Where is it written that one great event must be followed by a horrendous one? WHERE. Is it biblical? Did God say unto Abraham, “thou can have one good harvest, but the following year's will make you wish you’d been a car salesman”? DID HE? I swear to the God of Wonder Beyond Our Galaxy, I always, ALWAYS pay for it later when e’er I have a super-awesome day.
Now I’m not saying I believe in karma. As a rule I don’t ascribe to such cosmic fancies; I don’t think there’s a wizard of right and wrong saying, “op, you did this or that and now your dog is going to die.” I just don’t buy that the world is so logical. For A) such thinking creates a universe of vindictive cynics clinging to the hope that lighting and/or premature balding will strike down their deserved exes, and for B) I have several such deserved exes, and none have yet been afflicted negatively due to their heinous dating behaviors against me. Well…save for the premature balding, but that’s probably just because of all the hormones in our drinking water.
But. The pattern of my life has caused me to admit a certain amount of balance in the human existence; for this much good there seems to be this much bad, and there is truth to the adage that into each life some rain must fall. (And some sunshine will shimmer of course, but we’re realists here; we like to focus on the rain and drizzle and muck.)
So case and point. Last Saturday myself and my comrades loaded up Twiggy’s Jeep, double-checked to make sure I’d brought my toothbrush (as I absolutely love to forget my toothbrush when on vacation), and headed for a weekend of swanky hotels, overpriced entrees, and thrill rides not rivaled anywhere else in the Southernmost part of the Midwest. (Ehh, it’s better than Frontier City.)
That’s right, lads and ladies…we road-tripped it to Six Flags.
And it was FUN. It was so fun in fact that I started feeling apprehensive about it; I wandered about Texas with some of my New Favorite People on Earth, smiling and laughing but always looking over my shoulder for the BOOM that was bound to drop. There comes a point when a person feels too old to have ridiculous amounts of fun without cost, and I reached that point on my 25th birthday. Yes, it is sad.
(But I was RIGHT; there was a cost, and I’ll explain said cost and my subsequent belief in a celestial-directed system of balance in a hot minute.)
The first leg of our trip was cost-free; we ate terribly unhealthy food, laid by the pool, ate some more food, talked, laughed, wrassled (just enough to prove I am SWOLL), and had a generally kickass good time. But little did I know I’d soon pay for those carefree moments of bliss.
Day 2. My apprehension began quite promptly upon our arrival at Six Flags. Riding on an endorphin rush from my AM workout (I am a badass fitness guru now, so WATCH YOUR BACKS), I trotted in the gates of Rollercoaster Rapture with my head high and my sarcasm in overdrive. If you know me at all you know I can be a bit flippant at times, and on this particular occasion the combination of personalities and theme park goodness had me at my back-talking best. So we walk in the gates, Twiggy FLIPS HER SH*T upon being approached by that scary-ass old man in all the Six Flags ads, I make hella fun of her (as do all my comrades), and we embark towards our first ride of the day. I am bullying with the best of them, and all is well.
Then, in a spur of the moment decision the group opts to go on the age-old ship ride. All agree it’s a little lame, but we are SO FLIPPIN EXCITED to start our day of screaming and it’s the nearest thing to us. So we pile in, I’m still wisecracking Twiggy for being a sissy pansy, and I start to feel as if this day is going to be the most awesome day…ever.
And then the Six Flags bastards come to strap me in.
At first I’m okay. Three (THREE) immobilization contraptions seems a little excessive for the effing ship ride, but safety first and all of that. I’m chillax. Then the not-so-enthusiastic Six Flags employee says “ahoy matey” (or something else entirely as I was by then starting to focus on steady respirations), and the over-the-head immobilization contraption- the one that strikes fear in the hearts of claustrophobics around the world- tightens. And it tightens A LOT. Boobs, ribs, lungs and all are crushed…Twiggy turns to me and says with mild concern, “I can’t breathe…can you?” And come to think of it, no I cannot.
And then I PANIC.
This was a low point in my life for two specific reasons. First, I had up to that moment led my Six Flags fellows to believe me quite tough and brave. Hence, when a terrific wailing emanated from within my very core on the ship ride I inadvertently admitted to them that I’m full of chit. And second, I’d also led myself to believe me quite tough and brave. Yes I’m afraid of heights, and yes I have some claustrophobic tendencies, but those bits of baggage had never hindered my awesomeness before and I thought surely, surely that wouldn’t change simply because I’m now an old maid.
But alas, I was very wrong.
So the ride starts, and at first my comrades think I’m just being comical. “Oh look at Frankie, she’s convulsing and turning purple. Such a kidder, that one!” But as the torture persists and the damn ship turns UPSIDE DOWN (ships do not go upside down where I’m from; Six Flags is full of dirty tricks and lies), my hysteria builds and those around me start to realize that wait…she really is having a conniption fit.
Lucky for her Mammy is laughing her head off, 3 seats away and entirely unaware of my condition. But dear Forrest is close by, and he has that 6th Big Brotherly sense that tells him when women are FUH-REAKING out. (I think it’s an evolutionary response to PMS…some men get a WARNING! WARNING! message when females are going off their rockers.) So Forrest starts talking to me. He says “close your eyes, Frankie. You’re okay…it’ll be over soon,” and I say “OMYGAWD OMYGAWD I’MGOINGTODIE OHSH*T OHSH*T!” (That is a direct quote.) Then Twiggy says “SERIOUSLY GUYS I CAN’T BREATHE,” and that freaks me out even more so I just start yelling swear words. Which, by the by, can get you evicted from Six Flags…future note to self.
But I didn’t get evicted, and I didn’t die either.
So we get off the ride, my legs are visibly shaking, I tell the group I’m juuuust a smidge freaked out, nobody believes or cares and onward we proceed. The next ride furthers my panic attack; the rollercoaster itself isn’t so bad, but Twiggy precedes our departure with a cute lil story about a girl who GOT HER FEET CHOPPED OFF by a Six Flags ride. (And it’s true, see?) So the entire time I’m on this Tony Hawk WTF ride I’m thinking of all the manners in which it could amputate my feet. If our cart derails, if that cable breaks, if my safety-harness snaps…I mean, you’d be surprised how many ways one can be de-limbed on any given theme park ride.
The coaster ends, I peel my eyes open (incidentally I never opened my eyes on a single ride, all day long), Twiggy says “oh Frankie, you look like you’re about to cry,” and I laugh in a way to conceal the fact that actually, I already am. (Just a little though…I’m still tougher and braver than your average Jane.)
At this point I’m on the verge of stroke or seizure. But though I’m indeed appalled by the scores of rides I now have to endure through newly developed phobias, I’m even more appalled by my apparent sissy-pansiness. I mean, what self-respecting twenty-something is scared of Six Flags? What could possibly be left to live for if I’m THAT much of a wet blanket? So as we trod onward, a bit less spring in our steps as I’m now glowering at my feet and talking minimally, I make a pact with myself and with God. I absolutely AM NOT a sissy. AM. NOT. That is not my MO and never will be, and if I have to ride every effing rollercoaster in the park I’M GOING TO GET OVER THIS. I will not be defeated. Not by Six Flags, not by anybody. Damn. Straight.
All this mental bullying commenced whilst Mammy and Twiggy rode Mr. Freeze. Forrest and I opted out (which was okay as my pact had not yet begun)- him because he was sick and me because helllllstotheno, that ride wasn’t going to help ease my mania. I felt alright about peacing out on that one; I remembered some distant memory of it breaking and people falling and bleeding and dying and such, plus I just don’t voluntarily get on vehicles that shoot STRAIGHT up in the air. Not gonna do it, wouldn’t be prudent. But after Mam and Twigs emerged, cackling and windswept but otherwise unharmed, I made my silent oath to ride any and everything they rode from that point forward.
