community~Word Project has served over 10,000 young people.

Now I have been to my fair share of charity events. But last night? It shook me. Woke me up. Made me see the outline of the bubble in which I reside.

The best part of last night was the kids. These kids stood up on stage and performed the poems they’d written. Poems about family and sky and laughter. And I sat there in the audience. With my newly highlighted hair. In my perfect black outfit. In my brand new shoes. Clutching my designer bag and iPhone.

In my bubble.

But I sat there. And I listened. To the words that carried my way. Words spoken by young voices. Exquisite words. Words that smacked of struggle and salvation. Of life and love and longing.

These words pierced the bubble. They found me. Burrowed into my consciousness. I don’t want them to leave.

As I walked outside into the April air, I saw them. The limos. Waiting for those young kids on their big night. Michele told me this would happen. That it was important that these kids felt extra special on their big night. I hope they did.

And now. I am home. In my picturesque neighborhood. Facing a busy day in my bubble. I must get Toddler to her amazing Preschool. And then take Baby to her gymnastics class. And then I must race to the Museum of Natural History for the Spring Environmental Luncheon. And then I must hightail it to my new home to accept delivery of our new kitchen. Then it’s time to prepare to for my Happier Hour.

I live in a bubble.

In this bubble, I feel fortunate. That freedom surrounds me. That opportunities hover. That I am here. Not there.

I live in a bubble

In this bubble, I feel guilty. That freedom surrounds me. That opportunities hover. That I am here. Not there.

And so gratitude and guilt mingle in me. Awareness alights. This morning. Every morning, I hope.

Because there’s one thing worse than living in a bubble: Being blind to the bubble.

Thank you, Michele. For shaking me. For waking me. For training my eye on my own exquisite bounty. For reminding me that words and sentences and thoughts are not givens. They are profound privileges bequeathed by good teachers and good people. Like you. People who honor the voices and visions beyond that bubble in which so many of us, too many of us, hide. I look forward to getting even more involved with Community-Word going forward.

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• Do you live in a bubble? What does your bubble look like?
• Over the years, has anything or anyone woken you up to the reality of what you have?
  
• Do you ever feel guilty about your good fortune?
• Do you think existential bubbles exist because we create them and refuse to pop them? Or are they inevitable by-products of entrenched inequalities?
• Do you find that sometimes your unedited words and thoughts contain the most truth?
  
• Do you agree with Sarah of Momalom in her sentiment that “Life is unedited, why shouldn’t I be from time to time?”

Some things we can debate until we are Bulldog blue in the face. But some things are pure fact. One such thing? That with each passing moment, minute, and month, we are getting older.

When we are young, getting older seems only a good thing. A goal. But when we become adults, when we start packing decades under our existential belts, this getting older business is more complicated.

How do I feel about getting older? It depends on the day. Some days, I hate it. The fast march of time. The reminders of lingering mortality. The threatening wrinkles. The robust responsibilities.

But some days, even most days, I’m okay with it. Maybe it’s because I’m settling into a sweet season of my life – boy, babies, blog, book – but I feel that with each day, things are becoming clearer in complexion. I look back at myself ten years ago and I was cute and clueless and fabulously flailing in a sea of question marks. Today, the question marks are still here. And I’m thankful for that. Today, they are friends. Reminders of an abiding depth. Connections to a quirky cosmos.

Gwendolyn Brooks once said, “As you get older, you find that often the wheat, disentangling itself from the chaff, comes out to meet you.”

Per my very favorite metaphor book, separating wheat from the chaff denotes separating the valuable from the useless. With this bit of information in mind, the above quotes really speaks to me. As the years pile up, I feel that I am better able to see – and feel – what matters. As age mounts, I feel that the wheat of meaning – once mixed up with the chaff of excess – sways closer.

I’m not sure I’m making any sense. It’s likely I’m not. But I will publish this odd little musing anyway. Because coherent or no, it is about something big that affects each and every one of us: Time.

Each of us is getting older. Marching on. Away. Through. Toward.

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• How do you feel about the reality of aging?
• Do you think it’s acceptable these days to embrace the physical effects of age, or do you think our culture – as Hollywood evidences – is obsessed with prolonging youth at all costs?
• How do you personally handle the emergence of wrinkles and wisdom?
• For you, is aging about growing or graying or both?
• Do you think things become clearer or more complicated with age?
• Do you think our attitudes about aging are tied up in what we have – and have not – accomplished so far?
• Would you shave years off your age if it also meant shaving off everything that’s happened to you in those years?

We all know that I like to meander down metaphorical paths.

But not today.

Today I need your advice. I don’t necessarily want it. But I need it.

