Opinion
JENNIFER CALFAS
EDITOR IN CHIEF
AARICA MARSH
and DEREK WOLFE
EDITORIAL PAGE EDITORS
LEV FACHER
MANAGING EDITOR
420 Maynard St.
Ann Arbor, MI 48109
tothedaily@michigandaily.com
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Unsigned editorials reflect the official position of the Daily’s editorial board.
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4A — Wednesday, September 9, 2015
I
was alone in the aisle, looking at Camel-
bak and Nalgene plastic, where I could
not hide that I had a problem. My mom,
sister and I were scoping
out Target before leaving
for school. I needed a new
water bottle and my sister
wanted a bigger pot for her
plant. The discussion in my head was so loud
I didn’t hear when my mom entered the aisle,
finding me crouched, examining the flip-top
lid of my predator, my brain in the fetal posi-
tion.
“I don’t know … I just don’t know.”
I don’t remember exactly when it started or
what it stemmed from. If I had to guess, I would
say a fear of failing, the future or the butterfly
effect; I’m dramatic that way. Whatever the
cause, I had developed a behavior that fogged
my brain: I was indecisive.
Indecisiveness
can
be
a
destructive
behavior if extreme, quite simply because it
stops decisions from being made.
All my life, I’ve made choices slowly and
deliberately. No pros and cons lists, but it took
time. After getting my college acceptance
letters, I became even slower. Never before
had a choice held this much importance. I
fell into a haze. If any one decision could be
this important, every other decision I made
could no longer be taken lightly. I clung to
every option I was presented like a child in a
grocery store clinging to a stranger that looks
like his or her mother.
Which brings me back to Target. I had it in
my head that a portable container held the key
to having a good college year — a good future.
With a bottle in each hand, I questioned: Did I
want my future to be 20 or 32 oz.?
“Payton, you’ve been here half an hour.”
I tire my mother. I grabbed the first one I
saw and walked away, though I was tempted
to return with each step.
Problems only get bigger, choices more
important. My palms sweat a little bit just
thinking about it. The priority, however,
needs to be getting rid of this incessant
deliberation when extreme. I, for instance,
can no longer decide what to do with my
arms when I sleep. While the behavior itself
isn’t always threatening, indecisiveness is a
symptom of many mental illnesses, including
depression and anxiety disorder. In addition,
if you can never make a choice, life will never
go anywhere.
However, there are some ways in which
you can help yourself (ways only previously
tested by me).
First, do not believe in the butterfly effect.
What I have for dinner tonight is unlikely to
affect the grades of my Spanish class. Second,
take the time to remember this, but don’t
take the time to make simple decisions. If you
finish shampoo, run into the store, grab any
bottle and run to the cashier. Test yourself.
Third, on the bigger choices, be patient with
yourself. Acknowledge when a decision
is bigger than most, but be proactive. For
example, declaring a major is imperative, but
also a decision big enough to spend time on.
Finally, give yourself wiggle room. If there
are no choices that are entirely appealing,
make your own. Consider a double major,
because the next best thing to not choosing
is choosing two.
— Payton Luokkala can be reached
at payluokk@umich.edu.
Indecisiveness and how to treat it
Claire Bryan, Regan Detwiler, Ben Keller, Payton Luokkala, Aarica Marsh,
Victoria Noble, Michael Paul, Anna Polumbo-Levy, Allison Raeck, Melissa Scholke,
Michael Schramm, Mary Kate Winn, Jenny Wang, Derek Wolfe
EDITORIAL BOARD MEMBERS
I
love my body. I really do.
Yes,
in
this
moment,
my body is awesome, and
impressive (how do I still look like
this after eating
so much Chipotle
and
chocolate?),
and it’s nothing
to be ashamed of.
Yet maybe a few words caught your
attention in that last sentence: “In
this moment.”
The thing is, there’s a catch here,
and I’m only beginning to realize
why. Yes, I love my body. But I only
love my body when it reminds me of
someone else’s. I only love my body
when I feel like the resemblance
is strong enough between me and
whichever flawless woman is on
the cover of this month’s flawless
woman-covered
magazine.
