Archive for the 'Vanity' Category

A long post about flirtation, validation, and conversion

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on February 22, 2007
in Age, Faith, Favorite posts 2007, Marriage, Relationships, Sexual ethics and transformation and Vanity
. 20 Comments

I read a lotta blogs, and one I check in on from time to time is Amber’s. And a few weeks ago, she wrote a very brief, one-sentence post that brought me up short:

The deadpan flirtatiousness of certain married male bloggers is baffling to me.

Now, I was pretty damn certain Amber wasn’t thinking of me. I don’t know to whom she was referring, actually. But it made me reflect a bit about my past, about marriage, about neediness, and about unlearning flirtatiousness.

From early adolescence on, I was a student of flirting. I remember having the word defined for me in eighth grade by a girl named Jenny Nicholson. We sat together in math class, and I was a bit infatuated by her, a mild crush that was unreciprocated. But we chatted a lot, and one day she smiled and asked, in response to something I had said that I can’t remember, “Hugo are you flirting with me?” I said “no”, but obviously looked confused long enough for Jenny to throw out a definition: “It’s when you kinda like someone but don’t want to say it.”

I think I grunted out an “oh”, and left it at that.

I went home and asked my Mom about flirting. She gave me a more thorough definition, which I seem to remember as “Showing subtle romantic interest.” I also looked it up in a dictionary or two, and began to get the picture.

My mid-adolescent attempts at conscious flirting began not long thereafter, and they were predictably excruciatingly obvious, puerile, and unsuccessful. But my interest in girls was strong enough to help me overcome rejection after rejection, so I kept practicing what I thought of as my “technique.” I watched two of my older teenage male cousins, young men in college whose bodies were hard and chiseled and whose “patter” was smooth and (judging from their large number of girlfriends) successful. I watched their hand gestures, listened to their voices, studied their apparent effortlessness. Slowly, as my own body matured and changed, my confidence began to increase.

Bottom line, I spent years learning how to flirt. I suppose I only got good at it around the time I stopped consciously thinking about what I was doing and simply let myself “do what came naturally.” And for years and years, I did a hell of a lot of flirting. I flirted in and out of both of the disastrous marriages I had in my twenties. I found that my need for validation was stronger than any commitment I had made to any one particular woman. Even when I was physically faithful, I still loved the “intrigues” that had become second nature to me.

It was only in my early thirties, when I underwent my spiritual conversion, that I became willing to rethink my own flirtatiousness. Doing a written inventory of my romantic and sexual history, I realized that from 13 to 31 I had devoted a colossal amount of time and energy to flirting. The goal was rarely sex — the goal was validation of my own desirability. I was a first-rate narcissist, always eager to “stir the pot” to see if I could arouse a spark of interest in the various women I met in my life. It never mattered if I was single or attached, and I didn’t much care if these women were available or not. My ego needed feeding, and flirting was the best damn way I knew to get it fed. If the “intriguing” led to a short-term relationship or brief encounter, so much the better — but that was just icing on the cake. The “cake” in these instances was the knowledge that I was wanted. And knowing that I was desirable was the ultimate payoff.

I wrote last year about my 1998 “experiment with celibacy.” Not only did I not have sex or date, but for the first time since early adolescence, I consciously refrained from flirtations and intrigues. Cutting off that source of validation was extremely painful. I felt panicky and anxious. I was forced to do a lot of praying. And God was faithful. He brought me that sense of well-being that I needed so badly, that I had wanted so badly. My promiscuity and my addictive flirtatiousness had been all about filling a hole inside of me that only He could fill. But His grace could only fill that hole once I had made the decision to give up this habit that had sustained me and driven me for so long.

It’s been nearly nine years since that experience. And of course, I’m married once more, in a relationship that is deeper, richer, more challenging and more fulfilling than I have ever known. And finally, in this marriage, I can say that not flirting is truly second nature for me now. I still remember all of my old tricks, mind you. Even now, I often pause and examine my own words and actions to make sure that nothing I am doing or saying with any of the women in my life rises to the level of flirtation or intrigue. I’m gradually growing less hyper-vigilant as I learn to relax into my own skin. I’ve finally learned to stop using other people in order to feed that insatiable ego. And I’m finally in a marriage where all of those sparks, all of that heat, all of that “intrigue” is directed towards my spouse and my spouse alone.

Flirtation, particularly when we are married or in committed relationship, brings us dangerously close to one of the most pernicious sins of all. No, I don’t mean adultery. I mean the sin of using another human being to soothe our own anxiety, to feed our ravenous ego. Sending out “mixed messages” that arouse interest, deliberately fishing about to see if we can get a little “stroking” — this is toxic, manipulative, adolescent. I did it for nearly twenty years. It took several years more of hard work to break myself of the habit. Even now, I remain vigilant, knowing that it would be false pride to claim that I am forevermore immune from the temptation to soothe myself this way.

