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.