Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
He laughs. “Do I even want to know?”
“Can you find out where Hal Richmond was born?”
“Who?”
“Briar’s assistant dean. He has a British accent, and I’m convinced it’s fake.”
There’s a beat.
“Princess.” Dad sighs. “Are you torturing this poor man?”
“I’m not torturing anyone,” I protest. “I just have my suspicions and I would love you so, so much if you could verify his place of birth. It’ll take you all of five seconds, you know it will.”
His laughter rumbles in my ear. “I’ll see what I can do.”
My spirits are still high when I sit down later to outline my midterm. Mom got ahold of me before dinner and we spent an hour on the phone catching up. And all three of my roommates are out for the night, so I can work in silence. With my ADHD, even the slightest distraction can set me back. I get sidetracked far too easily.
My essay topic is how New York fashion evolved in the first half of the twentieth century, and the factors that led to each transformative incident. It’s a bit daunting because I’m dealing with five decades of fashion, marked by major events like the Great Depression and World War II.
In high school, my special-ed teacher—oh gosh, it makes me want to throw up saying that. Special-ed teacher. It’s frigging mortifying. Anyway, the teacher assigned to me had an arsenal of tips to help me better organize my thoughts. Like making flash cards or using sticky notes to jot down various ideas. Over time, I figured out it worked best to write one idea per note, and then arrange them until they all flow together to form one coherent train of thought.
To begin my midterm’s outline, I sit on the floor of my room with my supplies lined up and ready for use: highlighters, Post-It notes, erasable pens. I’m wearing thick wool socks and sipping on a big cup of herbal tea. I got this. I’m a rock star.
I start off by writing decade headings on each yellow note—1910s, ’20s, ’30s, ’40s. It’ll probably be easier to organize the paper chronologically. I know I have a ton of research ahead of me, but for now I rely on what I know about those time periods. Up until the Great Depression, I’m pretty sure bright colors were all the rage. I write that down on a sticky.
Roaring ’20s, we’re looking at flappers. Another sticky gets written.
Women’s fashion favored a boyish look for a while—I think maybe that was the ’30s? I stick another note to the floor. But I feel like the ’30s also produced a lot of feminine, frilly tops? And speaking of frilly tops, I saw like five of them at the Barneys on Madison over the break. Are they back in style?
Oh, and I forgot to tell a girlfriend from Brown about Barneys! They’re having a super-secret VIP sale on Valentine’s Day weekend. She’s going to lose her mind when she finds out.
I grab my phone and shoot a quick message to Courtney. Her response is instantaneous.
COURT: OMG!!!!!!
* * *
ME: I know!!!
* * *
COURT: We’re going, right?
* * *
ME: OBVIOUSLY!!
We text back and forth in pure excitement, until I suddenly realize I’ve spent ten minutes talking about a clothing sale instead of doing my work.
Grrr.
I take a deep breath and force myself to concentrate. I list as many trends I can think of, then nod in approval. There. Now I simply need to go into detail about each one and explain the societal factors and events that shaped fashion over time.
Wait. Is that my thesis?
No, you idiot. You still have to come up with one.
I bite my lip harder than necessary. My inner critic is, frankly, a total bitch. My old therapist was always preaching about self-love, urging me to treat myself kindly, but that’s easier said than done. When you have one major insecurity that rules your life, your subconscious doesn’t let you forget it.
Loving yourself is hard enough. Silencing the inner critic borders on impossible. For me, at least.
I inhale a slow, steady breath. It’s fine. This is fine. I don’t have to think up a thesis right this second. I can gather all the information first, and then once I begin to piece it together, a general hypothesis will form.
But there’s so much information. A mere five minutes of Googling on my laptop leaves me overwhelmed with facts. And the more I read, the broader the topic becomes. I have no idea how to narrow it down, and the panic hits me like a fist to the stomach.
I take another breath, but it’s quick and choppy, and I don’t think any of the oxygen actually enters my lungs.
I hate this. I hate this essay, and I hate myself.
My eyes feel hot. They start to sting. I rub them, but the act of touching them unleashes the tears I’m trying to suppress.