I am such a freaking idiot.
First we hopped on the Batman ride, as it so conveniently neighbors the Mr. Freeze, and that singlehandedly almost made me break a promise to Our Heavenly Lord. In case you didn’t know, the Batman ride makes your feet dangle. So what was I thinking the entire time I spent on it? “OH DEAR SWEET JESUS JUST DON’T LET IT CHOP OFF MY FEET.” So yeah…that was fun.
Then we headed for the Texas Giant. And let me just say this: if you have any, any tatas of which to speak, DO NOT RIDE THE TEXAS GIANT. Though not typically one to grope myself in public, I was crossed-arms-hand-cupping both sistas by demonic drop #1.5 of that thing. (Mammy was too, although her hand-cuppage runneth over more than mine.) It was brutal; not the least bit fun, and not even scary as I was more concerned about developing Amazonian boobs than I was about dying.
After that we went on some less physically damaging rides…Mams and I were still pissed off at the Giant, and poor Forrest’s face was an increasingly ominous shade of green. But after our break (which included a lunch of greasy cheesy bread…brilliant), we set off for the eminent dropping BOOM of which I spoke earlier: 25 and ½ stories of pure steal wickedness, featuring “one of the world’s mightiest drops at hyper-speeds of 85 miles an hour.”
In layman’s terms, we were headed for The Titan.
I can’t speak in too much detail about this one, as I may or may not have lost consciousness at least twice whilst on it. But I do know I thought, whole-heartedly and quite literally, that I was going to die before getting off that cursed device. As the rollercoaster climbed it’s 7 bajillion stories I started choking on panic-spit again, and just as we reached the top Mammy started wailing, “OH GAWD…OH LORD OH GAWD OH GAWD HELP US JESUS!” So I screamed at her to SHUT THE HELL UP…she was the bravest one among us and her terror was only escalating mine. Then I felt the coaster level, and then I felt it drop…and the next thing I remember I was clammering off of the ride with reeeediculous hair and a bruise on my arm that made me look like a battered girlfriend. For a while I had no idea what caused it, until I recalled holding Mam’s hand on The Titan’s initial decent. I refused to let go of it at first…and then I couldn’t let go of it, as the coaster had by then reached light-speed. Hence, my arm got smashed into my immobilization contraption.
The rest of the day was gloriously uneventful; having mastered all of the most horrendous thrill rides at Six Flags, we dawdled about until twilight and then set off for the hotel. Everyone piled into Twig’s and my room that evening to watch “the game” (don’t ask what game because to hell if I know), and I’m told I fell asleep almost instantaneously and began muttering about like a fevered 4-year-old. I don’t think I believe it (though I also don’t remember any of the aforementioned game. Not even sure if it was baseball or basketball...hmm).
But it goes unsaid that the cockiness I boasted upon entering Six Flags was absolutely nonexistent by the car ride home. And here, I guess, is the type of instance in which I do believe in that karma crap; The day before had been simply fabulous and I was being a pain in the ass to boot, so it only goes to reason that I was going to get mine. When, I ask you, will I ever learn?
And though I mastered the thrill-ride threat that day, I have a sneaking suspicion my time as a daredevil is through. I just like my feet too damn much to continue testing fate much longer. Le sigh.
However. If you’re planning an upcoming trip to Six Flags and were wondering if I’d like to join, don’t count me out just yet. Let me know the time and place, and I’ll be there. I’ll be there with freaking bells on, I say! I’ll do the car ride, stay in the hotel, wander through Six Flags and arrive at The Titan. Then we’ll all look up, you’ll say “mother of God this is going to be FUN,” I’ll smile knowingly back…
And then I’ll hold your purses, because LIKE HELL I’m ever getting on that thing again.
Much love.
Showing posts with label hot librarians. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hot librarians. Show all posts
Monday, June 1, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
Not all who wander are aimless
When I was a minor and thus still under the organizational genius of my type-A mom, I was made to sort through each year’s worth of homework and mementos for future keepsake purposes. At the end of every school year I’d experience a mixture of joy and dread; joy for the upcoming freedom and swimming pools and late-sleeping provided by the structure of summer vacation, and dread for two very memorable reasons:
1. Impending summer homework (as generated by my mom’s aforementioned organizational genius)
2. Categorizing my mounds o’ crap into an easily filed folder of the most meaningful assignments of the year
I hated it…hated having to sort through page after page of Geometry homework and sight-reading practice sheets and color-coded maps of America and what have you. Sister and I would sit down together and proceed with our sifting, and absolutely every year she finished first; partly because she saw it as a friendly competition that she WOULD NOT STAND TO LOSE, and partly because I’d get so distracted reminiscing that I’d become sidetracked and forget my objective entirely. Ahh, ADD.
But. I am now thankful for my 14-color-coordinated folders (one for each year from preschool through 12th grade). My mother’s meticulous foresight has provided hours of nostalgic remembering, and yesterday provided one such incident of looking-back. Instead of writing my 20 page literature review or searching for summer employment or seeking more freelance work, I chose to go through my Complete Education History: Abridged. The ADD of my childhood follows me still (and also does the laziness).
So I started with my countless craft projects from Peace Lutheran Preschool; there were finger-paintings and construction paper cutouts, but most of all there were drawings. I loved to draw from the first moment I held a pencil (left-handed, of course), and I still find myself doodling when I should probably be paying attention in class. The creative mind must not be stifled. My parents love to recount the day I drew every scene of The Nutcracker from memory, and in my preschool folder I found the infamous collection of sketches. I was 4 years old at the time (and quite a bit awesome, I might add).
Then I filtered through 1st grade, and found a letter from my teacher saying that I was an excellent writer. 6 years old and already a master of the written word…my school folders were proving to be an unexpected and welcome ego-boost.
I went all the way through high school, which helped replant my feet firmly upon the ground…I knew I was obsessed with *Nsync in the 9th grade, but I’d chosen to forget that I signed all of my assignments as “Frankie Timberlake.” I am dead serious. I’d also chosen to forget that my vocabulary sentences revolved entirely around *Nsync members. Example:
“Joey hoped a friendly smile and wave would help appease his adoring fans.”
SICK.
One such assignment (which also included a darling little sketch of Justin with an unidentified blond girl (what do you wanna bet it was Frankie Timberlake?)), was graded with a 95% and an “ugg!”. Dear Mrs. Spain had written “ugg!” next to my drawing…not because it was bad necessarily, but because beneath it I’d also written “Justin is my baby!!!!!” I kid you not. 11 years have passed since my wayward years as a teenybopper, and yet I still felt mortified upon seeing that.
But by far and without a doubt the most appalling part of my walk down Memory Lane came in my 4th grade folder. On a poorly folded piece of notebook paper (as I was never one of those girls who could fold paper into a triangle or a bird or the Taj Mahal), was a list:
10 things I want to do before I’m 20
I was immediately enticed. What could my 10-year-old self have dreamed for my future? What great goals of grandeur did I wish to attain? I anxiously read through the list, mentally patting myself on the back upon each aspiration achieved. Go to college…check. Get a puppy…check. Go to high school……they were a little out of order, but check! I was 10 for God’s sake; when you’re 10 college can come before high school. The only goal I didn’t meet was to become a professional dancer, which I discovered at age 14 was not something I really wanted to do. Socializing, having functional toes, and eating were far too important to me. But then, just as I was feeling good about my life’s achievements as of age 20, I got to number 8…and I stopped.