I
only love my body when I catch a
glimpse in the mirror and see clear
skin and straight hair, rather than
a community of pimples staking
claim to my chin, or a ‘do that’s
somewhere
between
not-quite-
straight-but-definitely-not-wavy
and “do you ever brush your hair?”
(Honestly, not that often.)
I only love my body when I
feel like it’s close enough to what
beautiful is advertised to be. When
I feel like my stomach could pass
as not big and my boobs could pass
as not small. When my legs aren’t
too purple and blotchy today, and
my face not too red today, and my
stretch marks not so angry today —
and I say today because tomorrow
might be different.
Tomorrow, wearing a bathing
suit might be the bravest thing I’ve
done all day. Tomorrow, I might feel
like crawling out of my skin and into
someone else’s, please. Tomorrow,
my whole being might feel like an
eyesore because another purple
stretch mark has crawled up my
hips (apparently it took my body 21
years to realize it was a woman, and
it decided to catch up really fast on
the hip front), or because another
half-centimeter has settled into
my waist, or another pimple has
decided to show up on my stomach.
(Seriously, who gets pimples on
their stomach? Me. I do.)
I only love my body when I feel
like it’s worthy of someone else’s
eyes. When I look like something
someone else might think looks
nice. Especially when someone
compliments my body.
Sometimes I look in the mirror
and think, “Wow, I’m not so bad,”
like this recurring revelation. I think
sometimes I’m so hard on my body
that when I actually see it, I’m blown
away by how incredibly not terrible
it is. Because in that moment, maybe
I almost fit the standard.
You see, the problem is not that
I don’t love my body; the problem
is all of the reasons that I do.
Sometimes. Not because it’s my body,
my permanent home, my pretty
normal-looking human self that has
carried me through my entire life
and deserves a whole lot of love for
that. Not because I have reached
the enviable level of self-acceptance
where I have come to the realization
that I’m stuck in my body forever, and
I better love it or I’ll just be miserable
my whole life. Not because it looks
like my body, Rachael Lacey’s body.
But because it looks close enough to
someone else’s.
I saw an ad the other day that
read, “You’re only as young as your
neck.” It was for lotion. And to me,
it felt like a victory. In my mind, I
saw women reading those words
and realizing for the first time in
their lives that their necks were not
perfect — just as I have previously
been told by ads that every single
part of my body needs some lotion
or gel or spray or food or haircut
or article of clothing or five-pound
dumbbell workout to reach its full,
perfect potential that it is obviously
not at right now.
But I saw this ad and I laughed.
Because for the first time, instead
of seeing another reason I’m not
beautiful, I saw a page of desperate,
neck-shaming bullshit, trying to
capitalize on peoples’ insecurities.
It’s almost as if they simply ran out
of other body parts to criticize. And
I will not let neck lotion-makers
rule my body. I will not let their “48
Ways To Make Your Summer Bod
Feel Sub-Par” get me down. I will
pick up the forgotten love for my
body that I’ve been leaving behind
since nine-year-old me mused that
if she had three wishes from a
genie, one of them would be to have
smaller thighs. (Thank goodness
I’ve realized by now that my thighs
are awesome and strong and full
of stretch marks because they’re
so strong. Yes, my thighs are my
favorite part of my body and I will
let everyone know.)
Because even though saying I
love my body feels like a lie half of
the time, it’s slowly becoming more
and more true. I think realizing
why my body love has been such
a roller-coaster ride has been the
first step toward figuring out how
to make that love stick around for
good. My body deserves a better
kind of love than the conditional
“approval” I’ve been giving it — no
matter how close to or far from the
standard it is. Honestly, there are
more important things to worry
about in life than pimples and
stretch marks, and I know that I
don’t judge other people for these
things, so why am I judging myself?
I’m taking the noose from around
my young, lotion-less neck, so my
voice can say, out loud, to the mirror:
I love you. So I can say those words
until they are just like my body:
perfectly and beautifully mine.
— Rachael Lacey can be reached
at rachaelk@umich.edu.
Talking body
RACHAEL
LACEY
PAYTON
LUOKKALA
ADAM MORTON | VIEWPOINT
When you see the title of this arti-
cle, what goes through your mind?