In my blog presence as in my “real world” life, I try and make it very clear that I am safe, romantically unavailable, happily married. I do this to honor my wife, of course, but there’s more to it than that. The other women in my life, be they colleagues, friends, or students don’t need me trying to pry out some sort of response from them. To put it vulgarly, using people sucks.

As it’s clear to regular readers, I’m spending a lot of time these days thinking about getting older. 40 is just around the corner. And of course, there’s a little nagging voice that says “Hugo, whatever looks you’ve had are fading. Do you think you can still “pull” (as the English say) as you used to?” And it’s my job these days to quiet that voice and not let that ugly, poisonous, neediness back into my life.

When that voice comes into my head, I remind myself that my real validation comes from the truth that — just like every other creature on this planet — I’m God’s beloved favorite. That’s true whether I’m lean or soft, wrinkled or smooth, handsome or homely, 29, 39, or 59.

And my wife, bless her, thinks I’m hot. The chinchillas just want to know if I have their shredded wheat treats, and it’s time to fetch those for them.

A few photos…

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on February 20, 2007
in Family, People, Photos, Traveling and Vanity
. 0 Comments

…are up at the Flickr account. I especially like this one from the bedroom balcony in our Paris hotel.

Grim times for the babes of ‘67

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on February 12, 2007
in Age and Vanity
. 3 Comments

As I contemplate turning forty in a few short months, I’m noting it’s been a bad month for other famous folks born in 1967.

The first truly famous pop-culture figure from 1967 was the late Kurt Cobain; he died on the very same day in April ‘94 that I was offered a full-time tenure-track job here at PCC.

Last week, Anna Nicole Smith (six months my junior, born November ‘67) died.  Keith Urban (October ‘67), now married to Nicole Kidman, has been in and out of rehab.  And two weeks ago, news broke of the unfortunate fall from grace of Gavin Newsom, the mayor of San Francisco. Newsom (born October ‘67), whose career I’ve followed since he was first elected to the Board of Supervisors when he was barely 30, has confessed to having an affair with the wife of a long-time campaign aide.  He has also, like Urban, entered treatment for alcoholism.  I once thought he would be the first person younger than me to be elected president; that prospect seems somewhat less likely.

Other 1967ers seem to be doing fine.  I’m turning forty this year with Julia Roberts, Faith Hill, and my fellow animal rights activist, darling Pamela Anderson.  But for some reason, the sad end to Anna Nicole’s life and the tawdry revelations about Mayor Newsom have me lamenting the varied misfortunes of my fellow 39 year-olds.  Clearly, some of us won’t ever see forty, and some of us (like Newsom, who has also been dating a twenty year-old) seem eager to pretend that this momentous milestone isn’t happening to us.

As for me, I’m quite excited about my fortieth.  I think I’ll have a party, the first proper birthday party I’ll have had since I turned 21.  And don’t anticipate any falls from grace on my end!  But however eager I am to hit this milestone, I’m also spending at least a bit of time thinking about my fellow ‘67-ers, and the various triumphs and tragedies that have befallen them.

Lapping the Louvre and sprinting Schoenbrunn: the dream TV series for a hyperactive philistine

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on February 8, 2007
in Athletics and Fitness, Traveling and Vanity
. 8 Comments

On Tuesday, I posted this very short note about my frustration with those who walk too slowly; the thread turned out to be rather fun.

Reading the comments, it occurs to me I’ve never posted about one of my future plans: to create a company that offers running tours of major historical sites. Not just running tours of famous cities, but of museums, cathedrals, temples, and so forth. You combine my natural hyperactivity, my inattentiveness, my love of running, my love of travel, and an unfortunate tendency to be a cultural philistine, and voila! A brand new way to see the world!

When I spent a semester teaching in a study abroad program in Italy, I mastered getting in and out of museums while still seeing all that needed to be seen. The Uffizi? Twenty minutes. The Doge’s Palace? Fifteen minutes. The Bargello? Seventeen. The Vatican museum took forty, but that was due to crowds that slowed down my steaming pace, not to any great desire to linger. And during my few months in Italy, I got an idea: create running tours of museums.

We’d need to rent out museums early in the morning, when runners like to work out and before the crowds come. We’d have to wear special racing flats that wouldn’t scuff the floors of the glorious galleries. Gathering before dawn, I’d work in conjunction with some athletic art historians, and we’d lead a pack of similarly-minded folks through a whirl-wind tour of the great galleries, palaces, and museums. We’d see everything, if not on a dead run, at least at a steady jog. Ten seconds with Botticelli, five with Donatello, three quick circuits around the feet of David in the Accademia. We’d run through all the rooms at Versailles; we’d climb the Eiffel Tower; we’d race through Schoenbrunn, do fartlek in the Tate, and sprint the Hermitage. Folks who needed to linger would be allowed to do so for a minute or two, and then catch up with our merry band composed of the spandex-clad and the Asics-hooved.