Because the list stopped.
I made a list entitled “10 things I want to do before I’m 20”…and I stopped at number 8.
At first I just laughed, because it is so very like me to get distracted and quit mid-project. I can’t tell you how many short stories I found yesterday that ended suspensefully with “and then,” a doodle of a butterfly, and several pieces of blank paper. Following through was never my style. But as I let myself ponder the list and my mindset as a 4th grader, and as I took note of the carefully written “9.” and “10.” that had no Life Dreams to accompany them, I came to a very real, and very depressing, understanding.
I was born without the motivation gene.
My whole life I’ve felt a little without. People all about me seemed to be chasing fantastic dreams - dream jobs, dream houses, dream cars - while I plodded along, happily but carelessly with my head permanently stuck in the clouds. I had aspirations, sure…but the central theme to my aspirations was that they changed. A lot. The only reason I stayed in Oklahoma for college was that I simply couldn’t make up my mind; one day I wanted to go to New York and study fashion design, the next I decided to head to Stilly for Vet school (until I realized Vet school required loads of math, and then it was promptly back to fashion). And as the years have progressed and my search for a Life Passion has improved with no statistical significance, I’ve really started to wonder if I’m destined to be a wanderer. A flake. A lost soul.
Then I found my list of 10 things I want to do before I’m 20, and I’d only filled out 8. And yeah…that pretty much sealed the deal on that whole debacle.
It seems I’m never going to be chasing the dream, as it’s hard to chase something you cannot see. Where’er I am, I’m this much happy and that much looking for bigger and better things. True, I go through better times and worse times, but I’ve never felt like I reached a pinnacle and could thus sit back and congratulate my awesomeness. Maybe it’s because I’m still young…or maybe it’s because my life isn’t defined by achievements.
But then, what is it defined by?
I think I was born in the wrong generation. I’m sure you’ve felt that way at times too; everyone learns about a certain period in history and thinks “damn, I would’ve made a fabulous Viking.” But it’s more than that for me; the ideology of 2009 just doesn’t fit my genetic make-up. I should’ve been a hippie, I tell you. I could’ve been happy protesting Nam and reciting poetry in the back of somebody’s VW (plus, I can rock bell-bottoms with the best of them).
Sister is well made for modern-day. She’s the perfect blend of nurturer and career-woman; she’ll dote on you and hold you when you cry, but if you go up against her for a job she will absolutely kick your ass. Yes, Sister will do fine in this new millennium. She’ll have a PhD, 2.5 kids, far more stress than she can handle and a house on the good side of the tracks. But as for me, I’m afraid I’ll always be one of those people who doesn’t quite fit. Others will look at me and think, “huh…such potential, and yet she remains a drifter. Tut tut.”
(We should all really start tut tutting again.)
I suppose I’ll stick with the old adage that my existence is not defined by the acquiring of tangible things. I will not be pacified by a house on Newport Beach or a Mercedes McLaren (although GOOD GOD I’d love to have one of those). No…my life - the life of a drifter, apparently - is about self-improvement, growth, learning, and a constant effort not to be a prat to those who love and care for me. And who knows; maybe someday I’ll discover a hidden dream that the gods of motivation have been leading me towards all along.
But until then I’m going to focus on the present. My newest goal (which is infinitesimal when compared to Aubrey’s goal of becoming a novelist or Chris’s goal of going to Dental school) is to get a dog. In a year, I’ll have a master’s degree and will be a far more matured and responsible person (and if you laugh I will cut you). So, my reward to myself will be a dog to call my own: a companion that will love and adore me and think me a god among men, simply because he won’t know any better. This plan is indeed flawless.
And, I’ve even decided upon a breed! I want a Bernese Mountain Dog. A Bernese Mountain Dog named Bernard. Yes, it is decided. It’s a small step, but for a dithering flake with little ambition and diagnosable ADD, it’s a start.
In one year, I will achieve my newest life goal: I will get a Bernese Mountain Dog named Bernard.
(….or maybe a German Shepherd named Lupin.)
DAMMIT.
Much love.
1. Impending summer homework (as generated by my mom’s aforementioned organizational genius)
2. Categorizing my mounds o’ crap into an easily filed folder of the most meaningful assignments of the year
I hated it…hated having to sort through page after page of Geometry homework and sight-reading practice sheets and color-coded maps of America and what have you. Sister and I would sit down together and proceed with our sifting, and absolutely every year she finished first; partly because she saw it as a friendly competition that she WOULD NOT STAND TO LOSE, and partly because I’d get so distracted reminiscing that I’d become sidetracked and forget my objective entirely. Ahh, ADD.
But. I am now thankful for my 14-color-coordinated folders (one for each year from preschool through 12th grade). My mother’s meticulous foresight has provided hours of nostalgic remembering, and yesterday provided one such incident of looking-back. Instead of writing my 20 page literature review or searching for summer employment or seeking more freelance work, I chose to go through my Complete Education History: Abridged. The ADD of my childhood follows me still (and also does the laziness).
So I started with my countless craft projects from Peace Lutheran Preschool; there were finger-paintings and construction paper cutouts, but most of all there were drawings. I loved to draw from the first moment I held a pencil (left-handed, of course), and I still find myself doodling when I should probably be paying attention in class. The creative mind must not be stifled. My parents love to recount the day I drew every scene of The Nutcracker from memory, and in my preschool folder I found the infamous collection of sketches. I was 4 years old at the time (and quite a bit awesome, I might add).
Then I filtered through 1st grade, and found a letter from my teacher saying that I was an excellent writer. 6 years old and already a master of the written word…my school folders were proving to be an unexpected and welcome ego-boost.
I went all the way through high school, which helped replant my feet firmly upon the ground…I knew I was obsessed with *Nsync in the 9th grade, but I’d chosen to forget that I signed all of my assignments as “Frankie Timberlake.” I am dead serious. I’d also chosen to forget that my vocabulary sentences revolved entirely around *Nsync members. Example:
“Joey hoped a friendly smile and wave would help appease his adoring fans.”
SICK.
One such assignment (which also included a darling little sketch of Justin with an unidentified blond girl (what do you wanna bet it was Frankie Timberlake?)), was graded with a 95% and an “ugg!”. Dear Mrs. Spain had written “ugg!” next to my drawing…not because it was bad necessarily, but because beneath it I’d also written “Justin is my baby!!!!!” I kid you not. 11 years have passed since my wayward years as a teenybopper, and yet I still felt mortified upon seeing that.
But by far and without a doubt the most appalling part of my walk down Memory Lane came in my 4th grade folder. On a poorly folded piece of notebook paper (as I was never one of those girls who could fold paper into a triangle or a bird or the Taj Mahal), was a list:
10 things I want to do before I’m 20
I was immediately enticed. What could my 10-year-old self have dreamed for my future? What great goals of grandeur did I wish to attain? I anxiously read through the list, mentally patting myself on the back upon each aspiration achieved. Go to college…check. Get a puppy…check. Go to high school……they were a little out of order, but check! I was 10 for God’s sake; when you’re 10 college can come before high school. The only goal I didn’t meet was to become a professional dancer, which I discovered at age 14 was not something I really wanted to do. Socializing, having functional toes, and eating were far too important to me. But then, just as I was feeling good about my life’s achievements as of age 20, I got to number 8…and I stopped.
Because the list stopped.
I made a list entitled “10 things I want to do before I’m 20”…and I stopped at number 8.