A root-beer kegger? Pizza party?
Rousing tournament of Monopoly
with a few games of Uno on the side?
Chances are, you’re picturing a well-
lit room with several mild-mannered
conversations going around, maybe
interrupted by the occasional neck-
bearded kid yelling “YAHTZEE!”
This interjection, of course, is met
with a few phrases like, “Gosh darnit,
Derick,” and “Well I guess we know
who’s closest to Jesus today!” Cer-
tainly, this would seem like a pleas-
ant time (for your grandma) and you
might even stay for a minute or two,
but it’s probably not a party you’d
walk across campus for. Heck, you
might not even walk across the street
for it.
There’s nothing wrong with root-
beer keggers or pizza parties, and
there’s certainly nothing wrong with
conversations or neck beards. (Actu-
ally, yes, there is something very
wrong with neck beards, but you
get my point.) Of all the things you
thought of, there’s nothing wrong
with them; they’re just not the reason
you go to parties.
You go to parties for the social
interaction. You go to parties to for-
get the things that drag you down
the rest of the week. You go to par-
ties because, let’s face it, you’ve got
some pretty sick moves and the
world needs to see them. There
are a million reasons to go to par-
ties and, in your mind, a Christian
frat might only satisfy about two of
those reasons.
Let me introduce you to BYX —
Beta Upsilon Chi. We’re in a new
house and we’re having a party.
But not just any party. A party
would be one night and you’re done.
I’m talking more of a festival, a
multi-night event. Day one, we’re
having a barbeque, because who
doesn’t like free food? Day two,
we’re having a block party, because
who doesn’t like using their bizarre
lawn-game talents to win free priz-
es? And day three, we’re having a
rave, because who doesn’t like a
hangover-free (yet still crazy) time
to end Syllabus Week?
Look back at that last sentence and
read what’s in parenthesis. “Yet still
crazy.” You don’t believe that, do you?
Let me paint this picture:
You walk up to the BYX House,
407 North Ingalls, and quickly notice
there’s no line. “Maybe this isn’t peak
time? Or maybe they’re terrible at
advertising?” You decide it took a
couple minutes to get here, so you
might as well take a gander inside.
The first thing you notice: the
brothers at the front door are wel-
coming everyone in and thanking
them for coming. You’re not too sur-
prised by this, given your pleasant
demeanor, golden personality and
how your squad is absolutely killing
the game tonight, but the greatness of
a party isn’t defined by its front door,
so you quickly move on. There aren’t
many people in the common area, so
you go downstairs to see what this
Christian frat party is really like.
In a shocking blow to your expec-
tations, this party isn’t happening
in a well-lit room at all; the room is
only decently lit, with crazy lights like
you’ve seen at other parties. Remem-
ber Yahtzee-playing Derick from
your expectations? As it turns out,
he’s actually a masterful DJ with
tracks that light the whole house on
fire. Confirming an expectation, you
notice there are a few conversations
happening, but it’s tough to hear
them over the noise of a crowd abso-
lutely losing its mind. Looking at this
party purely for what it is. It’s a lot
like other parties; there’s just a dis-
tinct lack of smashed windows and
smashed human beings.
For those in BYX and for the hun-
dreds who have experienced their
parties before, this is the kind of
night that’s filled with great memo-
ries and great people. For everyone
else, you’re more than welcome to
join in and find out for yourselves.
Either way, you’ll never truly know
what it’s like until you party with a
Christian frat.
Adam Morton is an LSA junior. He
can be reached at adammort@umich.
edu. The BYX Island Party is open
to everyone and will be taking place
Sept. 10-12, with details available
on the event’s Facebook page.
Party with a Christian frat
Y
oung Americans love their celebri-
ties like they love apple pie, Uber and
iPods. I say this fondly, as I’m mildly
obsessed with a fairly exten-
sive list of celebrities (Ice T is
in a screamo band, and it’s so
good, ya’ll).
We
have
less
of
a
relationship with and knowledge of our health
and health care. This is partly because of a
myriad of complex philosophical, economic and
socio-political factors that I will spare you the
details of, and partly because of a PR problem.