As the day wore on, this happy, sweaty group would move outside into the dawn (this tour will work best in spring or summer). We’d find the coffee shops, slurp down the local stimulating beverage, and then head off to the parks. In Dublin, we’d cavort in Phoenix Park; in London, run with the squirrels in Hyde Park; in Madrid, we might do intervals in the Jardin Botanico.

You get the idea.

At the very least, I’d like to go to Europe with a camera crew. I could be miked to lecture as I ran, and offer breezy, light-footed commentary as I jogged through the cities. I’d show visiting runners the best routes, and I’d conduct guest interviews with athletic locals; there’s always some expert in the antiquities about who also likes to lace up the trainers and break a sweat. Our conversations would be conducted at a pace rapid enough for a workout, slow enough for us to chat easily. We’d do a series of half-hour episodes, and air them on some happy mix of the History Channel and ESPN.

I’m fortunate to have run in many different cities. Some cities around the world are marvelous to run in, of course. Running the shoreline in Chicago, running Central Park, running the Mall in our nation’s capital, running Hayward field in Eugene: these are sublime experiences for the tourist. Europe offers its glorious parks and boulevards. When I spent those many months in Florence, I ran the Cascine every day; when I visit family in Devon, I run for miles along the banks of the lugubrious river Exe. Not all places are easy to run: Hong Kong is very, very crowded! I made a sincere effort to run through Central at midday, and it didn’t go well until I gave up and jogged up the Peak Road. Bogota is, well, not very safe for this little white boy; it’s the one city I’ve ever visited where I’ve felt compelled to confine my running to the treadmill in the hotel gym.

I remember trying to run in John O’Groats in northern Scotland in the wind and the rain. That was tough. I tried to run up the side of Table Mountain in Cape Town, got winded, and had to break it off to my considerable shame. And when it comes to cities that are unfriendly to runners, Venice is the greatest challenge. I managed to do a few runs through the streets between the train station and San Marco, but after I knocked over a couple of slow-moving tourists and a postcard stand, I surrendered to the elements and gave up.

Let me get a book or two out, and then I’m pitching this “run the great heritage sites of the world” idea to the Discovery channel. Don’t go scooping me, now!

You know you’re busy when…

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on February 1, 2007
in Vanity
. 1 Comment

…you say to yourself, “I don’t have time to pee until lunch.”

Of course, in the time it took me to type that…

I realize I’ve been grousing a lot lately about how swamped I am with work, both related to teaching all of these classes and to numerous commitments on and off campus. And I forget how lucky I am to have the job I do, to have the marriage I have, to have all of these responsibilities. Feeling overwhelmed because so many people want something from me beats the hell out of the alternative I can remember from not so long ago, when no one sought my counsel or my help, when I was to be actively avoided…

And I suspect I’d have more time if I didn’t feel compelled to work out 2-3 hours a day.

I’ll be on the radio talkin’ ’bout Suicide Girls

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on January 22, 2007
in Feminism, Porn, Sexuality and Vanity
. 32 Comments

…tonight. I’ll be a call-in guest on a Canadian feminist program called “Broadly Speaking”. The show airs on CHRW, London, Ontario. You can listen live here. The show will also be audio-archived.

It should air between 4:30-5:00PM Pacific time, 7:30-8 Eastern.

I’l be talking about the Suicide Girls, alt. porn, and feminism. My original post on the subject somehow didn’t get transferred over from my old blog, so I’m reposting it here:

The Suicide Girls site (I won’t link to it, but you can figure it out yourself -it is not “work safe”) is the pioneer “alt-porn” center on the web. Begun in 2001, the idea of Suicide Girls was to provide women-friendly erotica with a counter-cultural sensibility. Many “Suicide Girls” were tattooed and pierced, relatively few had bodies that matched the surgically-enhanced proportions of women in mainstream porn. The “girls” had their own photos on the sites, and kept journals as well — often including cultural and political commentary that went far beyond what might be found in, say, Playboy. The attitude was one of a certain kind of youthful, feminist edginess.

It turns out that Suicide Girls is controlled by a man, Sean Suhl. Apparently, he’s accused of underpaying some of his models (the site now has over 800 young women on it); here’s an insider’s account (quite work safe and non-pornographic). He’s also tied Suicide Girls to Playboy (paying members of the latter’s site have access to the SG women); it would be nearly impossible to make the case that Playboy is advancing a feminist agenda!