At first I just laughed, because it is so very like me to get distracted and quit mid-project. I can’t tell you how many short stories I found yesterday that ended suspensefully with “and then,” a doodle of a butterfly, and several pieces of blank paper. Following through was never my style. But as I let myself ponder the list and my mindset as a 4th grader, and as I took note of the carefully written “9.” and “10.” that had no Life Dreams to accompany them, I came to a very real, and very depressing, understanding.
I was born without the motivation gene.
My whole life I’ve felt a little without. People all about me seemed to be chasing fantastic dreams - dream jobs, dream houses, dream cars - while I plodded along, happily but carelessly with my head permanently stuck in the clouds. I had aspirations, sure…but the central theme to my aspirations was that they changed. A lot. The only reason I stayed in Oklahoma for college was that I simply couldn’t make up my mind; one day I wanted to go to New York and study fashion design, the next I decided to head to Stilly for Vet school (until I realized Vet school required loads of math, and then it was promptly back to fashion). And as the years have progressed and my search for a Life Passion has improved with no statistical significance, I’ve really started to wonder if I’m destined to be a wanderer. A flake. A lost soul.
Then I found my list of 10 things I want to do before I’m 20, and I’d only filled out 8. And yeah…that pretty much sealed the deal on that whole debacle.
It seems I’m never going to be chasing the dream, as it’s hard to chase something you cannot see. Where’er I am, I’m this much happy and that much looking for bigger and better things. True, I go through better times and worse times, but I’ve never felt like I reached a pinnacle and could thus sit back and congratulate my awesomeness. Maybe it’s because I’m still young…or maybe it’s because my life isn’t defined by achievements.
But then, what is it defined by?
I think I was born in the wrong generation. I’m sure you’ve felt that way at times too; everyone learns about a certain period in history and thinks “damn, I would’ve made a fabulous Viking.” But it’s more than that for me; the ideology of 2009 just doesn’t fit my genetic make-up. I should’ve been a hippie, I tell you. I could’ve been happy protesting Nam and reciting poetry in the back of somebody’s VW (plus, I can rock bell-bottoms with the best of them).
Sister is well made for modern-day. She’s the perfect blend of nurturer and career-woman; she’ll dote on you and hold you when you cry, but if you go up against her for a job she will absolutely kick your ass. Yes, Sister will do fine in this new millennium. She’ll have a PhD, 2.5 kids, far more stress than she can handle and a house on the good side of the tracks. But as for me, I’m afraid I’ll always be one of those people who doesn’t quite fit. Others will look at me and think, “huh…such potential, and yet she remains a drifter. Tut tut.”
(We should all really start tut tutting again.)
I suppose I’ll stick with the old adage that my existence is not defined by the acquiring of tangible things. I will not be pacified by a house on Newport Beach or a Mercedes McLaren (although GOOD GOD I’d love to have one of those). No…my life - the life of a drifter, apparently - is about self-improvement, growth, learning, and a constant effort not to be a prat to those who love and care for me. And who knows; maybe someday I’ll discover a hidden dream that the gods of motivation have been leading me towards all along.
But until then I’m going to focus on the present. My newest goal (which is infinitesimal when compared to Aubrey’s goal of becoming a novelist or Chris’s goal of going to Dental school) is to get a dog. In a year, I’ll have a master’s degree and will be a far more matured and responsible person (and if you laugh I will cut you). So, my reward to myself will be a dog to call my own: a companion that will love and adore me and think me a god among men, simply because he won’t know any better. This plan is indeed flawless.
And, I’ve even decided upon a breed! I want a Bernese Mountain Dog. A Bernese Mountain Dog named Bernard. Yes, it is decided. It’s a small step, but for a dithering flake with little ambition and diagnosable ADD, it’s a start.
In one year, I will achieve my newest life goal: I will get a Bernese Mountain Dog named Bernard.
(….or maybe a German Shepherd named Lupin.)
DAMMIT.
Much love.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Stupidity: the new little black dress?
So I’m sitting in the library, talking Muse and Mormonism with my friend Chris, when in walks a sorority debutant princess and her friend the frat boy. They seem to be headed my direction, and I know immediately what they want: laptops. (The guy has been in before and wants nothing to do with books, research or the like, and the girl is giggling so manically that I’m pretty sure reading is not yet a skill she’s mastered.) So I begrudgingly withdraw from my conversation and smile politely-if-not-warmly at them. And the girl, idly twisting her meticulously straightened hair through her recently manicured fingers, opens her eyes scary-wide and says to Frat Boy Friend (even though I’m sitting RIGHT THERE),
“Omigaw, wait…I dunno what to do.”
“What?” he says, confused. I’m confused too. All she needs to do is ask me for a laptop…there’s not a secret handshake or anything.
“I dunno what to do; I’ve never done this before. Do I just, like….ask for one?”
(Sweet mother of God.)
Frat Boy Friend laughs, and says “yeah, you just ask.” And Sorority Sister giggles, and asks me sweetly if she can um, have a laptop maybe? Please?
So I give her a laptop (and one of my token “oh child I pity you” looks), and send her on her way. And as she turns her doe-like expression back to Frat Boy Friend, I hear her say, “So wait, can you help me? Cuz I dunno how to get on D2L."
Let me explain something to those of you not in the know. D2L is OU’s website for All Things School: grades, assignments, syllabi, announcements, course requirements…if you want to have the slightest prayer of passing a class, you have to use D2L. So when I hear Sorority Sister say she doesn’t know how to get on it, I’m understandably taken aback.
Then Frat Boy Friend, who is smiling at her like one might a slightly retarded puppy, says, “but you’re a senior. How can you not know how to get on D2L?”
She giggles and giggles (and giggles), and I ogle them both in sheer wonderment of how she could possibly be a SENIOR without ever having used D2L. How is it feasible? How can this be? And then, as she bats her pretty eyelashes and makes her way across the library with Frat Boy Friend, it hits me:
She’s faking it.
No one is that stupid, and no one could pass 3.5 years at OU without using D2L. It just can’t be done. A few minutes later she waltzed up to me (alone this time) and asked with confidence and far less sweetness to use the Marketer’s Guide to Media. And as I handed her the book she looked at me intensely, not a glimmer of the Dumb Donna left in her eyes, and said “will the ID I gave you for the laptop suffice for this too?” !!! She was faking it! This was a smart girl, playing the part of Stupid Sorority Sister.
But why?
When I was 19 I brought home my latest Epic Fail in dating: an ex-crackhead with a taste for speeding tickets and marijuana (though I didn’t know that at the time). Despite his questionable past and his even more questionable upbringing (his father used to fight pit bulls…oh PS, that’s a FELONY), my biggest concern about introducing him to my family was this:
He was not the sharpest crayon in the box.
At one point during the evening he managed to interject “I got a 20 on the ACT” into our dinner conversation. My highly achieved parents and my 34-ACT-sister kindly showed no reaction, but I was simply mortified. I remember blurting out “I thought you got a 22!” (yes…because that’ll make it better), and my ex-crackhead boyfriend just laughed and said maybe, but that he didn’t remember.
Didn’t remember…and didn’t care.
That’s when I knew I had to break up with him. Not when he got his 17th speeding ticket (but it was the police’s fault, you know…the bastards) or when he made me pay EVERY TIME we went out or when he smelled suspiciously of pot and refused to let me see in a certain closet of his house…when he said carelessly that he got a 20 on the ACT, I knew we were through.
And here, finally, is my point: stupidity is not an attractive quality to me. In fact, it’s a deal-breaker. So why then was this girl so carefully portraying a dumb blond persona, seemingly to attract a mate?