Every 20-something is vaguely aware of the
impact of “Obamacare” because it grants them
the ability to stay on their parents’ (probably
much better) insurance plan for just a tiny bit
longer. (If you’re one of the 20-somethings who
wasn’t aware, go to HealthCare.gov and study
up.) But if you’re unaware, I don’t blame you.
The PR for Obamacare wasn’t exactly positive
or straightforward. The name of the legislation
isn’t even “Obamacare” — it’s the Affordable
Care Act.
You’ve
probably
heard
about
Kanye’s
promise to Matt Neal, a 26-year-old Ann Arbor
resident and Yeezy fan, to give him a new pair
of Yeezy shoes if Neal successfully trades his
own pair for a kidney. And while this has raised
Neal’s profile in his search for a kidney donor,
it’s also a campaign in misinformation.
Kanye would have done himself and all of us
a favor if he’d also sold a pair of the $16 million
sneakers and then donated the money to the
National Kidney Foundation. He would have
discovered that one in 10 Americans suffer
from some level of kidney failure, and that
the average wait time on a kidney transplant
list is three to five years. Yeezus could have
started a campaign about organ and human
trafficking. If he had gotten involved in any
of these things he would have learned that it’s
illegal in all countries for Mr. Neal to trade
money, goods or services for organs. The black
market is extremely dangerous and exploits a
lot of individuals desperate for money. Kidneys
can go for up to $300,000 on the black market,
while the donor is paid just $650.
Wake up, Mr. West, Mr. West!
Do you know about Angelina Jolie’s surgery
to remove her breasts and prevent breast cancer
(known as a double mastectomy)? The odds
are good that you do. Did you also know that
mastectomies aren’t generally recommended
for women? Only those with a specific gene that
make it more likely to develop breast cancer are
recommended for the surgery.
This factoid is much less sexy or inspirational
(sexpirational?) than the headline, “Most
beautiful woman in the world shockingly
sacrifices breasts to prevent death.” While Ms.
Jolie is incredibly inspirational in her work as
a U.N. Ambassador, her medical procedure
should have come with a disclaimer to her loyal
fans — borrow her style, her clothes, her look,
but not her invasive surgical procedure.
These two examples are just the tip of the
iceberg when it comes to celebrities influencing
health in a three-ring circus that includes
everything from Jennifer Aniston endorsing
better bottled water to an endless parade of
B-list celebrities’ diet and weight-loss products
and services.
Government, health care and other public
health-care organizations are supposed to be
the public counterweight to faulty celebrity
health claims and misunderstandings, but they
struggle to harness the necessary glamour
and star power needed to get everyone to pay
attention to health insurance or mammogram
factoids. However, a notable exception is the
NOMORE campaign, a celebrity-filled effort to
end sexual assault and domestic violence.
This may, of course, be a cost issue. In an
attempt to rehabilitate the image of Obamacare,
the federal government will spend at least $684
million on promoting it annually. In 2010, $50
billion dollars was spent hiring celebrities to
endorse products. Magazine advertisers in the
United States spends $15.1 billion each year.
So what’s the takeaway?
As educated young adults who are
independent consumers of the health, health
care and diet industries, as well as students
at a prestigious medical research University
here in the United States, we need to look
deeper into what health care messages
the media and celebrities are directing
at us. While we may feel these things are
superficial or trivial, they’re undoubtedly
very influential.
We should also remember that we have
some power to influence what celebrities
support and speak about: tweet, donate and
e-mail until your favorite celebrity knows
about your cause. The same goes for the
government, as well: get out and vote, e-mail
your congressperson, campaign for your
favorite presidential nominee. And finally: as
professionals, we should never underestimate
the value of a high-profile spokesperson.
Health-care and public-health sectors
would be very well served to step up their
game by attempting to get more celebrities,
communications
and
P.R.
professionals
involved in meaningful health campaigns,
demonstrating
an
understanding
that
investing in a great campaign is worth as
much as a pair of Yeezy exclusive sneakers.
— Peggy Korpela can be reached
at kpeggy@umich.edu.
More likely to listen to Kanye
PEGGY
KORPELA
E-mail GabriElla at GabsmEy@umich.Edu
GABRIELLA MEYER