I’ve made it clear that I am deeply troubled by pornography. The fact that I insist on making the unfashionable claim that visual erotica has a corrosive and destructive influence on society does not mean, however, that I can’t make distinctions! Different kinds of porn trouble me for different reasons. Obviously, pornography/erotica that emphasizes the humanity and the agency of the people depicted in it is preferable to porn that treats women or men as disposable objects. By the same token, porn that has a broader and more inclusive range of body types is, in some sense, less objectionable than porn that provides examples of only one unattainable ideal. But “less objectionable” is thin praise indeed, at least as far as I’m concerned.

On the other hand, one of the things that I find even more objectionable about sites like the Suicide Girls is that they’ve dressed up porn in the language of rebellion and female empowerment. In a sense, this is where I find the likes of Larry Flynt (publisher of Hustler) to be less offensive than men like Sean Suhl of Suicide Girls. Flynt doesn’t pretend he’s empowering his models; he embraces raunch with a bracingly candid enthusiasm that even his detractors often find to be — almost — winsome. Fellas like Suhl are out to make money off women’s bodies in much the same way Flynt is, but in Suhl’s case, greed seems hidden behind the rhetoric of edginess, alternative culture, and a rather shallow feminism. It’s hard to respect that. And if many of the women of Suicide Girls have caught on to what’s going on, then I can’t say I’m not pleased.

I’ve had three students in the past few years tell me, through journals in my women’s studies classes, that they were among the hundreds of Suicide Girls. (No, I didn’t verify their claims by visiting the site.) As I’ve written before, I’ve had a number of both current and former sex workers of one kind or another in my classes. Some have described their experiences as horrific; others as exciting and empowering; others as “just a job.” Of course, I’ve probably had far more than I know of, as it’s not the sort of thing everyone feels comfortable disclosing. I’m respectful of those whose experiences in the “industry” have been positive. There are few things more absurd than a pro-feminist man trying to convince an adult woman that she’s being exploited when she’s quite convinced she’s not! I won’t try and play that game.

But to be a feminist is about more than individual empowerment. Young women who defend certain niches of the porn industry as woman-friendly must be willing to ask hard questions about who really controls sites like the Suicide Girls. They also have to be willing to consider not just the impact on the individual models/performers, but on the broader culture. The fact that doing a shoot for Suicide Girls makes you feel empowered doesn’t mean that the audience masturbating to your pictures is going to recognize you as any more of a human being than if you had done a shoot for, say, Hustler! Authentic feminism asks us to consider how others might interpret our actions. Our good intentions are not enough. We have to be mindful of the broader context, of the repercussions, of everything we do. I’ve posted often on porn and accountability; the main archive is here, and recommend this post in particular. And though I recognize that many women turn to sex work out of financial necessity, others (like many of the Suicide Girls) seem to have a wider range of motives. I’m hopeful that the fallout from this latest controversy will cause at least some of them to think more deeply about porn and feminism.

A Fifty Things meme

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on January 8, 2007
in Blogging and Vanity
. 1 Comment

This meme comes from Lynn. Because my grades are done, and because the workload is about to jump through the roof, I thought I’d indulge.

1. When you looked at yourself in the mirror today, what was the first thing you thought? I look really tired and my goatee is a little bit uneven.

2. How much cash do you have on you? Nothing but plastic. Need to hit the ATM.

3. What’s a word that rhymes with “DOOR?” More?

4. Favorite planet? Venus, duh.

5. Who is the 4th person on your missed call list on your cell phone? One of the kids in my youth group.

6. What is your favorite ring tone on your phone? Vibrate, baby.

7. Do you “label” yourself? To excess, and often inaccurately.

8. What shirt are you wearing? A Brooks Brothers indigo button-down I bought in Pittsburgh years ago.

9. Name the brand of the shoes you’re currently wearing? Versace. Back when I still bought leather.

10. Bright or dark room? Bright.

11. What do you think about the person who took this survey before you? A reliable and invaluable source of Quaker bloggitiness.

12. What does your watch look like? Not wearing one at the moment, but my favorite is my red Paul Frank.

13. What were you doing at midnight last night? Trying to overcome jet lag.

14. What did your last text message you received on your cell say? “Up for boxing tomorrow?” The reply was negative.

15. Where is your nearest 7-11? Corner of Lake and Orange Grove. I worship at 7-11s.

16. What’s a word that you say a lot? “Absolutely.” I loves me my adverbs.

17. Who told you he/she loved you last? My wife.

18. Last furry thing you touched? Racheli Scrappy Doo Schwyzer

19. How many drugs have you done in the last three days? Caffeine, caffeine, caffeine.

20. How many rolls of film do you need developed? Haven’t had a film camera in years.

21. Favorite age you have been so far? I was handsomest at 29, I was fastest at 31, and I think I was at my smartest at 26 — but I’m happier now at 39 than ever before.