In this world of Equality Now and women’s rights and female presidential candidates, I always assumed girls no longer felt the need to be vacuous of brain function. I was raised believing I had the ability (and the responsibility) to do whatever I wanted in life, and it never crossed my mind that others might think intelligence was less than virtuous when paired with tatas and vajayjays. But now, after a year in Sorority Debutant Princess Land, I’m starting to wonder if we’ve come a long way, baby, after all.
Every single day I encounter beautiful girls with vacant expressions. I kid you not, Stepford Wives could’ve been filmed on campus corner. These chicks have perfect hair, perfect clothes, perfect teeth, and men on their arms; the only thing missing is the ability to add 2 and 2. And as I near my master’s degree and witness the increasingly small pool of People Like Me, I can’t help but wonder if the two aren’t intrinsically related. And if this is true…if getting smarter means distancing ourselves from companionship and romance and happily ever after…is it all really worth it?
Female intelligence: friend or foe?
For better or worse I think it’s too late for me to reconsider life as a Valley Girl. I’ve been in school too long and know too many big words to ever pass as a harmless Southern Belle, and with my proficiency for sarcastic wit few would believe I’m a damsel who needs a Big Strong Man to show me how to check out a laptop. That’s not to say I’m brilliant; the past two weeks I lived woefully without television simply because my cable box was turned off. That a genius does not make. But I can’t play stupid. I can’t toss my hair and smack my gum to make a man want to take care of me…and I don’t think I should have to.
Maybe it’s because I’m in the Bible belt. Maybe Oklahoma is still so ass-backwards that we need our men to be men and our women to be non-threatening, and maybe I’ll just have to deal with it until I can move away from the Land of the Lobotomies. But until then I have to stand for what I believe in, and I believe in girls who can cross the street in their Dior pumps alone.
So to my fellow females I make this plea: never hide your Smart Lamp under a bushel. Never feel embarrassed for having a brain, and never believe intelligence to be a masculine trait. I promise you it’s not (as evidenced by my aforementioned former boyfriend). If a man is threatened by your intellect, then he’s not a man worth having. You can do better (and probably smarter) than that, so just give him your copy of the Wall Street Journal and move along.
And to you men out there: I challenge you to value women who can read and write and do ‘rithmetic (or at least 2 out of 3, as we writers don’t do math). I challenge you to seek smarts and not to be intimidated by girls who know their sh*t. I challenge you to be MEN and to suck it up and stop being scurred by women of substance. I challenge you, kind sirs, to grow a pair.
Girls are smart. Boys are smart. It’s all relative, and it’s all irrelevant. What matters is what we value in each other, so we need to up and realize that intelligence is redeeming for all.
But alas I’m in the Sooner State, where a smart woman is still just as terrifying as a gay minister or black president. So until I escape (or until Oklahoma yanks itself out of the Dark Ages), I suppose I’ll go it alone.
For they say no man is an island…but the good Lord knows I ain’t no man.
Much love.
“Omigaw, wait…I dunno what to do.”
“What?” he says, confused. I’m confused too. All she needs to do is ask me for a laptop…there’s not a secret handshake or anything.
“I dunno what to do; I’ve never done this before. Do I just, like….ask for one?”
(Sweet mother of God.)
Frat Boy Friend laughs, and says “yeah, you just ask.” And Sorority Sister giggles, and asks me sweetly if she can um, have a laptop maybe? Please?
So I give her a laptop (and one of my token “oh child I pity you” looks), and send her on her way. And as she turns her doe-like expression back to Frat Boy Friend, I hear her say, “So wait, can you help me? Cuz I dunno how to get on D2L."
Let me explain something to those of you not in the know. D2L is OU’s website for All Things School: grades, assignments, syllabi, announcements, course requirements…if you want to have the slightest prayer of passing a class, you have to use D2L. So when I hear Sorority Sister say she doesn’t know how to get on it, I’m understandably taken aback.
Then Frat Boy Friend, who is smiling at her like one might a slightly retarded puppy, says, “but you’re a senior. How can you not know how to get on D2L?”
She giggles and giggles (and giggles), and I ogle them both in sheer wonderment of how she could possibly be a SENIOR without ever having used D2L. How is it feasible? How can this be? And then, as she bats her pretty eyelashes and makes her way across the library with Frat Boy Friend, it hits me:
She’s faking it.
No one is that stupid, and no one could pass 3.5 years at OU without using D2L. It just can’t be done. A few minutes later she waltzed up to me (alone this time) and asked with confidence and far less sweetness to use the Marketer’s Guide to Media. And as I handed her the book she looked at me intensely, not a glimmer of the Dumb Donna left in her eyes, and said “will the ID I gave you for the laptop suffice for this too?” !!! She was faking it! This was a smart girl, playing the part of Stupid Sorority Sister.
But why?
When I was 19 I brought home my latest Epic Fail in dating: an ex-crackhead with a taste for speeding tickets and marijuana (though I didn’t know that at the time). Despite his questionable past and his even more questionable upbringing (his father used to fight pit bulls…oh PS, that’s a FELONY), my biggest concern about introducing him to my family was this:
He was not the sharpest crayon in the box.
At one point during the evening he managed to interject “I got a 20 on the ACT” into our dinner conversation. My highly achieved parents and my 34-ACT-sister kindly showed no reaction, but I was simply mortified. I remember blurting out “I thought you got a 22!” (yes…because that’ll make it better), and my ex-crackhead boyfriend just laughed and said maybe, but that he didn’t remember.
Didn’t remember…and didn’t care.
That’s when I knew I had to break up with him. Not when he got his 17th speeding ticket (but it was the police’s fault, you know…the bastards) or when he made me pay EVERY TIME we went out or when he smelled suspiciously of pot and refused to let me see in a certain closet of his house…when he said carelessly that he got a 20 on the ACT, I knew we were through.
And here, finally, is my point: stupidity is not an attractive quality to me. In fact, it’s a deal-breaker. So why then was this girl so carefully portraying a dumb blond persona, seemingly to attract a mate?
In this world of Equality Now and women’s rights and female presidential candidates, I always assumed girls no longer felt the need to be vacuous of brain function. I was raised believing I had the ability (and the responsibility) to do whatever I wanted in life, and it never crossed my mind that others might think intelligence was less than virtuous when paired with tatas and vajayjays. But now, after a year in Sorority Debutant Princess Land, I’m starting to wonder if we’ve come a long way, baby, after all.
Every single day I encounter beautiful girls with vacant expressions. I kid you not, Stepford Wives could’ve been filmed on campus corner. These chicks have perfect hair, perfect clothes, perfect teeth, and men on their arms; the only thing missing is the ability to add 2 and 2. And as I near my master’s degree and witness the increasingly small pool of People Like Me, I can’t help but wonder if the two aren’t intrinsically related. And if this is true…if getting smarter means distancing ourselves from companionship and romance and happily ever after…is it all really worth it?
Female intelligence: friend or foe?
For better or worse I think it’s too late for me to reconsider life as a Valley Girl. I’ve been in school too long and know too many big words to ever pass as a harmless Southern Belle, and with my proficiency for sarcastic wit few would believe I’m a damsel who needs a Big Strong Man to show me how to check out a laptop. That’s not to say I’m brilliant; the past two weeks I lived woefully without television simply because my cable box was turned off. That a genius does not make. But I can’t play stupid. I can’t toss my hair and smack my gum to make a man want to take care of me…and I don’t think I should have to.
Maybe it’s because I’m in the Bible belt. Maybe Oklahoma is still so ass-backwards that we need our men to be men and our women to be non-threatening, and maybe I’ll just have to deal with it until I can move away from the Land of the Lobotomies. But until then I have to stand for what I believe in, and I believe in girls who can cross the street in their Dior pumps alone.
