A Formal Complaint: Where Did Interest in Professors Go?

So I realize I could be particularly sensitive to this issue, seeing as I am the product of academia, but I've noticed a trend among many college students: they'll talk about what fantastic classes they've taken/are going to take, but cannot remember the name of the professor. In my creative writing class, a student mentioned having taken that class before, but failed to remember if her professor was male or female. In a course as subjective as creative writing, and at a time when need for letters of recommendation (*cough cough*) is fast approaching, it is essential that you work with a compatible professor.

I've certainly been guilty of this in the past. My parents, if they knew of a highly regarded professor, would encourage me to take a class with him or her, only for me to respond with, "you don't know my life or my schedule!" which resulted in too many English classes entirely devoted to vampires and indie video games.

I understand that it's unrealistic to only seek out the highest quality professors throughout your college career, but this lackadaisical approach to college professors doesn't only hurt the people who spent weeks slaving over a hot syllabus for you, but it hurts you as well. Yes, your class may be required, or the course topic may interest you so much you think that the professor is irrelevant, but what we fail to see is that these professors tweak their classes to match their areas of expertise, their interest.

To illustrate, let's look at an example from my spring semester English course. This course was advertised as Engl 490: Women Writers. I was led to believe I would be reading some Virginia Wolf, some Brontes, some Austen--however, my professor's area of expertise was in the study of the young girl. As such, this class quickly transformed into an experimental women's studies class in which we read about *warning, gross* anal fissures and bands called "Pussy Riot." Which would have been fine, had I signed up for a women's studies class.


Ironically, I've learned the importance of researching my professors just in time to graduate. But it's so much more refreshing to take my major courses with a yoga-loving, memoir-writing professor than to suffer through what can only be described as Dracula fan-fiction.

I've taken course where I felt like my professor didn't care to get to know our names or stories, and I can confirm that its a pretty shitty feeling. However, it's more justifiable, seeing as, in the course of a semester, an average professor has 75+ students, and the student has 7 professors at most. Professors are *gasp* human, and are therefore not immune to feeling un-appreciated or undervalued. And when it comes time to write your letters of recommendation, they will certainly remember that feeling.

I know this is nothing profound, but it was just on my mind. For the most part, your professors work hard. They're basically the celebrities of the world of academia. Treat them as such.*

*I may be exaggerating a leeeeetle bit here, but seriously. I've met some professors who might as well be rockstars. They're that cool.

Namaste.

The Lipstick Yogi

I rolled out my yoga mat, as I had done a million times before. Sitting in the corner of the yoga studio, I had gotten into the pattern of allowing myself the luxury of maintaining a healthy distance from my classmates, while still being able to observe their practice. It was the voyeur's dream. 

I had just settled into a stiff, creaky half lotus, when a classmate rolled her mat beside mine. I peered up at her--she greeted me with an uninhibited smile. 

"I just wanted to say, I love your hair," she said, gesturing to my newly-red locks. "Is that henna?" 

As far as I knew, henna was that stuff that I had tried to slap on my body five years prior that made me look like I had rolled around in dirt. 

I shrugged. "Just regular hair dye." I grew increasingly self conscious, and tried to discretely rub off my violently purple eyeshadow. What was perceived as a great investment in my self-esteem amongst my roommates seemed a terrible felony at the yoga studio. You mean to say you paid money to pour chemicals on your head for the sake of your appearance?? The horrors!

"Oh, you should really look into henna. Nature's pantry. It's amazing stuff." 

I wasn't sure when nature got a pantry, but I had the sinking suspicion I was terribly un-enlightened for lacking this knowledge. Perhaps if I used organic lotion and put wheatgrass on my head, I would be able to do a headstand by now.  

Somehow I doubted it.   
 
I have been doing yoga for about four years. It's been a positive constant in my life--I love the feeling of complete surrender after falling into that final savasana. I have learned to better express gratitude--both for myself and others. It's an added bonus that I can stand on my hands and make people go "oooh." But, paradoxically, with that ability to finally maintain some level of ease, I also have that nagging feeling that I don't quite fit. I smile and nod when my fellow yogis discuss homemade lotion recipes and kambucha. I've had fleeting desires to rid myself of superfluous material goods, only to realize that Ulta is having a sale, and that red lipstick makes me forget that I'm not actually queen of the universe.

I know I've written about this before. One of my first posts addresses the internal struggle of finding the balance between "fashionista" (meaning I bought a pair of jeans once) and "spiritual being." Since then, I've realized that my own inner peace has nothing to do with the type of jeans I'm wearing, and if anything, exfoliator does wonders for that third eye chakra. It took an embarrassingly long time to realize this, but enlightenment is not a "one size fits all" formula. What strikes me, however, is that--at least from the outside--one size seems to fit most. It's like the yoga pants debacle of 2014, only with more chanting, but equal amounts of spandex.

