"Even After the Glitter Fades": Dating as a Ph.D.

“You know, the man of my dreams might walk round the corner tomorrow. I'm older and wiser and I think I'd make a great girlfriend. I live in the realm of romantic possibility.”

©     Stevie Nicks

Five years ago, as I contemplated which grad school to go to, I did a little bit of research. Not the kind of research that involves looking at the school’s English program or the type of instructors that taught there or even how reputable the place was—no, I researched the dating life of a grad student. I stumbled upon blogs and wikis dedicated to dating life in grad school, and as I sat reading through the threads, a tiny black cloud burst upon my head: the consensus was dating in grad school sucked. I combed through more and more threads sure that this was wrong—how could it be so hard to date in grad school? There would be boys, ahem, men there. There’d be a whole new city to explore. Yet every blog and wiki said the same thing. Shaking my head in defiance, I declared that would not be the case for me—I would find a way to date, and date a lot, throughout grad school.

Decision made, I set out to truly figure out what grad school to attend. One day, I was walking to grab coffee with my mentor when he said he had advice for me,

“Don’t get married in grad school.”

“Uh, ok??”

“No, seriously. Don’t get married in grad school. Don’t go there to date.”

“Um….”

The black cloud returned above my head, just what was it with dating in grad school? Could people really not multi-task within their lives?

Needless to say, advice and research aside, I survived grad school having found a way to mostly mingle my dating life and my academic life. Though as I made my way through the program, one thing did become crystal clear: men don’t tend to like hard-core women. You know, the women that are smart, perhaps slightly aggressive in their take-charge personalities, and marginally competitive. Personally, I hate the term “hard-core woman”—it makes me shudder and squirm—but I’ve heard the term two or three times…maybe even thrown my general way. But, what is so wrong with a woman with direction? A woman with goals? A woman who knows her mind and isn’t afraid to share it? I didn't/don’t get it.

Several months ago, I was at a bar with a guy friend and no one was there but the bartender and the two of us. The bartender was totally cute, so I shamelessly flirted with him. He flirted back. We played the get-to-know you game:

Cute Bartender: “What do you do?”

Kt: “I’m a professor.”

Long pause.

Cute bartender: “I’m sorry, but what exactly do you profess?”

Kt: (inward sigh—I hate that question) “I teach writing.”
Cute bartender: "Oooh, you mean like creative writing? Like poetry."

Friend butts in: “You shouldn’t tell people that you’re a professor.”

Kt: “Excuse me?!? Why not?"

Cute bartender: (laughs) “Yea, I wouldn’t mention that either. No one wants to know that you are a (pause for dramatic effect) D.o.c.t.er.”
Kt: "DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG AND HARD IT IS TO BECOME A PROFESSOR?” (clenched teeth)

Friend: “Dude! No guy wants to know that you have a Ph.D. Seriously. Leave it out.”

Kt: “You guys are ridiculous. And I teach composition--you know there are other kinds of writing. I try and teach student how to..."

Cute bartender: (jumps in totally ignoring the writing comment) “You’re friend has a point—I wouldn’t tell people you have a Ph.D, especially not guys.”

Kt exits to the bathroom before the conversation turns ugly.

Long after the conversation had ended, it still haunted me. Could this be true, I wondered? Is this part of the whole anti-hard-core woman thing? Men don’t want someone who has a higher degree than them or may be as smart or smarter?

Around the same time a different friend suggested I join an online dating website. I have always rejected the idea of online dating because it just seemed so stale, but I thought ok, why not. Five hours after sitting through e-harmony’s painfully long process, I had an online profile. Before it went public, my fingers lingered above the keys as the conversation from bar teased within my thoughts: do I put I have a Ph.D? Do I put that I’m a professor? Inwardly I was cringing that I even thought these thoughts, so I put down: Kara, Ph.D. Professor of Writing. There, I thought, take that cute bartender! I am Kt, Ph.D. And there’s nothing you can do about it.

After getting only two invitations for "guided communication"--one of which looked much older than his professed 38 years of age and the other looking his 36, but still seeming too old for me--the conversation returned to haunt me. What, I wondered, was wrong with my profile? 