So to my fellow females I make this plea: never hide your Smart Lamp under a bushel. Never feel embarrassed for having a brain, and never believe intelligence to be a masculine trait. I promise you it’s not (as evidenced by my aforementioned former boyfriend). If a man is threatened by your intellect, then he’s not a man worth having. You can do better (and probably smarter) than that, so just give him your copy of the Wall Street Journal and move along.
And to you men out there: I challenge you to value women who can read and write and do ‘rithmetic (or at least 2 out of 3, as we writers don’t do math). I challenge you to seek smarts and not to be intimidated by girls who know their sh*t. I challenge you to be MEN and to suck it up and stop being scurred by women of substance. I challenge you, kind sirs, to grow a pair.
Girls are smart. Boys are smart. It’s all relative, and it’s all irrelevant. What matters is what we value in each other, so we need to up and realize that intelligence is redeeming for all.
But alas I’m in the Sooner State, where a smart woman is still just as terrifying as a gay minister or black president. So until I escape (or until Oklahoma yanks itself out of the Dark Ages), I suppose I’ll go it alone.
For they say no man is an island…but the good Lord knows I ain’t no man.
Much love.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Demonic Day of Doom
Firstly, I’d like to say how thrilled and indeed blessed I feel to be here today, with you people, on planet Earth. For it is no exaggeration to declare that I very nearly died last week.
Not because of a failed attempt at jaywalking or because I ODed on Nyquil (which I swear I’ve almost done before), but because I quite nearly had a complete meltdown: an emotional, psychological, mental, physical, Total System Failure.
April 1: Day of foolery for most, and Sister’s birthday to my Beloveds and me. [Momentary aside: the morning started off a little rocky as I signed onto Facebook (damn you, Stalking Machine), and found that my then-dating-partner was in cahoots with…well I’ll just say it…America’s Next Top Model. Now, in my defense I’m not usually the jealous type. But things between Manfriend and I had been damn confusing for a hot minute anyway, and at 8 in the morning my judgment is generally skewed. My logical brain immediately spoke up with a resounding “be cool, bitch…be cool,” but my illogical brain (which is far louder and more outspoken) began hollering “does he like her?? Will they date?? ARE THEY GETTING MARRIED??! WILL THEY HAVE BABIES???!” What can I say; I’m blessed with an active imagination.]
Lucky for me I had bigger fish to fry that day, and so I powered through and pushed past my suspicions that my dating partner was betrothed to a younger Giselle Bundchen. (Let posterity note that the aforementioned manfriend and I are no longer dating. WAH wah. Relationships are fun, no?)
But the real issue at hand, the true ticker that was causing me ulcers and clammy palms and blurred vision and impaired driving, was one I had been anticipating since the start of this semester. For April 1 was my personal day of reckoning. My day in Satan’s grasp…my day of 1.5 hours of public speaking.
I hate public speaking.
HATE. IT.
If you know me well, you probably know that I’m not a fan of talking in front of large groups of people. If you know me very well, you know I’ve loathed presentations since age 4 (when I had to be bribed with popsicles to be in my preschool play), and that I avoid such scenarios like an outbreak of Ebola or the Bubonic Plague.
So needless to say, the day was doomed from 12:01 AM. But God, being the kidder that He is, decided to have some fun with me…and see just how much torment I could take before losing it completely and cackling about like Archimedes from Sword in the Stone (which I’m told I did most of the day anyway…yeah thanks, Aubrey).
Total System Failure: A Synopsis and Overview
Unfortunate Incident # 1: I drive to campus at 9:45 AM, and begin my usual hunt for a parking spot. Typically I park in the garage so conveniently located across from Gaylord, but today I’m sh*t out of luck finding a free space. So I go to pursue plan B…and cannot get out of the garage. Can. NOT. Some damn Pepsi truck has lodged itself in front of the garage exit, and so I find myself trapped like an ant in an ant farm. (Remember ant farms? Those were fun…though Sister’s ants always made far more intricate tunnels than mine. I may have some unresolved issues from my childhood - but I digress.) So I sit there. And sit there. AND SIT THERE. For twenty effing minutes.
(One adverse side effect of a creative mind is that it often comes with some (to a lot) of neuroses, and I’ll admit to being no exception to that rule. So sitting in a line of jam-packed cars, surrounded by cement walls and pillars and dividers and what have you, did no good things for my claustrophobic tendencies.) So finally, finally the damn truck-driver learns how to drive, and I’m freed from my paved-coffin-of-doom.
Unfortunate Incident #2: I then begin meticulously perusing the nearest-by parking lot (and by “nearest-by” I mean it’s in BFE) for an empty space. Upon finding one I zip Little Red in, open my door with great speed (as I’m now officially late for work), and find myself in a Marilyn Monroe-esque type scenario. My lovely peasant skirt, which I’ve worn so as to feel pretty during my Presentation of Death, lifts itself as if of it’s own accord up around my ears. I’m not kidding you. And I of course have seven different bags in hand, so there’s nothing I can do but stand there and think “which pair of PINK panties am I now displaying to the entire Sooner World?”
Unfortunate Incident # 3: After realizing only a parking-meter-maid has seen my unda-carriage and I’m thus able to regain composure, I take one, maybe two steps in the direction of my destination. And trip. And fall. And this isn’t one of those, “whoops, caught my shoe a bit and now I’m just fine” moments, this is a “OH HOLY HELL I’M GOING TO SMASH MY FACE ON THE GROUND” kind of trips. But I didn’t…instead I flailed about like a drowning cat and merely slammed my torso into the rear of somebody’s (dirty) car. Of course my right boob took most of the fall. Which felt awesome. Then I hear a husky male voice not far from where I’ve landed (grasping for dear life onto the back of said car, my seven bags askew across the pavement) and I hop up to respond to what I assume to be his, “oh darling girl, are you alright?” questioning. So I turn, plaster a “damn I’m a dumbass but I’m okay” look on my face…and realize he’s not talking to me at all. He’s on the phone, and merely looks at me in a disapproving (and perhaps mocking) manner. So I’m sure my attempt at a brave-face read to him as a “hiya I’m a schizophrenic” expression. AWESOME. So I gather my things and start once more for Gaylord Hall.
Unfortunate Incident # 4: I make it all the way to Gaylord without another embarrassing moment, and I’m just about to hoister myself out of my pit of sorrow and self-loathing when I walk through the doors. And trip. AGAIN. Now mind you, I’m wearing flip-flops. Not heels; not stilettos that make one’s ankles wobble or one’s knees bow. I’m wearing the simplest of simple flip-flops, and I’ve tripped AGAIN. This time I’m in the atrium of Gaylord, which means at least 17 undergrads, 9 grad students and 4 professors have witnessed my graceless entrance. So I force a laugh (which sounds just as forced as it is) and proceed to the stairs. OF COURSE the library where I work is upstairs.
Unfortunate Incident # 5: I make it up 2 steps and see my dear friend Chris descending the stairs towards me. I smile at him, begin babbling about how sh*tty my day’s been thus far, and you guessed it…I EFFING TRIP AGAIN. I’m indeed lucky to have Chris there to catch me, as otherwise my shinbones would be irrevocably scarred from the fall. But the only thing more embarrassing than falling in front of strangers is falling in front of friends. So I mumble something about my shoe being broken or SOME nonsense, and being the gentleman that he is Chris goes to examine it. Damn thing isn’t broken (which I of course knew to begin with). I’m just a douchetard.
(It’s worth mentioning that Chris himself tripped on the exact same stair a mere hour after I did. That made me feel better…until Unfortunate Incident # 7).