22. Your worst enemy? Haven’t had one for years.

23. What is your current desktop picture? A wedding photo.

24. What was the last thing you said to someone? “Have a good one”, to the clerk at Rite Aid.

25. If you had to choose between a million bucks or to be able to fly what would it be? If I could really fly, getting the million would be fairly easy. I’ll pick the wings.

26. Do you like someone? ? Like, have a crush on someone? On my wife, of course. I have my longstanding boy-blog crush on Chris Clarke.

27. The last song you listened to? I’ve got Lauridsen’s Lux Aeterna on. It’s what I need.

28. What time of day were you born? 1:20PM, PDT.

29. What’s your favorite number? Three

30. Where did you live in 1987? Ridge House, a co-op at Berkeley.

31. Are you jealous of anyone? That Canadian dude on Ratemyprofessors who is hotter than I am.

32. Is anyone jealous of you? The few folks I manage to pass on my runs.

33. Where were you when 9/11 happened? In bed for the first plane, in the shower for the second.

34. What do you do when vending machines steal your money? Vow to never use vending machines again, a vow broken monthly.

35. What’s your life motto? “Often in error, never in doubt.”

36. Are you touchy feely? Is the pope German? To a fault.

37. Name three things that you have on you at all times? wedding band, unsharpened pencil, glasses.

38. What’s your favorite town/city? In the States, my home town of Carmel by-the-Sea. Abroad: Dolgellau, Wales.

39. What was the last thing you paid for with cash? The departure fee at Bangkok airport, 500 Thai baht.

40. Can you change the oil on a car? I can drive right up to the service bay at the dealership with the best of them.

41. Your first love: what is the last thing you heard about him/her? Divorced and teaching psychology in New Mexico. All four women I’ve married, as well as at least half of my serious girlfriends, were psych majors. Figure.

42. How far back do you know about your ancestry? Depends on the side. On my mother’s mother’s father’s side, the Roedings, we go back to sixteenth-century Hamburg.

43. The last time you dressed fancy, what did you wear and why did you dress fancy? My mom’s Christmas party: royal blue silk shirt, Banana Republic trousers, blue blazer.

44. Does anything hurt on your body right now? A very sore neck.

45. Have you been burned by love? Seared and grilled and broiled many a time.

Those were Lynn’s questions. To get to fifty, I made up five of my own.

46. What living person whom you’ve never met do you most admire? Folk singer Pete Seeger.

47. What character trait would you most like to rid yourself of this year? My anxiety.

48. What one human flaw would you eradicate if you could? The absence of genuine imagination.

49. Where was your first kiss? Fisherman’s Wharf, Monterey.

50. What actor/actress do you most resemble? I get Guy Pearse a lot, especially when I’m clean-shaven. I hope it’s for L.A. Confidential.

NPR story up

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on December 22, 2006
in Ratemyprofessors, Teaching and Vanity
. 5 Comments

Taking a brief vacation break (before we eventually get on a plane) to note that the NPR “Rate my Professors” story did run today. I’m interviewed near the end of a four-minute piece. Here’s the link to the audio.

Merry Merry to all.

NPR update

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on December 18, 2006
in Teaching and Vanity
. 1 Comment

Though I’m not holding my breath, I’m told that it’s very possible that the NPR story on “Rate my Professors” (featuring an interview with yours truly), will air tomorrow (Tuesday) on the “Day to Day” program. If you miss it, it will be available online by tomorrow night. I’ll update once again when I know more.

UPDATE: Nope. Not today. No doubt it will air at some point when I am out of the country.

The first of a two-part musing on teaching, self-awareness, and looks

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on December 13, 2006
in Ratemyprofessors, Teaching and Vanity
. 10 Comments

In return for my union dues, I get many benefits. I get, for example, the semi-annual publication of the NEA: Thought and Action. The current issue has an article by Paul C. Price (only available in PDF): Are You as Good a Teacher as You Think? It begins:

A survey of professors at the University of Nebraska a number of years ago showed that 94 percent of them thought they were better than average teachers at
their own institution. Assuming a reality that puts the true value at somewhere
near 50 percent, this survey suggests a rather stunning lack of self-insight among
the professoriate.

That opening made me chuckle. This phenomenon is not limited to the Cornhusker nation; anecdotally, I’m fairly certain that close to 94% of my colleagues at Pasadena City College would consider themselves to be “better than average.” Having participated in the evaluation process many times, and having read the “self-evaluations” that my colleagues are required to produce every few years, it seems that we too have a generous and optimistic sense of our own capabilities.