About a month into e-harmony, I was talking with my mom on the phone when I wondered out loud if the cute bartender was right: did my Ph.D and status as a professor mark me in some way? Ever the one to try out some research, I updated my profile: education, “some college”;  job, “education”; and I took out all my sassy comments and made my profile as minimal as could be.

1 day later: the traffic on my profile tripled, the number of “guided communication”

requests from men doubled, and suddenly men who I had sent “guided communication” weeks ago responded. No lyin’. Suddenly without the Ph.D. or the professor attached to my profile, it had become more desirable to men. I was torn between amusement and disgust at the cute bartender and friend who apparently had a point. I was more desirable to these nameless men without my Ph.D. or declaring that I was a professor.

Thus, five years after initially not believing the blogs and wikis, I think they might have been onto something. Dating in general is hard—we all know this—but dating as someone with a higher degree is much harder than without one. And perhaps dating as a woman who has her Ph.D. is harder still.

I love the Stevie Nicks quote that opened this post because deep down or perhaps not that deep, I’m a romantic at heart. Maybe the man of my dreams is around the next corner. Maybe it’s time I switch my profile back to Kt, Ph.D. and let the profile views fall as they may.  And maybe it’s time to re-stomp on the black rain cloud and live in the realm of romantic possibility and resume loudly declaring, Kara Taczak, Ph.D. Professor of Writing...I’d make a great girlfriend. ;-)

Cardinals and Blue Jays: A Promise of a New Day

I hope blue[jays] dance in your soul.
- Al Batt

When I was younger, I had a habit of falling into watering holes—creeks, lakes, streams, and the like. It happened most often at my Nanny and Popey’s house where a creek teased me from the backyard. This particular creek was a bit wider than a sidewalk and held crawfish and minnies and a promise of adventure. I realize, those of you reading, might be shaking your head: a little wider than a sidewalk?!? And you still fell in? Well, never one to back down from something or someone, my brother, DT, would constantly egg me on to jump it. Of course, he did this from the other side where he had already neatly and safely landed. I tried many a ways to jump across it, but it seems I was never cut out to be a jumper (as also noted by my lack of a vertical jump for swimming in college ... just not a jumper). I always jumped, yet also managed to slip, trip, and/or fall into the water. I’d slink on back to my grandparents’ house through the basement where I knew my Nanny left towels.

My grandparents were avid bird watchers and living in rural Ohio provided the perfect backdrop for this hobby. They had bird whistles, birdbaths, bird feeders, bird books, bird nick-knacks, bird clocks, and various other bird related items around their house. There were times when my brothers and I didn’t venture down to the creek and instead sat in front of the giant bay window and watched the birds with my grandparents. Sometimes one of us were told to take the bags of crust and scatter it on the ground beneath the bay window. The birds would swoop on in and talk back and forth as they snatched the crumbs. We learned a lot about the nature of birds and each other as we’d sit and bird watch. My grandparents had two favorite birds: the cardinal and the blue jay. These two types of birds are not actually that easy to see, or at least, that has been my experience outside of rural Ohio. Over the years since my grandparents passing, I have not seen these birds very often, though the blue jay is more elusive, and I always look.  And so ingrained in fond and happy memories of a time long past, these birds have become a symbol for my brothers and me: a symbol of hope that somehow, no matter the circumstances things are going to be ok.

This past year I have seen the blue jay several times: always flying high, only stopping for a moment for me to a catch a glimpse.

This might be a slight indication of my past year, my first as a post-grad student. What does one expect in their first year as a full-fledged faculty member, shiny new Ph.D. in hand? I don’t know what I expected, but I never expected it to be so, well, so hard. I never thought I’d count out pennies for groceries or have experiences with students that didn’t go so *well. I never thought it’d be hard to make new friends or find a good work out place. I never thought I’d find a church that didn’t have my best intentions at heart or struggle to lose the dissertation 20. I never thought it’d be hard to adjust to the running in the altitude or have constant nosebleeds from the adjustment. I never thought the Steelers would lose to the Broncos or that Peyton Manning would get traded to the Broncos. I never thought a student would email to complain about an A-…

I’m not one to run away from something just because it’s hard, and in fact, I tend to dig in deeper, but it’s not unrealistic or un-humanlike (or heaven forbid weak) to admit when it’s been a hard year. We all have hard years—I’ve had harder years than even this one—yet, it’s what we do with the hard year once we realize the fact that makes the difference in how the following year will turn out. Not because the following year is guaranteed to be a “better” year, but because of how we adjust our thinking and our reactions based on that previous experience.