Unfortunate Incident # 6: I stumble into the library, and my boss greets me with an icy “WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN” look. Deserved, I know, but it only adds to my desire to crawl into a ball on the floor and hum “Yesterday” to myself. So I grab a laptop, sign into my OU email account, and find I’ve received an ominous email entitled “Puerto Rico: An Update.”
Side Note: I have been unabashedly excited about my upcoming study-abroad trip to Puerto Rico. I never got to do an abroad program at my lame-ass undergrad school (my life is dreadfully unfair; I know), and one of my top goals for grad school was to do one through OU. So when I found this program, which would grant me 6 hours credit in Travel Writing during a two-week stint in Puerto Rico, I was ECSTATIC. Freaking blissful, I tell you.
And the email reads: We have had several people contact us regarding this trip and although the ones who have shown interest are ready to hop on the plane and start learning and writing, we haven't had enough people sign up to make the trip economically feasible. And, sadly, taking a smaller group would be cost-prohibitive for everyone. We are disappointed, as I'm sure you are.
It goes on to say that I shouldn’t fret, as they’ve already started planning another trip. For next May. WHEN I’LL HAVE GRADUATED. I sit there, staring at the computer, in absolute and complete disbelief. If I was a public-crier, I would’ve cried. Instead I did something worse; I opted to go talk with someone (anyone) about it in the Dean’s office. Which is upstairs.
Unfortunate Incident # 7: At this point I’m literally dragging my feet as I make the slow and agonizing trip towards the third-floor staircase. I run into Man Candy (one of two fellow JMC students Hot Librarian #2 and I giggle about when we’re bored at work), but all I can muster is a “hhmmello.” I begin climbing the steps, grasping tightly to the banister (as I’ve learned my lesson from falls number 1, 2 and 3). I make it juuuuust almost to the top of the stairs, let go of the banister…
AND. I. TRIP.
This time I stop. I do not laugh, hop up to regain composure, curse at my shoes, or cry (which is becoming a more realistic threat with every passing moment). This time I simply lay my forehead on the banister and breathe. Several people pass me; they look concerned, but I do not care. I’ve lost the ability to walk, my trip to Paradise Island has been canceled, and I have to give a 90 minute presentation in a matter of hours. TO HELL WITH YOU AND YOUR SEMI-CONCERNED GAWKING.
The rest of the day went without notable incident; when I finally regained the will to live and walk I proceeded to the Dean’s office and glared at his assistant Tyler for at least 9 minutes. Poor Tyler has nothing to do with the trip or its subsequent cancellation, but he was the nearest human person when I entered the room and by that point I was nigh out my mind. So I sat at his desk, told him how mad I was and how I’d tripped four times and how April 1st is the Day of Satan and his followers, and then descended (without misstep, miraculously) back to my library to endure the rest of the day.
From 6:30-8:00 (or 8:30 or 9:00 or Eternity - I lose track of time in that class), my dear partner and I spoke on globalization and its effect on gender equality. I was a little apprehensive, but mainly I was numb…the day had quite literally kicked my ass, and I was then on autopilot until I could crawl into bed and pretend none of it ever happened. At one point I snapped at my friend Alex for laughing at one of our videos; I thought I was being funny and sarcastic, but later he apologized so profusely that I realized he thought I absolutely hated him and his gender as a whole. Epic Fail on my part. After the presentation was over everyone clapped and began gathering their things to head home, and I walked up to my fellow Hot Librarian and said quite simply
“hug me.”
In front of the entire class and my professor (who was still obviously mentally deciphering my presentation grade) I asked Aubrey to hug me. And to her credit, she did…she gave me a nice big hug, and she made me laugh by referencing our v-neck shirts and how they were forcing men to stare at our tatas (it was part of the related presentation-debate…you had to be there, but be thankful you were not). But after our impromptu hugfest I realized something disconcerting: I’ve not been that emotionally drained in a very long time. When I’m at my veryveryvery wit’s end I ask random people for hugs, so that just confirmed that April 1st had waged total war on me…and quite obviously and unfortunately, it had won.
BUT. I survived. It is now a new week, I have a new Happy Flower Bracelet I bought at the Medieval Fair, I LIVED THROUGH MY PRESENTATION, and Man Candy should waltz in here any minute now to try and borrow a laptop from me (he won’t be able to do so as they’ve all been checked out for a class, but I’ve conveniently neglected to tell him that. I never said women aren’t manipulative). So I guess I should feel somewhat achieved, if for no other reason than for not letting my day of dysfunction, disappointment, and dreaded public speaking get the best of me. April 1st may have kicked my ass, but I kicked April 2nd’s ass by living to see it…and while I’m at it, I think I’ll go ahead and kick the rest of April’s ass as well.
For what’s the point of living through it if you can’t laugh at it later?
Much love.
Not because of a failed attempt at jaywalking or because I ODed on Nyquil (which I swear I’ve almost done before), but because I quite nearly had a complete meltdown: an emotional, psychological, mental, physical, Total System Failure.
April 1: Day of foolery for most, and Sister’s birthday to my Beloveds and me. [Momentary aside: the morning started off a little rocky as I signed onto Facebook (damn you, Stalking Machine), and found that my then-dating-partner was in cahoots with…well I’ll just say it…America’s Next Top Model. Now, in my defense I’m not usually the jealous type. But things between Manfriend and I had been damn confusing for a hot minute anyway, and at 8 in the morning my judgment is generally skewed. My logical brain immediately spoke up with a resounding “be cool, bitch…be cool,” but my illogical brain (which is far louder and more outspoken) began hollering “does he like her?? Will they date?? ARE THEY GETTING MARRIED??! WILL THEY HAVE BABIES???!” What can I say; I’m blessed with an active imagination.]
Lucky for me I had bigger fish to fry that day, and so I powered through and pushed past my suspicions that my dating partner was betrothed to a younger Giselle Bundchen. (Let posterity note that the aforementioned manfriend and I are no longer dating. WAH wah. Relationships are fun, no?)
But the real issue at hand, the true ticker that was causing me ulcers and clammy palms and blurred vision and impaired driving, was one I had been anticipating since the start of this semester. For April 1 was my personal day of reckoning. My day in Satan’s grasp…my day of 1.5 hours of public speaking.
I hate public speaking.
HATE. IT.
If you know me well, you probably know that I’m not a fan of talking in front of large groups of people. If you know me very well, you know I’ve loathed presentations since age 4 (when I had to be bribed with popsicles to be in my preschool play), and that I avoid such scenarios like an outbreak of Ebola or the Bubonic Plague.
So needless to say, the day was doomed from 12:01 AM. But God, being the kidder that He is, decided to have some fun with me…and see just how much torment I could take before losing it completely and cackling about like Archimedes from Sword in the Stone (which I’m told I did most of the day anyway…yeah thanks, Aubrey).
Total System Failure: A Synopsis and Overview
Unfortunate Incident # 1: I drive to campus at 9:45 AM, and begin my usual hunt for a parking spot. Typically I park in the garage so conveniently located across from Gaylord, but today I’m sh*t out of luck finding a free space. So I go to pursue plan B…and cannot get out of the garage. Can. NOT. Some damn Pepsi truck has lodged itself in front of the garage exit, and so I find myself trapped like an ant in an ant farm. (Remember ant farms? Those were fun…though Sister’s ants always made far more intricate tunnels than mine. I may have some unresolved issues from my childhood - but I digress.) So I sit there. And sit there. AND SIT THERE. For twenty effing minutes.