Here is my dilemma. My rookie novel LIFE AFTER YES debuts in about five minutes weeks. And to say that I am a bit anxious about this impending event is a severe and silly understatement. But that is not the point of this post. I mention my paralyzing fear only to garner a pinch of sympathy. Onward.

So. My book’s due date is May 18th. Soon. And less than two weeks later, I head to Yale for my tenth year college reunion. The close proximity of these two happenings was at one point a very happy coincidence. My publisher and publicist and I all agreed that this timing was fantastic to generate some added buzz for my book. Fine.

At one point, we had a book signing planned during graduation weekend at the Yale Bookstore. Yay! But then I decided that the last thing hungover thirty-somethings would want to do during the day on their college reunion weekend is traipse to a campus bookstore and sit in a folding chair and listen to a nervous blonde read. We canceled this signing. Fine.

Instead, we decided that I could host a little, super-casual cocktail party. I would invite classmates to come, sip champers, and chit chat about LIFE AFTER YES and life after Yale. Once upon a time, this seemed like a fabulous idea. But then. This idea soured on me too. I thought of myself standing there in some silly party outfit waiting for people to show up. Yuck. No dice.

So. The latest incarnation of my at-Yale quasi-publicity plan is to leave copies of my debut novel in the hotel rooms where I am staying. I would leave one book in each room as a little party favor. My lovely publicist has been in touch with the manager at this great hotel and he loves the idea. Yippee!!

But. I have been feeling a bit weird about this too. Truth be told, I am pretty much feeling weird about everything that concerns my book these days, so I didn’t think much of it. I have chalked all of this (the broken sleep, the vivid dreams, the existential malaise) to generalized rookie anxiety.

But then. Last week Husband and I went out for dinner with a friend and her husband. We had a marvelous dinner. We talked about everything. About parenthood and professional ambivalence and identity in the Internet Age. We even talked about reunions. I told our friends about my terrific plan to gift books in hotel rooms during reunion weekend.

And my friend’s husband said something. “Do you really want to do that?”

And I startled. And asked him why. And, ever diplomatically, he told me that people are nervous to return to their alma maters. That they invariably feel insecure and can’t help but compare their lives, their paths, their successes to those of their classmates. He said that he wasn’t sure he’d want to walk into his hotel room and see the published novel of a cohort.

As he said these things, I nodded. Because everything he said made perfect sense. Because, really, I want to return to Yale, the scene of some of the very best days of my life, and just have fun and see people who have slipped from the edges of my life. That weekend is not about me. Or my book.

Since that meal, I have made a point of asking several trusted friends what they think about my plan to give books away. And each and every one of these friends has told me the same thing: That this is a great and generous idea. That this is a clever and fun way to get my book in the hands of people who have a collegiate connection to me and might enjoy my story. But maybe they said this because they are my good friends?

I don’t know. What I do know is that in my current not-so-cute state of pre-publication petrification, I’m not 100% sure I’m thinking straight. I know that I need to get a lot better about embracing the notion of self-promotion. I know that I need to be proud of my book (and I am) and do what I can to encourage people to read it. I know that scores of fellow Yalies have accomplished wildly wonderful things and I look forward to hearing about their sundry successes between sips of Pinot.

But I also know that I don’t want to put off people whom I am genuinely eager to see and celebrate with after all these years.

I am well aware that I’m probably making a monster dilemma out of a tiny tactical decision. But here, in this gray moment, it doesn’t feel this way. Here, in this gray moment, this somehow feels kind of important. And I want to get this right. Or at least not get it wrong. So help me. Pretty please.

Books for Bulldogs? What would you do in my position?

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How have you felt returning to your schools for reunions? At your reunions, has there been a palpable sense of competition among classmates regarding achievements since graduation? How would you feel if you opened the door to your hotel room and a classmate’s book was on your pillow?

We sit at our favorite table in the back of Alice’s Tea Cup, our favorite weekend breakfast spot. Per usual, the girls wear the sparkly fairy wings they were given on the way in. Their porcelain cheeks glisten with fairy dust that has been known to cure skinned knees. Toddler nibbles her banana bread, moist and brown. Baby gobbles her blackberries. Husband and I hold court, sipping green tea, waiting for our poached eggs to arrive. It is the portrait of Saturday morning civilization.

Until.

Until there is a grating crescendo in the normal brunch symphony. A droning voice breaks through din of controlled chaos at our table. Two words carry.

“Ivy League… blah blah blah… Ivy League… blah blah blah… Ivy League.”

Now, Husband and I are usually pretty good at tuning others out, at focusing on each other and the girls, but this becomes too much. We stop talking. And listen.