By the time I saw a blue jay for the third time, I knew everything—somehow and someway—was going to be ok.  

This has been the year of jumping in because someone (namely myself) dared me to. But it’s also been the year of learning when not to jump (who knew there’d be that day!), learning when to rely on others, if only to talk it out, and learning more about myself along the way. A seemingly productive learning year: let’s call it that and not let the hardness of it blind me to the learning.   

And so, sometimes when darkness hovers above ready to slip her arms around me and the ground is slightly damp, I’m no longer a 30something, but my 10 year old self giggling at my brothers across the creek, daring them to not believe I could make it. I still smell the rustiness of the creek, still see the lighting bugs start to dance, still hear the aria of the spring peeps, still hear my Popey, as he shakes his head and says, “ooooh, Sissy,” and still believe that cardinals and blue jays offer the hope of a new day.

A Lesson from the DU Community

I’m sitting waiting on my students to finish a scavenger hunt based around the idea of knowledge communities, and I can’t believe that in about a week my first quarter teaching at DU will be complete. It’s true what they say: quarters fly by. Last year at this time, I was meandering my way around my dissertation, job talks, and teaching portfolios, and now I’m another year older, living across the country in a state that favors the cold and sunshine instead of the warm and sunshine, and it all seems a little crazy. February is my birthday month, and normally when I think of goals for the year, I tend to think of them beginning and ending with February.

During the month of March, I’m asked to write-up a reflection over the past quarter and essentially look at what I learned and how I might go forward into the next quarter. I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, about what I might say, and I’m struggling because there seems like so much has happened in a short ten week span that has really made me think about how I define myself as an instructor of writing. So, I’m going to really focus this blog on one thing I have really taken notice of and learned about this past quarter: boots. =)

DU is my fifth school, if I include my three schools for my three degrees, and the previous institutions where I have taught. Every school, I have noticed, has a theme that centers at the heart of the fashion worn by faculty and students alike. At Mount Union, it was hoodies boldly declaring the school’s name. At FSU, it was a whole lotta Vera Bradley bags. Here at DU, it’s boots. Given the weather, it’s not really that weird that students and faculty at DU wear boots, but what makes them unique is the ways in which they wear them, and the type of the boots they wear.

I have seen girls wear boots in shorts, dresses, skirts, jeans, leggings, and yoga pants. Yes, yoga pants. Apparently tall boots can be used to dress up yoga pants, and I say, heck yes! I’ve also noticed that many girls where sweat pants with Uggs, which is not necessarily that attractive of a combination. I have also seen at least one pair of thigh-high stilettos, although, heels are not on trend with the boots at DU. Another disturbing trend is the girls that wear tights as pants with boots—yes, tights, not leggings, as pants. The other day I was walking behind this girl in super cute tan combat boots with black tights. I don’t know what she was thinking or why her roommates let her walk out of her dorm room. Ladies a word to the wise: tights and leggings are NOT stand alone bottoms—your backside needs covered no matter how skinny you are.

Boots, no matter the weather that constantly likes to surprise Denver residents, are a staple here at DU. And of all the trends I have witnessed, it’s one of my favorites. There is comfort in pulling on your favorite worn-in pair of boots—it’s like talking to an old friend over steaming cup of coffee on a wintery morning. Boots can pull an outfit together and make you feel like taking on the world (or a room full of college freshmen!).

The past quarter has shown me new ways to incorporate boots into my wardrobe as well as showing me ways that boots should never be worn. All-in-all a pretty solid lesson to be learn. ;-)

The Treadmill: Running Against Disgust

“You can’t talk on your cell phone!”

I gave the older gentleman whose white socks where pulled up to his knees a confused look.

He repeated again this time raising his voice and sniffing at me, “You CAN’T talk on your cell phone!”

I hit the pause button the treadmill and answered, “but I’m talking with my mom!”