Of course, “ratemyprofessors” aside, students here at PCC seem to think most of us are above average too. On the old evaluation forms that we used back when I was tenure-track, students were asked if their teachers were “Outstanding/Excellent”, “Above Average”, or “Average.” College-wide, about 65% of the faculty were ranked “above average”, indicating that grade inflation seems to flow both ways!

When it comes to evaluating my own teaching, I think about it on several different levels. I would certainly say I’m an above average lecturer. I haven’t used notes in, oh, at least a decade. I can tell stories well, and structure a compelling narrative. If part of being a good teacher is being a good raconteur, then I’m certainly a talented teacher. But I know full well that I can still learn some new techniques, and that I have miles to go in terms of developing my patience.

But thinking about this abundant, no doubt deserved high self-esteem among the American professoriate, I find myself thinking about the only vaguely related question of how we evaluate our own attractiveness. I’m not just thinking about professors, of course, but of people in general. I remember, back in my freshman year of college, staying up late in a dorm room conversation — and being floored by one brave young woman, who insisted that each of us answer the question “Do you think you’re good looking? Why or why not?”

It was a tough question. But she asked it because she wanted to have a frank conversation in which we could all take the risk to be honest. We had been raised in an adolescent culture where self-praise invited a smack down; saying that you thought you were attractive was an open invitation to criticism, while claiming that you hated how you looked was seen as a none-too-subtle attempt at “fishing for compliments.” My friend in the dorm room challenged us to move past that dynamic, and, lubricated by beer and wine coolers and hash, we did so. There were perhaps eight of us in this triple room in Norton Hall, an equal number of boys and girls of varying degrees of socially acceptable attractiveness. And we listened respectfully and without judgment as each person shared how they “rated” themselves. It was revelatory.

I write about this because my feeling is that we live in a culture where we are expected and encouraged to “toot on our own horns” professionally. Whether or not we are actually over-flowing with self-confidence, the culture of resumes and college essays and self-evaluations invites us, indeed forces us, to insist on our own uniqueness, our own exceptionalism, our own “above-averageness.” But while trumpeting (and often exaggerating) our professional and academic qualifications is de rigueur, to talk frankly and honestly about how we see our looks is something very different. It’s a fascinating question to ask people, even now:

“When it comes to your physical attractiveness, how do you think you compare to your peer group?”

Of course, I don’t run around demanding answers to this awkward query. But as someone who has written endless self-evaluations focusing on my intellectual and pedagogical accomplishments and shortcomings, I’m intrigued by the disconnect between our contemporary willingness to celebrate our professional abilities while remaining mute about our own self-appraisal of our looks.

Thinking about my own life trajectory, I can say this much with confidence: As I age, my looks are fading. But as I age, I also grow spiritually and professionally. My ability in the classroom continues to grow. It grows not merely as a function of time, mind you; not all teachers automatically become better with experience. It grows — and there is still room for much more — because I am eager to find ways to be more effective, to be more relevant, to be more compassionate. I am happy to say that I see that same commitment in most of my colleagues.

I’ll post on this topic again soon. In my second post, I’ll muse on the question of whether or not a high degree of self-confidence does correlate well with teaching competence.

Radio interview

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on December 12, 2006
in Fun, Teaching and Vanity
. 2 Comments

There’s a better than average chance that the NPR story on Ratemyprofessors — for which I did a radio interview last month — will air this afternoon on All Things Considered. NPR can’t promise anything, given that news can change so fast.

UPDATE: It’s not listed on the list of stories for today. It may run tomorrow.

“Fat studies”, cohabitation, and why Hugo likes gaining weight

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on December 11, 2006
in Body, Food, Relationships and Vanity
. 35 Comments

Apparently, some universities are considering offering a course in “fat studies.” When I taught my Humanities course on “Beauty, the Body, and the Western Tradition”, we spent a fair amount of time on the cultural history of fat. I recall some terrific, spirited discussions — and some painfully awkward moments.

In a vaguely related note, we learn that “cohabitation” is bad for women’s health:

Dietitians have found that women tend to gain weight once they move in with male partners. “Living with a male seemed to put pressure on females to consume more of the ‘unhealthy’ choices,” Amelia Lake, a research fellow at the Newcastle University Human Nutrition Research Center in Britain, wrote this year in the journal Complete Nutrition, “while females had a positive influence on the diets of the males.”

That’s intriguing. Culturally, we teach women to monitor the health of their male partners. Men are generally permitted, even encouraged, to be somewhat irresponsible about their diets. Attention to food preparation and to nutrition is traditionally considered a female concern. Spend time with many couples, and you will often hear stories of what the guy “used to eat” back in his “bachelor days.” One tangible way to measure a woman’s success at “domesticating” a husband or boyfriend is to transform, or at least improve, his eating habits.

