If college is a part of my formative years, then it is safe to say that I am still developing the basic paradigms through which I view the world. I don’t just mean my stance on political systems such as representative democracy or bureaucratic authoritarianism, or how to choose an appropriate theoretical economic framework with which to analyze the Mexican debt crisis of 1982. What is much more pressing is finding an effective philosophy for making basic life decisions—the daily choices that affirm who I am as a human being. After a recent bout of self-reflection, I chose the philosophy of Ironic Detachment.
I am using “ironic” in the first-listed definition of the word, “meaning the contrary of what is expressed,” rather than the fly-by-night Alanis Morissette definition of ironic, which seems to mean a sort of unfortunate coincidence. Why might I make decisions based around the opposite of what I think would be a good decision? Why would I embarrass myself to people who wouldn’t pick up on the subtle irony of my actions? I find it funny.
To really give this philosophy my all, in the coming months and years I plan to express my philosophy to the rest of the world. First, I will get copious numbers of tattoos in Chinese or Japanese. This is because I neither speak nor read either language, and have no clue what these symbols mean. I also subscribe to vague notions of “peace” or “harmony” or “strength,” and I trust a tattoo artist to give me an accurate translation of what those symbols mean and not tattoo something closer to “stupid American” or “Imperialist bastard.”
Much like a tennis player has one arm that is stronger than the other, I will only work-out one side of my body. I will have one well-defined arm, one huge, powerful leg, and I will show off my three-pack to the world.
I will wear a pair of “Hoyas” short-shorts for a few hours every day, most likely coinciding with when I go to the cafeteria. This is because I don’t like people staring at my ass.
I will apply to be a sales representative at a chain of stores that publishes a magazine with photo spreads of co-ed naked football and co-ed naked study parties. I love to go in stores that equate my buying a sweater to a good-looking person talking to me, and I feel like I really exhibit the “spirit” of the company. Plus, my three-pack will look really hot in those low-cut cargo pants.
This week, I will ask someone I’m interested in to go see Kangaroo Jack. I feel that I couldn’t relate to someone that didn’t love movies about rapping kangaroos and didn’t agree that the comic stylings of Jerry O’Connell and Christopher Walken play magically off one another. After the movie, if things are going well, I may even offer to swipe them at Darnall.
After graduation, I will apply to work only in large office parks and live in a bland suburb lining the megalopolis that spans from D.C. to Boston. I will thrive in the blankness and sameness of my office complex, eat Extreme Fajitas, Chicken Flingers and Lobster Poppers in chain restaurants, and hope my town is reminiscent of those shown in the “Footballtown U.S.A.” Coke ads that run before movies, and advertise America as a place where every house has a white picket fence and you never have to lock your door.
I will let everyone know that I am from the South, and that it is indeed a blessing from God. If I am driving, I will pull over in observance every time “Free Bird” comes on; if “Sweet Home Alabama” plays at a bar, I will shout “Roll Tide, Roll!” during the chorus. I will wear a black mesh hat that says, “Beer is the Reason I Wake Up Every Afternoon.” I will refer to what some people may call the “Civil War” as the “War of Northern Aggression.” I will put a bumper sticker on my car with a picture of a confederate flag and the proclamation, “Forget, Hell!”
In keeping with the glory of the Southland, I will become a conservative Southern Baptist. I will boycott Disney World because of “the gays.” I will quit dancing, only drink when others aren’t looking, and I will strongly support missionary trips to visit underdeveloped heathen nations.
Looking back, I would argue that I have unconsciously used the philosophy of Ironic Detachment throughout my life: that time I led a pep rally in high school, when I was the head delegate for Fiji at National Model United Nations and when I pressured others to listen to Hank Williams, Jr. or Justin Timberlake. (You should check him out! He’s hot and sounds like early Michael Jackson.)
Perhaps, though, I didn’t really do all of those things with Ironic Detachment. Although I now wish that I had been ironically detached from all those times I went to debate camp or working out that dance routine for the national history fair performance, I was quite emotionally attached. Even now, I wish I were way too cool to ever reference bureaucratic authoritarianism or any debt crises in something I wrote. I wish I hadn’t written my social security number on so many law school applications that I now automatically refer to myself as Jean Valjean. The truth is, though, I am a big cheesy nerd and doing things with a sort of disconnected superiority is easier than just doing what you wanted to in the first place, never once concerned about what people thought. So if you do things you detest with the same attitude as you do things you love, everyone ends up confused.
If you too are lost in this crazy, mixed-up world, and want a guiding archetype for making decisions, take a good look at Ironic Detachment. It’s a really cohesive, positive way for one to look at things. And I really mean that.
Gina Pace is a senior in the School of Foreign Service and senior writer of The Georgetown Voice. She is too cool for school.