As part of my 2012 goals, I’m re-dedicating myself to working out with a focus on overcoming my disgust of treadmills. Given that I live in Denver and given that I’m 100% a baby about the cold (plus I have asthma, which actually doesn’t work well when running in the cold), I have had to take up running on a treadmill. My disgust for treadmills worked its way into my mind years ago when growing up in the bitter cold of northern Ohio forced me to begin running on them. There is nothing about them that appeals to me: I most often feel like the hamster that runs and runs and runs on his wheel. At least that poor guy never quite comprehends he’s going nowhere. I, however, always know that I’m headed nowhere. I am constantly checking my mileage; I find myself walking more than I run; and I swear I don’t burn as many calories as I would running outside. And, though in most things I’m highly competitive, I’m not the kinda girl who takes on the person next me as a good friend recently confessed she does. She mentioned that when someone gets on the treadmill next to her and starts going fasters, she, too, must go faster. I tend to pick the treadmill at the end of the line and only look at the person next to me if absolutely necessary like when their sweat works it way onto my arm or when their tiny body with their super flat belly that’s covered only in tight yoga pants and a sports bra is teasing me to look and be jealous, do I glance over with a look of pure disgust while thinking “cover up your ridiculously skinny body.” To me there is nothing enjoyable about the treadmill; yet, I force myself to go since another important goal of mine for 2012 is to rid my body of the Dissertation 20. Thus, four times a week at the acceptable time of 10 or 10:30, I find myself on a treadmill.

Which brings me to the older gentleman. The other day my mom asked me if I have seen any attractive men at the gym, and as I sauntered up the treadmill the next morning (in my best knock-off of Jennifer Beals’ outfit-- sexy shoulder and all), I checked out the pickings. A quick once-over told me that my only choices were three older men. Now, when I say “older” I don’t mean like 50s or even 60s, I’m talking white socks pulled up to their knees-baggy khaki shorts-with black running shoes kind of older men. Every morning I run on the treadmill and my view is blocked by the three of them reading the New York Times and Denver Post while riding the stationary bikes. One of the three has taken an instant dislike to me, which he reminds me of over and over again with death stares done over top his thick- rimmed silver glasses. Maybe it was the off the shoulder shirt that he didn’t like. The same morning I noticed these men, my mom called to check-in. Not realizing I was doing anything wrong, I picked up. Two minutes into the conversation, the older gentleman yelled at me while still riding his bike and reading his paper. After that incident, I’ve also placed my coat in the wrong area, had my Word-with-Friends volume up to loud, and accidently glanced over at him all of which has him shooting me dagger looks and loudly complaining about today’s youth. I’m just flattered he called me today’s youth. But it gets me to another good reason to be disgusted with the treadmill. I get yelled at while on it.

Reason #3 comes in the form of music. Up until very recently (like 2011), I never ran with headphones. I tend to like to think on my runs, or better yet, I like to talk and sing. Normally, I only talk and sing when running with a partner, but sometimes when I’m working through a big problem—whether it’s personal or academic—and I’m alone, I’ll talk to myself. I wrote many a job talk interviews that way last year. When I decided to start using headphones, I, of course, picked out fun and fast-paced running music. Just as I was getting use to music, my I-pod broke. I figured no problem—I’ll just use JT’s I-pod. Wednesday morning rolls around, I hop on the treadmill, throw in the headphones and attempt to start jamming out. All-American Rejects come blasting through first. Then an old Justin Timberlake song. I’ve just talked myself into actually running and not walking when BAM! an act from Don Giovanni starts. Completed confused, I switch songs. Up next is the Four Tenors. My running is complete ruined for the morning, and I spend the next 20 min walking and thinking who can work out to this stuff?!? JT’s I-Pod is riddled with a mixture of pop, rock, punk…and opera. I can no longer use the I-pod for fear of stumbling upon a slow-paced, non-English aria. Totally kills the mood for running. For several days, I wondered about how JT could work out to this weird, er, eclectic mix of music when we both headed over to the gym one Saturday morning. Gearing up on the treadmill for my long—ok, short—run, I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. JT was on an elliptical conducting with one hand, holding on to the handle with the other, and openly singing whatever opera popped up. That day I learned two things: (1) apparently, some people can work out to opera; and (2) ironically, I’m not the only one that gets eye daggers thrown at them from the older gentleman.

