THIS summer, I’m doing some research on the doing/allowing problem—the philosophical debate over whether there’s a moral difference between directly causing harm to someone and allowing harm to come to that person—with one of my favorite philosophy professors. It’s been rewarding; I’m learning a lot about several deep issues in ethical theory, issues surrounding the rational authority of moral reasons, the relationship between reactive attitudes and the impersonal evaluative standpoint, and the commensurability of various sorts of practical reasons. Nonetheless, my work so far has put me in a position to make a rather uncomfortable observation: philosophers like to endanger fat men. Consider just a few examples from the ethical theory literature.

The other night, I had a conversation with my brother in which I vented to him my worries that I had been a self-involved friend lately. He replied with the obvious: “this entire conversation is self-involved.”

Oh, the irony!

Most people would agree that a little bit of self-involvement is healthy, that being self-involved indicates knowing—and advocating for—one’s self-worth. However, the situation has gotten me to thinking—how self-involved is too self-involved?

Anyone who has ever spent time in the trenches of customer service dodging shrapnel from viciously hurled rudeness grenades and snide comment-tipped bullets, has dreamed of revenge. Working at a low pay job is balls. Having to put on a happy face as a total stranger ravages you with personal attacks because your store doesn’t carry latex ear muffs is an ugly torture.

Who among the minimum wage slaves hasn’t fantasized about giving a vilely abrasive old man the finger as he berates you, the lowly K-mart employee, about the Un-American practices YOU are responsible for in only stocking PLASTIC FUCKING HANGERS!

If you have had the pleasure of meeting me in person, one of the first things you may say notice is the fact that I have an enormous purse. “Wow,” you may have remarked to yourself, “Ro-bot sure does have a freaking huge purse! I wonder what kind of crap she carries around in there?” In fact, as a chronic couch surfer, the answers range from “three spare pairs of earrings” to “a box of instant oatmeal” to “the collected works of Jorge Luis Borges”, but until a week ago, the answer would not have been “Purel”. I am not what you would call a neat person, and sometimes what I would ideally describe as charming clutter, others find just plain dirty. In the packrat hippie household where I grew up, this dirt was considered benign and even healthy—after all, your immune system needs exercise just like your biceps. In the real world, however, people judge, and never more so than when there’s an epidemic on.

It’s difficult to stay sane, living the life of an insolvent post-graduate at my parents’ house. For a while, studying for the GRE kept me in check – then it was the tether of graduate school applications that tied my feet to the floor. But somewhere along the way, moments in the day between sharing a pot of coffee with my mom and falling asleep before the light from under my parents’ door dims, I realize how far from reality I’ve strayed. For a while I tried meditation. Then I increased my workout schedule; finally, I found a job in hard labor. But these sorts of focused physical output seems to provide only momentary solutions. To really calm my anxieties I had to turn to another for emotional support – my dog.

When a woman talks about someone with commitment phobia, she’s usually referring to her deadbeat boyfriend and the fact that he still hasn’t handed her a rock. When I talk about commitment phobia, however, I mean something entirely different. I mean someone who is so ready to commit to a person, place or thing that they end up shutting down interpersonal interactions at the imagination stage.

About a year and a half ago, two friends and I got into a heated discussion about the term “yuppie.” I had heard it many times before and was pretty sure that I had used it myself a few times. But, being someone who doesn’t like to talk out of her ass, I felt the need to consult with my friends the precise definition of the word before accommodating it into my everyday language.

I should have known that us hashing out the definition of the word was a signal that we ourselves were on our way to yuppieville.

I happen to moonlight as an SAT guru occasionally. Earlier today, I was grading SAT practice essays when I came across one that baffled my mind. In addressing the question of whether human beings needed nature to progress, a student wrote, “Nature is a series of inanimate objects.”

The internet acronym “wtf” is perhaps the most apt term to describe my reaction to this statement.

Here is what I remember about ancient Spartan military practices: when boys are born, their mothers dunk them in wine. If they survive, they are then given to administrators who decide whether the kids are worthy of the Spartan heritage…the whole ten fingers, ten toes test. If not, they are killed.

The other day I overheard a polite disagreement. At least, it was polite as far as I can tell. I extrapolated its politeness from one participant’s non-ironic use of the phrase “I beg to differ.”

I had no reason to question the intentions of the speaker, nor did I expect that he necessarily put any particular thought into his choice of expression. Nonetheless, I spent some time reflecting on the meaning of his words, particularly his use of “beg.”