“I once worked at Polo. Can you believe it? I know. I was a polo shirt specialist. I knew everything about those shirts and everyone was so impressed, so impressed, but I was like… I am wasting my education. I shouldn’t be here. I mean I am applying to Ivy League law schools. I mean, really…”

Husband and I smile at each other. Sip away. Break banana bread into tiny bits for Baby.

“I mean, honestly, the only thing that is truly wrong about living in Tribeca and I have the hardest time getting to Bergdorf’s. It’s really a pain.”

At this, I turn to look. I can’t help it. I see him. He’s on the smaller side. Has meticulously-plucked brows. He wears, yes, a Polo shirt. He runs his hands through one of those long/shaggy/preppy lacrosse-player-haircuts. His wife, blond, pleasant-looking, clutches her swollen belly. She is very pregnant. I look away.

“Ugh. We have to go look at cabinets after this. Shoot me, right? They cost as much as a BMW but are not even cool. Ugh. Oh, honey! Remember when we went on that purse hunt? When we had to cajole that Chanel bag out of that guy at Barney’s???”

At this, Baby, now supporting an amazing blackberry goatee, swivels in her highchair and gives the obnoxious man a good old piercing baby stare. Apparently, the guy sees her doing this.

“Everyone stop moving. Stop talking. We are being watched.”

He is not smiling as he says this. He must be kidding.

I don’t think he is.

“Jesus, babies freak me out.”

I’m sure this is lovely for his pregnant wife to hear. And for my Baby to hear.

“I just wish I was a lawyer in the old days. Honey, remember when you had your associates run out and buy you jeans? Little suckers. Those were the days.”

They are lawyers. All four of them. The other couple says something about working in the Public Defender’s Office, but I can’t really hear them because they speak at a Normal Person Decibel.

“Well, you should at least move to the South or to the Midwest. Where there is actually some crime. Hell, there’s nothing going on there, but at least there are murders. Hell, those places are practically known for their murders.”

Husband and I stare at each other in disbelief. Our eggs have arrived. Our waitress rolls her eyes and mutters so sorry before slipping away. And Husband and I smile. At her before she goes. At each other. At our girls who giggle in oblivion. Baby turns around to stare some more. Again, the man makes some crack about the sheer horror of being observed by a one-year-old.

“Well, this is blogworthy,” I say to Husband. “This guy should be a character in my next book. He’s that bad.”

Truth be told, he would not be a good character in a book because he is a caricature. A living and breathing and horrendous cliche.

And then Husband takes the words right out of my mouth.

“I have to get a picture of this guy,” Husband says. He pulls out his iPhone, fiddles with it, and pretends to help Baby with her food.

He gets a good shot. A perfect shot.

A shot which I immediately envision posting on my blog. How perfect!

(But then I come to my boring old senses and decide that I will not do this because I am a good girl and I have no interest in going the snark route on this blog. Because I have no interest in posting an actual picture of an actual person who was just trying to enjoy a subdued brunch of tea and scones on a Saturday morning. Right.)

As he and his party pay the check, Mr. Obnoxious continues to blabber on about everything offensive.

Ivy League!… Chanel!… I am basically just a sperm donor!… The South? Yuck!… Did I mention I played lacrosse in college?… I am a lawyer!… Ivy League!

Talk about Ivy League insecurities.

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Describe the most obnoxious person you’ve ever encountered. Come on. No holding back. Tell me. (Even if it’s me. Hey, I blab from time to time about the Ivy League – witness this post. Maybe I am just a milder version of this monster? Uh oh.) Do you have an impression of Ivy Leaguers (or New Yorkers or Americans or lawyers) that is at all like this terrible guy? Do you think that people act this way because they are profoundly insecure or because they are missing some socialization chip? Do you think people like this have any clue how obnoxious they are? Is acting like this an intentional, attention-seeking ploy?

ILI DAILY CHARMS

* {Wonderful musing on the exquisite escalator that is parenthood} The Moving Staircase from Being Rudri.

* {”Striving for balance is a losing game”} The Suck Factor of Life Balance, + Passion as a Cure to Stress from White Hot Truth.

* {Always ask the big questions – even about blogging} Why We Read Blogs from An Attitude Adjustment.

* {What inspires you to blog?} Inspiration: My Journey in Blogging from Coffees and Commutes

* {”Part of evolving is our capacity for reinvention”} Who Do Think You Are? from The Halfway Point

A few weeks ago, I returned to Dalton. My beloved second home from K-12. The place where I learned to read, write, and play the trumpet. I went in on a Friday afternoon to speak to a fifth grade class. It was Sister I’s class. She invited me to come in and talk about LIFE AFTER YES and the publishing process. And of course I agreed. But I must admit something. Making a cameo in her classroom made me impossibly nervous. But I shoved the nerves aside and I arrived. Clutching an advance copy of my book in sweaty palms, smiling a shaky smile, excited beyond belief.