Although I've technically been going to yoga since senior year of high school, I hesitated to call myself a "serious yogi" until this past fall--part of this was an excuse to laze around my apartment for months on end and completely avoid physical activity of all forms--but a major factor was that I feared letting go of my casual yogi status, as in my mind, that required forcing myself into a mold that I knew I could never fit myself into--I'm not nearly flexible enough.

There was a particular quote from Erica Kaufman, the owner of Lila Yoga Studios, that resonated with me: "yoga doesn't change who you are. It frees who you are." I certainly see how this would be true--reducing my anxiety has allowed me to focus on more meaningful, deeper aspects of myself. Yet I still struggle with the concept that so many yogis' "selves" align with one another. Yoga class is quite possibly the most open, least judgmental environment on this planet, yet there are times when I wonder if I'm doing something wrong, that I can't be taken seriously as a disciple or teacher.

Which brings me to my next point. As someone who is studying to become a yoga teacher this coming school year, I am volunteering myself to "fit the yoga mold," at least in the most abstract sense. I've struggled between the desire to fit in and my need to be true to my most authentic self. Which is really a bummer, since I was told I should have gotten past this struggle like, five years ago. I'm still waiting on that whole self-acceptance badge I was told would be waiting for me at the finish line of my teenage years.

It's quite possible I'll be able to just rock the "lipstick yogi" look and make it a trend of sorts. But seeing as my middle school attempts to initiate the jeans/skirt trend flopped, I don't have high hopes.

Excuse me while I go buy organic everything.

Namaste.

I Sing the Body Electric: A Review of Urban Decay's Electric Pressed Pigmment Palette

So I'm trying something new here at Coffee, Yoga, and Life's Other Necessities and delving into the world of makeup reviews. Which probably means I'll write this review, forget that I ever made this commitment in the first place, then in five months go "oh my gosh guys, I'm so sorry it's been so long since I've posted a review!"

And so it goes.

This whole review thing is convenient for two reasons: 1) It gives me an excuse to fawn over colorful, shiny things without seeming mentally insane, and 2) It gives the illusion that I am actually skilled in the art of makeup application. Spoiler alert: I'm not--though I can now do my water line without crying. Does that count?

So the other day, I thought "what's better than saving money for rent/groceries/adulting? I know--spending $50 on eyeshadow I could never wear for said adulting!" And thus the Ulta splurge began.

Outrageous expense aside, this palette is PRETTY--pretty enough that I can't contain my excitement in lowercase letters. I spent about a week going online and staring at pictures of this eyeshadow. Then, when my order finally arrived, I spent about a week opening and closing the palette, reveling in that magnetic click, and occasionally squealing at the colors.

LOOK AT ALL THE PRETTY COLORS

This palette is not for the faint of heart (additionally, those with real, grownup jobs). Once that color goes on, it shows. Once it seemingly comes off, it still shows. I've had pink eyelids for about two weeks now. But if you're like me and want a bold look for watching Netflix and reading books a night on the town, Urban Decay has got you covered. Thus far, I have used Jilted and Urban and not ended up looking like the Joker. It helps to invest in a roommate who will yell "Kira! You look like a clown! Where is your blending brush?"


It's also helpful to invest in a blending brush. There goes week #2 of groceries.

"Sunset," and other pretentious names

  For my fellow brown eyed girls, I would strongly recommend avoiding the pinks and reds such as Slow Burn and Savage. However, blues and purples go on beautifully. I still have no idea what yellow is doing there. Yellow looks good on approximately 0% of the population.

As I've learned from experience, if you want to look like you've spent more than two minutes putting on eyeshadow, you should spend more than two minutes putting on eyeshadow. But you should also blend these violently colorful shades with more neutral tones such as brown (this is turning into a $100 investment--funny how that happens).

If you blend some brown into your crease, magic will happen. And by magic, I mean the roommate you've just invested in will squeal, "your eyes look so pretty! I was beginning to lose hope in you!"

Also, for the shimmer obsessed, Revolt is pretty much the best thing that has happened on this planet. Every other makeup guru seems to dismiss Revolt as un-interesting and useless, but I've also lived by the school of thought that your look is not complete if you don't look like you've got some glitter glue stuck to your eye.

But seriously, it's a lovely addition to the palette.

Fringe is probably my favorite shade here, but I have yet to find a way to apply it without looking like I've got a bruised face. After a few more hours of experimenting in my room, I'll let you all know how it works out.

"The lizard"

As a whole, for the broke college student, this is probably not a wise investment. For the average, normal adult, this is also probably not a wise investment. But I invested anyway.

And for those of you who are looking for actually skilled makeup gurus, HAH, joke's on you! But also, here's a look done by Jaclyn Hill that (supposedly) the average woman can emulate:

Enjoy your face eyes.