I’m not sure if or how I’ll get over my disgust of treadmills. As long as I’m living in a cold climate, I suppose I need to. But like many things in my life, I resist the treadmill. I question its truth and what it thinks it can offer me. I internally debate over being honest with it about my real weight to see how many calories I burn (I may lie…). I mentally envision myself tripping and being thrown backward off of it and then laying on the ground while the older gentleman continues to read his paper and peddle away. And, I talk trash to it inside my head as I attempt to run, walk, run, walk my 2.5 miles (ok, it’s more like 2 miles) often calling it names and belittling it for being a machine making me sweat. There is no love lost between it and me, and when I leave I feel it mock me when I step back off it and glance at my mileage, time, and calories-burned—taunting me with it’s numbers. So as I turn to leave, I pick up my coat, hat, and gloves, and I start singing the last scene from Don Giovanni where the ghost of the Commendatore comes to drag him to the underworld, “DON GIO—VANNI!” in my best deep voice aiming it towards the treadmill and leaving the implied hostility hanging on my last note.

A New Year: A New Season

To Everything/there is a season

A year ago, I started this blog to document my last year as a Ph.D. student. Exactly one year later, I am no longer a Ph.D. student; I am a Ph.D. Success was had—I have the pretty diploma and its frame to prove it—yet it still seems slightly weird. And I wonder if that feeling will ever leave. My students refer to me as “Dr.” or “Professor” but the weirdness still hasn’t completely left. I walk down the street or into stores or talk to new people and still I wonder if I shine with “Ph.D.”—somehow I’m thinking no.

Purposefully I went to class this week with bright pink glitter nail polish. Why you might ask? Well, there’s part of me that still wants to prove that there isn’t a mold much like I tried to prove for years there isn’t mold to what makes a woman sexy (see blog post on short hair). One might think these tiny acts of rebellion would have left me by now—I’m sure some part of my mama is cringing even while she is proud at how she has raised me to be me—but, fortunately or unfortunately, they haven’t completely gone, and I sauntered into class the first week sportin’ glitter pink nail polish. Glitter is my go-to when I want to try and push the limits ever so slightly because glitter offers very specific (sparkly) images. I’ve almost come full circle with glitter: as an undergraduate I wore glitter eyeshadow to try and show that strong and independent women could and did wear make-up and could try and be—yikes—pretty.

So, one year later how has the season changed for me? What does it feel like to be able to reflect back on the last year of my Ph.D.?

A time to build up, a time to break down:

As evidenced by the blog posts throughout 2011, there is definitely a time to build and break down though perhaps more breaking down than building up, especially for the dissertation. I feel like my dissertation broke down many, many times before completion. And the break downs were hard because in order to finish you had build yourself back up--no matter how bad you didn't want to or feel like you wanted to. Also, the job market does a pretty job of building you up and breaking you down all in one massive-like swoop. Luckily, the build up had a longer lasting impression as I both finished my dissertation and got a job.

A time to dance, a time to mourn:

2011 held a lot of reasons to dance and many that even lived outside of academia. It was a solid year. The mourning that happened was only temporary and didn’t leave a lasting effect, which is the best kind of mourning. Also, I literally danced: I began to learn how to dance to Michael Jackson’s best songs via the Wii—totally awesome. Who doesn’t want to know how to dance like MJ?!?

A time to cast away stones, a time to gather stones together:

I’m going to use this one literally, too, and stones stand in as money for me. Somehow it seems I had more of it as a graduate student. I still haven’t exactly figured that one out. I definitely cast away more money as a grad student than I am as a faculty member. After driving the poor tax guy nuts at DU, I’ve gathered that as a member of the “real” world there are more taxes. And Denver is way more expensive than Tallahassee. And I didn’t give moving enough credit: it costs A.LOT. Like for real. I'm hoping things will begin to even out more in this new year, and I think they will.

To everything there is a season for sure, and my season is still changing and has changed over the last year. I'm still working on figuring out this club I now I can say I belong to. I'm still working on feeling like a Ph.D. instead of a poser. And I have to wonder: in 2013 will I still proudly say that I wore glitter nail polish to class. My guess is probably. If four years of a Ph.D. couldn’t shake the glitter outta me…I’m not sure what would or could.

Those Byrds—they knew a thing or two about seasons. My seasons tend to come and go with different amounts of glitter. And I'm still ok with that.