My sister was wonderful. She met me in the lobby. The same lobby where I used to meet my friends before soccer practice. She led me to the room where she spends her days educating smart and curious kids. And the kids were amazing. They were quick on the approach. They studied me with keen eyes and promptly declared that Sister and I look alike. And they were right. We do.

And then I sat in the front of the classroom, twirling nervously in a black desk chair, talking about my own life after yes. About stumbling into a dream I couldn’t deny. About working hard and writing hard. About traveling down dark paths to destinations unknown. And I also talked about less lofty, ephemeral things. Things that were presumably a lot more interesting to a pack of eleven-year-olds. Things like book covers and vampires. Yes, vampires. On that topic, I had little expertise.

I loved the questions. The raised hands. The kids asked the most intelligent, nuanced, searching questions. One girl told me that she loves to write and that she has started several stories that she can’t seem to finish. She wanted to know if I had any advice. And we all know that I am haste to dispense wisdom, but I was put on the spot and I said something. I told this girl to write when she felt compelled, to give her stories the space they need, to finish them when they were ready. Her young smile, sheepish and smart, was priceless.

One kid asked if I always knew I wanted to write and I said no. I said that I always loved to write, but didn’t know until relatively recently that I wanted to write. And then another student asked me if I came up with my own title. And I said yes. Because I did. And then another soft-spoken girl asked if the process was all that I thought it would be or whether there were surprises. And I told her both. That it was everything I thought it would be, but that of course there were surprises.

There always are.

But the best part of the day? By far? Seeing my own sister in action. My big sister. The leader of the Donnelley sister pack. Sister I has always been exceedingly smart (she learned to read at age two and skipped Kindergarten), but she is also exceedingly modest. I had heard through the glorious Donnelley/Dalton grapevine that she is a wonderful teacher and very well-liked and respected, but on that day I got to see it. How she handled her kids with a mixture of humor and affection and firmness. How she alternated between questions that had answers and those that were not meant to be answered.

The day was incredible. Going back to Dalton was without a doubt one of the best experiences I have had since inking my book deal. And I think I am too close to that day to know why exactly. Maybe that day was so big for me because when I stepped into that colorful classroom, I could picture myself as a fifth grader – a quasi-studious tomboy in a green wool Celtics cap – eager to learn and eager to live. Maybe because I was given the sweet opportunity to talk about the twists and turns of the past eighteen months, and a fascinating process it has been a tremendous privilege to enjoy. Maybe because the happiness I felt on that day confirmed for me that this is it. That I have arrived. That whether or not LIFE AFTER YES is a sparkling success or dismal failure, this, right here, is where I am meant to be.

Ultimately, I think the reason that day was so important to me is actually quite simple. I think that for some reason, for some foolish and elusive reason, I have been reluctant to call myself a writer. Which is plain ridiculous because the moment I began hammering away at the trusty keyboard is the moment I became a writer.

Those of us who write? We are writers.

But that day? Standing up there in front of those bright young things talking about my life and my story and my book? It made it real. Exquisitely real. I walked out of that classroom and out of that school and back into my city and I felt different.

I felt, finally felt, like a writer. A real writer. And this is good. Because I am one.

I am a writer.

(It feels good to write this.)

(It feels good to believe this.)

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• If you have any questions at all about writing or publishing, ask away.
• Have you ever been given a glimpse into the professional world of one of your siblings?
• What were you like in fifth grade?
• Have you gone back to visit your grade school?
• Why do you think so many of us who spend our days writing are so reluctant to call ourselves writers?
  
• What is the deal with vampires? Why are they so hot these days?
  

*Little experiment in generosity here: If you have a blog post you are particularly proud of, please leave a link to the URL in the comment box and (as long as it is not wildly inappropriate or offensive), I will Stumble It. I got this idea from a recent post on social media written by the lovely Scary Mommy. She “stumbled” a link of mine and I received a groovy boost in traffic that day so I am paying it forward. Hey, there’s nothing wrong with writers supporting other writers, huh?

I am the product of an elite education. Dalton. Yale. Columbia Law.

The point of this post is not to remind you of my scholastic pedigree. No. The point is a lot more complicated. And decidedly more vulnerable. The point is hazy, but it exists. And here I sit squinting, trying to see it. Because this blogging gig? It’s not just about hawking my words and sentences. No. It’s about excavating my own neuroses. It’s about analyzing my own anxiety.

