Entrepreneurial classes and feminism

I am currently following graduate courses on green energy and sustainable development. Just for the fun of it, I've added a bizarro course on entrepreneurial skills to the mix. Yesterday was my first class and it did not disappoint. Imagine two hundred gung-ho young people dressed up to the nines banging on their computer while checking their Blackberries; I mean, these are students. They take themselves way too seriously. Adding to the ridiculousness of the situation was the "teacher", an entrepreneur who went to Harvard Business School (it was mentionned several times during his power point presentation) and peppered his pep talk with "Cash out when you can", "What's the deal?" and other Americanisms, all delivered in a terrible French accent. Regularly he would question us on "freedom", or "perfectionism", and one of the suits in the room would follow up with a hysterically earnest declaration on how "being your own boss is like being the president of the world". One of them said his entrepreneurial god was the creator of Virgin, then failed to remember his name. WELL PLAYED! And that would be Richard Branson, you Blackberried fool. Next time read The Economist instead of spending hours on the choice of your suit.

Equally hilarious to me was the dialogue between one of the women attending the class and the "teacher". In French every word is gendered and usually masculine: so if you were to say professor, or organizer, it would have to be followed by a precision that this also includes the ladieeeez. Unfortunately our Harvard Business alumnus did not really soak up any political correctness from his time in Boston, since he refused to do this (simple) task. Thankfully, one woman in the front row kept correcting him and he grew noticeably annoyed.

He introduced us at the end of the class to a remarkable young woman of African descent who without any help has started a beauty salon empire in Paris. I was happy to see that he was less macho that I had envisaged, until he introduced himself as "her guide" and "her mentor" in the "complicated area of entrepreneurial management". This would have not pissed me off if he hadn't shown me previously how narrow-minded he was-he is much older than she is and has more theoretical knowledge than she has, so it's not absurd to talk about mentoring her-but he did it in such a way that I left the class with a bitter taste in my mouth.

I sense great amusement and cringing in the future.

Eating disorders

I am a bulimic. I think of myself as a recovering bulimic, not as a cured one. Maybe, like alcoholics, we are never really cured, and bulimia is an addiction.

I've been in recovery for about a year, with several episodes of relapsing, but I try to envisage these episodes not as an indictment of my recovery, but simply as relapses that I get over. These usually occur in times of stress, such as during my breakup, or while preparing myself for my new school year. I'll eat a huge quantity of food and then purge.

Last year I started running to combat stress and embrace my body more. I thought that if I could appreciate my body for what it could do, I would stop abusing it-this is encouraged by therapists who practice cognitive therapy. I was following a hand book which uses cognitive therapy as guidance, and it helped me tremendously. This book would encourage me to compile reasons to enjoy my body outside of food. I decided to take up running because it is cheap and solitary. I loathe the idea of an exercice class.
A year later I am training for a half-marathon which will take place in a month. Running has become part of my daily life and has changed my way of coping with sadness and bulimia. It hasn't cured me, it hasn't made me into a perfect Sara, but it has relieved me and made me stronger. However, it has also changed my body in ways that I feel conflicted about: people compliment me on my fitter build, my parents applaud me not for enjoying it but because it has made me slimmer. I don't run to lose weight. I want to accept myself for who I am, without any reservation, and running doesn't change this goal. But when an eating-disordered girl is lauded for looking like she lost weight, it doesn't help her.

My goal this year is to stop listening to these voices. When someone compliments me on my body, I would like to be brave enough to correct them: I am stronger, not slimmer; I am happier and more relaxed, not more beautiful (whatever that means). I know people don't mean it negatively when they say such things to me, but it does contribute to an emphasis on my body as something that should be pleasing to others, not to myself.

Love

"I'm through with love
I'll never fall again
Said Adieu to love
Please never come again"

Thus sang Marylin in my favourite of her movies, Some like it hot. It's been a lot on my mind, that song, and I find myself whistling it in the street or belting it in the shower.
After my visit to my friend Am in Cambridge, I feel melancholy. I loved playing with her baby, taking her for a shopping spree or dancing in the park after a good run. But I can't help remembering that I met X at her wedding, and how intertwined everything is to me.
Tomorrow I won't feel so sad.

Post-natal Depression

My dearest friend A has just had a beautiful baby son (and I don't even like babies!) and fears that she is suffering from post-natal depression.
I had told her during her pregnancy that my mother had had an awful time after giving birth to me. This being 23 years ago, PND was not commonly diagnosed and mothers who did not instantly bond with their children were judged by the doctors treating them and were seldom sent to see a mental health provider. Symeon is only two weeks old, and A is already reaching out to her friends asking for pointers and helpful advice.
My heart bleeds for her. I've been through depression and I can't imagine the strain of having to care for a new-born while coping with the horrendous backlash of emotional distress depression brings in its midst. However, I am glad that I told her about it and that she is able to ask for help. Instead of making mothers feel guilty about how they feel, we should always try to help them in this time of need.

Instead of constantly labelling women "emotional", "irrational" or "hysterical", can't we just acknowledge the diversity of experiences we can feel? Science has too often reduced us to the sum of our (private) parts; I strongly applaud the new transparency that enables us to understand how we feel.

Now if only the Scientologists would shut up...

Musing on age

Waouh, I did have a long vacation from internet and everything. I was in Germany in a work camp near Frankfurt, enjoying the delights of carting around piles of dirt while trying to get my German level up. I was sleeping in a tent, on hay (to which I am allergic), and jogging every morning. I ate loads of food. All in all, a good vacation.

The topic that most occupied my mind, though, was the subject of age. I was among the eldest people in the camp, most were around 18/19, with our youngest at 16. I am 23. I have never thought of myself as old or venerable in the slightest. In fact, after the reeling bruising reality of my breakup, I had not felt such a teenagerish rush of feelings, of resentment, of bad pop music bolstering or upsetting my fragile mindset. After four weeks away from all of it, of listening to actual teenagers bitching about their emotional upheavals, watching them fumbling in the darkness to express their lust for someone else, I definitely realize that I am not old, but too old for this shit. I don't need reassurance or high school cliquerie to feel good about myself.

This was reassuring and sad. I'm relieved that I am done with the part of my life during which I get confused by everything, and insecured by everyone. I am sad that I didn't get any kick from flirting, or dancing, or singing in the way I used to.

When I read blogs such as Britni's (http://britisstillshameless.blogspot.com/), I feel awed and inspired by her capacity to live out her sexual desires and the ambiguities of feminism and submissiveness. I don't feel that I'm up to owning up who I am in that way. But I'm certainly getting closer to living the life I want for myself. I always knew I didn't need a man to make my life good. But mentoring younger people, dishing out advice and giggling at conundrums made me feel so much better about my own doubts and sadness. I'm still shakily veering into recovery, and some days are bad bad bad. However, I'm growing up well into the person I was always meant to be: "ein strahlendes Mädchen", a glowing, glittering girl.

I just signed up for a year of studying international law and environmental law, and I am STOKED. I feel excited about my studies. And yeah, my heart is cold, and I haven't felt a flitter of desire for the longest time, but I feel like everything is falling back into place.

Oh, and my German is fluent again. That feels nice.