There’s a bit of the old “myth of male weakness” at work here. Both men and women buy into the myth (which is why so many folks don’t think it’s a myth at all). Call it the “men are big babies who can’t take care of themselves properly” topos; men “buy it” because it allows us to be irresponsible, women “buy it” because it offers the opportunity to measure one’s feminine power. A woman who can cause a man to change his diet is a “proper woman”. The worse he ate before they got together, the more impressive her achievement becomes. Obviously, lots of folks don’t buy into this, but the Lake study suggests that some people still do — and that it has real consequences for women.

And thirdly, I’m putting on a bit of weight. I’m cutting my exercise and increasing my food intake as we draw closer to Christmas. The exercise decrease is slight, and largely due to increased academic and social obligations. The food intake comes along with it. But I don’t mind putting on a few pounds, largely because I can look forward to taking them off beginning in January.

I’ve learned that my diet and exercise pattern is seasonal; I’m rigorous for a few months, and then slack off a bit. My joints need time to recover, and my body needs to rest. I “soften up” and then “trim down” at different times of the year. The softening up time is obviously pleasurable, but so too is the trimming down. For someone who loves setting goals and meeting them, it’s fun to put on a bit of weight and then take it off again. It becomes a challenge. Mind you, I don’t put on and take off huge amounts of weight; yo-yo dieting is never healthy. But I honor a certain rhythm and seasonality to my eating and my exercise. Though I expect to be ripped once more by Easter, from now until Epiphany, I’ll be in a more languid and indulgent mode.

“Every once in a while, take your left foot and bring it behind your right one”: How Hugo learned to dance

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on December 4, 2006
in Fun, Memories, Music and Vanity
. 3 Comments

Saturday afternoon, my wife and I sat together on the couch, switching back and forth between the two rivalry college football games that absorbed our interest. I was delighted to see my Golden Bears beat Stanford for the fifth straight year (something that hasn’t happened since the Harding Administration.) My beloved was heartsick, as she watched her alma mater’s eleven fall to the UCLA Bruins. A happy “date night” followed, and lifted much of her gloom.

Since I care about all forms of football, I note that Anson Dorrance’s Tar Heels won their 18th NCAA women’s soccer title in 25 years; Dorrance may have a checkered record in terms of his relationships with the young women he coaches (it’s amazing that in this day and age, he’s held on to his job), but no one denies he’s superb at every aspect of the game, from recruiting to teaching. And my father, who taught at UCSB for nearly forty years, would have been vaguely pleased that the Gaucho men pulled off a surprise win in the championship game of the men’s college cup, knocking off heavily-favored UCLA.

Anyhoo:

My wife did some competitive ballroom dancing in her teenage years. I, on the other hand, have two left feet. She’s very patient with me, even as I trod on her feet while trying to pull off some cumbia moves at our wedding reception. Still,on occasion my exuberant clumsiness makes her laugh. Somehow, last night, as I was doing the dishes, I started singing to myself (not uncommon) and doing some solitary dance moves as I rinsed the dinner plates. My wife walked in to the kitchen, stared at me in wonder, clapped her hands in glee, and asked “Where did you learn THAT?”

So, a story about my first dancing experience.

It was early August, 1979. I was twelve years old, and I was spending four weeks at a summer camp in the Santa Cruz mountains. It was a riding camp, and though I had grown up in a Western saddle, this was my first experience learning “English” style. (It took me the entire time I was there just to grasp the different way of holding the reins and the strange phenomenon of “posting.”) Anyhow, at the end of our first week at this large, co-ed camp for junior high and high school aged kids, we had a dance.

The camp’s brochure had promised a dance. I was prepared, having brought some nice slacks and a button-down shirt. I was also terrified. I had never been to a dance of any kind, and I had no idea how I would ever summon the courage to ask a girl to step on to the floor with me. Equally worrisome, I had no idea how to dance; I had seen other kids gyrating and bouncing on television (disco was ubiquitous in 1979), but I had two left feet and had no sense of how to begin.

I confessed my worry to a guy in my bunk house named Dominic. Dominic was a year older, and to my eyes, a paragon of physical and verbal sophistication. Dominic was eager to tutor me, and on a Saturday afternoon, we had a brief dancing lesson. It’s difficult to describe, but I’ll try. Dominic said:

“Rock from side to side. Every once in a while, take your left foot and bring it behind your right one. Then bring it back, and take your right foot and put it behind your left. If you want, you can also take one or two steps to one side, and then the other. But mostly” — and here Dom was adamant — “mostly you just watch what the girl does and try and do the same thing.”