And I know better. I know that I am Me. That I am knee-deep in said neuroses and awash in said anxiety and no matter how hard I try, I probably won’t be able to arrive at an objective diagnosis. Of course not. But that won’t stop me from trying. I like a good challenge.

And I know better. That it’s one thing to have an exquisite education and glittering opportunities and incomparable connections. But it is another thing to talk about these things. And yet another to put them in writing. These are things to be thankful for, but things that should not be discussed. No. These are trappings of privilege. And privilege is a taboo subject.

Never talk about privilege.

You know what? Like so many of you, I am a bit sick of should. I am a bit perplexed by social strictures that seem a bit stiff. I am interested in honesty, in universality, in cracks. And I have cracks. They aren’t even tiny. They are big and bold and jagged. Stuffed with genuine worry, authentic questions, and notable insecurities. So maybe I am being imprudent here, but I am going to talk about the cracks.

I loved the schools I attended. Loved. And maybe this is not customary. But my experience was positive at each alma mater. I remember particular teachers. Particular books. Particular papers I wrote. Particular seminar discussions. My school days were bright and busy and, frankly, I miss them sometimes.

At school, I worked hard. Hard enough to get A’s and a sprinkling of lesser grades that made me sweat. Hard enough to graduate with an accolade or honor here and there. Hard enough to make that resume shine. Hard enough that graduation days were rich celebrations, beautiful bridges between one great place and the next. Hard enough that at the end of it all, I passed a very hard and miserable exam, and landed gracefully at a high wattage Manhattan law firm.

And at that law firm, I did just fine. I was an efficient and ebullient cog in a well-oiled machine. I got decent reviews. I got along well with my colleagues. And then I fled. And fast.

And now. Now I am home. And working. And mothering. And writing.

And worrying.

Worrying about a lot of things because this is a parent’s job. But worried from time to time about one thing in particular that I have been prudent enough not to articulate to myself. Or to the masses.

Until now.

Sometimes, I worry that I have wasted my education. And I know this might seem silly. Or even offensive. But sometimes I feel that with my particular degrees from my particular alma maters I should be doing more. That I should be doing something more meaningful. That I should be helping more people, or solving environmental or political crises, or rising in the ranks at some major uber-powerful institution that does good things. Sometimes, I worry that I took plum spots at stellar schools that could have been filled by others who were a bit more hungry and a bit more ambitious to alter the flawed landscape of our world, to fix the problems that need fixing, to amount to some more conventional glossy greatness.

This is why I gave this blog its name. Because though Ivy, I’m quite insecure. (Maybe because I am Ivy, I am particularly insecure because I am particularly aware of, and strangled by, shoulds?)

This is why I am treading tricky trenches here. Risking something. Talking a bit more openly.

Because as time passes, my own worries are becoming less opaque and I want to explore them. Because I think that in tracing the contours of my own insecurity, I am surprisingly gaining confidence. I think I am beginning to believe that my education hasn’t been wasted, but has been put to very good use.

I learned to write at these fine schools. I learned to think at these fine schools. I learned to ask questions at these fine schools.

Maybe that’s why I am willing to go there. To that raw and risky place of things not to discuss. To utter sentiments that might provoke. To ruffle pretty and peaceful feathers.

Maybe that’s why I am willing to come here. To this safe haven. To confess shards of complicated truth. To expose cracks.

Because I am finally realizing that I worked so hard, that I continue to work so hard, for a reason.

The reason? This.

This life. This family. These words. This story and its infinite and unfolding chapters.

Or maybe I have wasted it all and I am making big, bad excuses that are clever and well-told.

But I don’t think so. I don’t.

Not anymore.

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• Looking back, how do you feel about your education? Overall, was it a positive or negative experience or somewhere in between?
  
• Do you think you have made the most of your opportunities or do you sometimes wonder? Do you think you have succeeded because of your education or despite it?
  
• Do you ever have this sinking and shaky feeling that you have wasted something? Time? Love? An opportunity – educational or personal or romantic?
• Do you think that someone with two Ivy League degrees should be engaged in something more “serious” than raising kids and weaving self-indulgent words?

ILI DAILY CHARMS

* “You are not your stats.” A sage reminder for bloggers and non-bloggers alike from Megan Jordan at Velveteen Mind.

* What good are dreams? Big question and beautiful words courtesy of Big Little Wolf of Daily Plate of Crazy.

* Is there a solace in silence? How do you manifest your rage? Deep questions that will make your brain buzz from Ronna Detrick of Renegade Conversations.