My grandmother was nothing if not old-fashioned. Beyond her fondness for mothballs and ankle-length skirts, she maintained an endless archive of aphorisms from some pre-feminist, atemporal past—the stuff of Aesop and Grimm. These, she liked to extract at choice moments, most of which involved catching me in the midst of some transgression—mounting the refrigerator for forbidden Halloween candies, or combing my mother’s drawers for clip-on earrings. There was no misbehavior that could not be moralized with a three-letter, neatly alliterated phrase (“Mind your manners!”) and capped with some pithy comment on being a “lady,” or my inadequacy therein.

Manners, politeness, chivalry, “ladylikeness”: these, curmudgeons bemoan, are lost arts—ones that fell out of vogue around the same time that adolescents’ pants fell below their knees. Sarah Palin coins the term “mama grizzly”; Miley Cyrus pole dances; “Jersey Shore” gets renewed for a third season: Cultural apocalypse (else, implosion) is imminent—or so the conservative narrative goes. Most of us, myself included, greet these comments with more groan than nod: We, and our parents before us, have heard the prophesy before. Exposed bellybuttons and uncouth behavior fail to shock—and why should they? When we don’t like it, we just change the channel.

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It was Friday night, and I was bored. Epically, epochally, brain-numbingly bored. The semester had arrived at its predictable post-midterm lull—that moment where Mondays begin to bleed into Tuesdays and seep back into Sunday evenings. The week had passed without incident, marked by unmemorable meals and abortive afternoon naps: a tiresome blah blah blah of classes, caffeine, and computer screens. Nothing had happened, so to speak—and now that the weekend had come, that was what I desperately needed: something, anything, not beholden to tedious routine.

Boredom at Harvard comes in several varieties, ranging from the relatively benign to the intensely anxious. There is weekend-night boredom, fueled by Harvard’s oft—and, of late, much maligned—lack of enticing social options. This generally devolves into a late-night common-room-futon situation, involving several people sandwiched on a Pabst Blue Ribbon-scented surface, or ends early with resignation to Hulu. Next comes weekday-night boredom, inspired by a concatenation of too much work, too little will, and an absence of outlets for procrastination. These are the times one ventures to Lamont only to leave two-hours later, tepid beverage and scattered sentences of tomorrow’s assignment in tow. Freshman-fall boredom hits first and hardest: the consequence of vast swaths of unstructured time and few structured activities with which to fill it. Initial overzealous commitment yields to desubscribed Listservs and dropped comps—around the same time that free food stops accompanying every meeting.

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Last Saturday, numb from an afternoon spent in Lamont, I agreed to accompany a friend to an evening screening of “The Social Network.” It was, admittedly, a reluctant assent. Facebook and I have long maintained a love-hate relationship: Lately, strained by an onslaught of fake friend requests—all with foreign names and porn-star-worthy physiques—it’s tended toward the latter. The prospect of willingly watching my perennial, and much resented, time-suck blown-up and bloated on the big screen was, needless to say, unattractive.

Yet, five hours privy to the ambient rhythm of other people’s productivity—pages turning, mousepads clicking, keyboards pounding with purpose—had weakened my resolve. My midday caffeine-high nearing a critical low, the hype began to sound more and more convincing: Maybe Aaron Sorkin’s pet project really was the next “Citizen Kane.” Never mind the overwrought trailer or Justin Timberlake’s 'N Sync-era curls: Two-hours of Hollywood-induced escapism was doctor’s orders.

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My predilection for irony began innocently enough, with the occasional air quote and misanthropic remark. This occurred around the same time that Britney began conspicuously consuming Cheetos and Christina transitioned from blonde to black. My childhood icons flabby and fallen, general snark progressed to full-blown cynicism. Ironic comments evolved from a sporadic indulgence to a conversational a priori, while imagined acts of ironic consumption—monogrammed sweatpants, Lunchables, fresh-frozen anything—offered daily diversions. I lost the ability to communicate with the overly-literal. I cringed when others failed to grasp the incongruity of their actions. Eventually, even my choice of emoticons inclined toward the ironic, the wink always seeming more apt than either smile or frown.

After attempting to ironically watch “Jersey Shore,” I knew that I had hit bottom. The “so bad, it’s good” mantra could only excuse so much. This was the apogee of cultural awfulness—a show so brazenly self-parodying that it begged to taken in jest. Yet, unlike Samuel Jackson’s clenched stare in “Snakes on a Plane,” this concentrated camp was decidedly not fun. Fist-pumps, spray-tans, hair-poufs: The fruit was absurdly low-hanging. The joke was too obvious to admit irony; condescension, too easy to be worthwhile.

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Anyone who has ever seen a tampon commercial knows that menstruation is a topic best broached by euphemism. Downward dogs in white spandex, slow-motion runs on the beach, blue liquid seeping into a quilted pad: All both infer and idealize that which cannot be named. On par with the opacity of perfume ads, they leave the viewer with almost no information about either the product or its function. After viewing one of these spots, periods may remain mysterious and—let’s face it—totally gross, but having one sure seems like fun!

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