Twenty-seven years later, those same moves constitute the majority of my dance steps. Oh, I’ve had folks try and teach me more formal dancing. I was an escort to a Charity League cotillion in college, and tried to learn then. Utter failure. At my first two weddings, I tried to prepare for the “first dance” as best I could, and I suppose I didn’t embarrass myself too much. (Oh, FYI, at my first wedding, the first dance was to Aaron Neville and Linda Ronstadt’s “Don’t Know Much”; at the second, to Van Morrison’s “Someone Like You.”) And of course, my lovely wife has tried to teach me the basics of salsa many times. Mostly, I end up standing still and rolling my hips in a fashion that tends to promote hysterics. My wife’s Colombian relatives find my attempts at rhythm to be bizarre, tragic, earnest, and, apparently, touchingly captivating.

While I’m on the subject of that first summer camp dance, let me say it was a great success. It was a mixed dance for high school and junior highers; I was among the younger kids there. But several of the older girls took it upon themselves to ask the shy younger boys to dance, and after I had only been watching the hopping and bouncing for a few minutes, one gal — perhaps sixteen — suddenly took my hand and led me on to the floor. She was patient and immensely kind, and we danced two “fast” songs together. I don’t remember the second, but the first was Foreigner’s “Hot Blooded”. I did as Dom had instructed, noting that my generous and pretty partner was doing more or less the same. I felt extraordinarily satisfied with myself.

At the end of the second song, the gal who had taken me to the floor thanked me — she thanked me! — and went off to dance with a handsomer, older fella. I didn’t care whether she had taken my hand out of pity, or kindness, or because her counselor had told all of the older girls to get a shy junior high boy to dance. All I cared about was that this nameless brunette with the warm smile had taken my hand, done the hard work of asking for me, and had stayed with me through not one but two songs. She’d be in her mid-forties now, whoever and wherever she is. But whenever I hear “Hot Blooded” on the radio — and I know every word, of course — I think of that foggy August night in a large cafeteria in the Santa Cruz mountains. I think of a long-haired cover band, who in my memory were magnificent. I think of the girl in the grey sweater who made me feel as if I belonged on a dance floor, who made clumsy, shy, inarticulate and chubby me feel wanted, if only for a few precious minutes. (God of infinite wonders, continue to bless this woman and her family.)

And I think of Dominic’s voice in my head, telling me to rock back and forth and slide one foot behind the other. Last night, I found myself doing the same moves as I washed and dried the dishes. And I know I looked silly, and I didn’t give a damn.

The real question is, will my ballroom-dancing, salsa and merengue-mastering wife let me pass on Dominic’s suggestions to our children? The early word on that isn’t promising, alas.

Vanity posting

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on November 16, 2006
in Body and Vanity
. 8 Comments

I’m home from the gym and a quick nine-miler in the hills around the Rose Bowl.  I’m happy to report my body has now adjusted to the vegan diet quite well; I’m grateful for all the wonderful recipes that a number of folks e-mailed me.  Thank you!

I’m supplementing my diet with Vega, and it’s really helping. I’m eating the bars and drinking the meal replacement stuff, and it gives me the energy I need.  My weight has stabilized in the high 160s (I’m guessing, because I’m sticking to my commitment not to weigh myself).  That’s the lowest it’s been in years, and fifteen pounds below where I was when my father died.   I’m still taking in the occasional non-vegan thing or two; I had some ice cream the other day and I had a few bites of a veggie lasagna last night at youth group.  I’m not interested in being fanatical about avoiding all animal products when I’m out; I’m "vegan in the house, vegetarian in public", and that works for now.

Boxing is good.  We’ve been doing tons of plyometrics lately. Plyometrics build power and explosiveness, and I can certainly use both.  It’s a great supplement to my marathoning.  All my long runs build lots of slow-twitch muscles; it’s nice to work on building up some speed and power.  And if I keep doing enough squats, I might rebuild my now nearly non-existent backside.  Still, it’s nice to have a much better body at 39 than I did at 19 or 29.   How long I’ll keep it, I have no idea.

One long-term goal of mine: I want to help develop low or no-cost work-out programs to offer to working adults, stressed college students, etcetera.   Really long-term goal: open a summer camp for teens — and adults.  Teach fitness, teach basic life skills, spirituality, the whole thing.  I’m just putting it out there… give me a few years, let me write a book or two, raise some chinchillas and human children, and raise the funds. 

In the meantime, plenty of work to do.

“Hugo hasn’t clued in yet”

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on October 24, 2006
in GLBTQ, Pasadena City College and Vanity
. 12 Comments

Since I posted about gay youth this morning…

After my 10:25AM class this morning, I was walking back to my office and ran into one of my colleagues, a popular and handsome professor about my age.  He and I were dressed similarly today; and we greeted each other briefly.  My  colleague is publicly out as a gay man.  As we separated, I heard an older student say to another, apparently referring to us, "Yeah, both of them are, but only one of them knows it.  Hugo hasn’t clued in yet."