(One adverse side effect of a creative mind is that it often comes with some (to a lot) of neuroses, and I’ll admit to being no exception to that rule. So sitting in a line of jam-packed cars, surrounded by cement walls and pillars and dividers and what have you, did no good things for my claustrophobic tendencies.) So finally, finally the damn truck-driver learns how to drive, and I’m freed from my paved-coffin-of-doom.
Unfortunate Incident #2: I then begin meticulously perusing the nearest-by parking lot (and by “nearest-by” I mean it’s in BFE) for an empty space. Upon finding one I zip Little Red in, open my door with great speed (as I’m now officially late for work), and find myself in a Marilyn Monroe-esque type scenario. My lovely peasant skirt, which I’ve worn so as to feel pretty during my Presentation of Death, lifts itself as if of it’s own accord up around my ears. I’m not kidding you. And I of course have seven different bags in hand, so there’s nothing I can do but stand there and think “which pair of PINK panties am I now displaying to the entire Sooner World?”
Unfortunate Incident # 3: After realizing only a parking-meter-maid has seen my unda-carriage and I’m thus able to regain composure, I take one, maybe two steps in the direction of my destination. And trip. And fall. And this isn’t one of those, “whoops, caught my shoe a bit and now I’m just fine” moments, this is a “OH HOLY HELL I’M GOING TO SMASH MY FACE ON THE GROUND” kind of trips. But I didn’t…instead I flailed about like a drowning cat and merely slammed my torso into the rear of somebody’s (dirty) car. Of course my right boob took most of the fall. Which felt awesome. Then I hear a husky male voice not far from where I’ve landed (grasping for dear life onto the back of said car, my seven bags askew across the pavement) and I hop up to respond to what I assume to be his, “oh darling girl, are you alright?” questioning. So I turn, plaster a “damn I’m a dumbass but I’m okay” look on my face…and realize he’s not talking to me at all. He’s on the phone, and merely looks at me in a disapproving (and perhaps mocking) manner. So I’m sure my attempt at a brave-face read to him as a “hiya I’m a schizophrenic” expression. AWESOME. So I gather my things and start once more for Gaylord Hall.
Unfortunate Incident # 4: I make it all the way to Gaylord without another embarrassing moment, and I’m just about to hoister myself out of my pit of sorrow and self-loathing when I walk through the doors. And trip. AGAIN. Now mind you, I’m wearing flip-flops. Not heels; not stilettos that make one’s ankles wobble or one’s knees bow. I’m wearing the simplest of simple flip-flops, and I’ve tripped AGAIN. This time I’m in the atrium of Gaylord, which means at least 17 undergrads, 9 grad students and 4 professors have witnessed my graceless entrance. So I force a laugh (which sounds just as forced as it is) and proceed to the stairs. OF COURSE the library where I work is upstairs.
Unfortunate Incident # 5: I make it up 2 steps and see my dear friend Chris descending the stairs towards me. I smile at him, begin babbling about how sh*tty my day’s been thus far, and you guessed it…I EFFING TRIP AGAIN. I’m indeed lucky to have Chris there to catch me, as otherwise my shinbones would be irrevocably scarred from the fall. But the only thing more embarrassing than falling in front of strangers is falling in front of friends. So I mumble something about my shoe being broken or SOME nonsense, and being the gentleman that he is Chris goes to examine it. Damn thing isn’t broken (which I of course knew to begin with). I’m just a douchetard.
(It’s worth mentioning that Chris himself tripped on the exact same stair a mere hour after I did. That made me feel better…until Unfortunate Incident # 7).
Unfortunate Incident # 6: I stumble into the library, and my boss greets me with an icy “WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN” look. Deserved, I know, but it only adds to my desire to crawl into a ball on the floor and hum “Yesterday” to myself. So I grab a laptop, sign into my OU email account, and find I’ve received an ominous email entitled “Puerto Rico: An Update.”
Side Note: I have been unabashedly excited about my upcoming study-abroad trip to Puerto Rico. I never got to do an abroad program at my lame-ass undergrad school (my life is dreadfully unfair; I know), and one of my top goals for grad school was to do one through OU. So when I found this program, which would grant me 6 hours credit in Travel Writing during a two-week stint in Puerto Rico, I was ECSTATIC. Freaking blissful, I tell you.
And the email reads: We have had several people contact us regarding this trip and although the ones who have shown interest are ready to hop on the plane and start learning and writing, we haven't had enough people sign up to make the trip economically feasible. And, sadly, taking a smaller group would be cost-prohibitive for everyone. We are disappointed, as I'm sure you are.
It goes on to say that I shouldn’t fret, as they’ve already started planning another trip. For next May. WHEN I’LL HAVE GRADUATED. I sit there, staring at the computer, in absolute and complete disbelief. If I was a public-crier, I would’ve cried. Instead I did something worse; I opted to go talk with someone (anyone) about it in the Dean’s office. Which is upstairs.
Unfortunate Incident # 7: At this point I’m literally dragging my feet as I make the slow and agonizing trip towards the third-floor staircase. I run into Man Candy (one of two fellow JMC students Hot Librarian #2 and I giggle about when we’re bored at work), but all I can muster is a “hhmmello.” I begin climbing the steps, grasping tightly to the banister (as I’ve learned my lesson from falls number 1, 2 and 3). I make it juuuuust almost to the top of the stairs, let go of the banister…
AND. I. TRIP.
This time I stop. I do not laugh, hop up to regain composure, curse at my shoes, or cry (which is becoming a more realistic threat with every passing moment). This time I simply lay my forehead on the banister and breathe. Several people pass me; they look concerned, but I do not care. I’ve lost the ability to walk, my trip to Paradise Island has been canceled, and I have to give a 90 minute presentation in a matter of hours. TO HELL WITH YOU AND YOUR SEMI-CONCERNED GAWKING.
The rest of the day went without notable incident; when I finally regained the will to live and walk I proceeded to the Dean’s office and glared at his assistant Tyler for at least 9 minutes. Poor Tyler has nothing to do with the trip or its subsequent cancellation, but he was the nearest human person when I entered the room and by that point I was nigh out my mind. So I sat at his desk, told him how mad I was and how I’d tripped four times and how April 1st is the Day of Satan and his followers, and then descended (without misstep, miraculously) back to my library to endure the rest of the day.
From 6:30-8:00 (or 8:30 or 9:00 or Eternity - I lose track of time in that class), my dear partner and I spoke on globalization and its effect on gender equality. I was a little apprehensive, but mainly I was numb…the day had quite literally kicked my ass, and I was then on autopilot until I could crawl into bed and pretend none of it ever happened. At one point I snapped at my friend Alex for laughing at one of our videos; I thought I was being funny and sarcastic, but later he apologized so profusely that I realized he thought I absolutely hated him and his gender as a whole. Epic Fail on my part. After the presentation was over everyone clapped and began gathering their things to head home, and I walked up to my fellow Hot Librarian and said quite simply
“hug me.”
In front of the entire class and my professor (who was still obviously mentally deciphering my presentation grade) I asked Aubrey to hug me. And to her credit, she did…she gave me a nice big hug, and she made me laugh by referencing our v-neck shirts and how they were forcing men to stare at our tatas (it was part of the related presentation-debate…you had to be there, but be thankful you were not). But after our impromptu hugfest I realized something disconcerting: I’ve not been that emotionally drained in a very long time. When I’m at my veryveryvery wit’s end I ask random people for hugs, so that just confirmed that April 1st had waged total war on me…and quite obviously and unfortunately, it had won.
BUT. I survived. It is now a new week, I have a new Happy Flower Bracelet I bought at the Medieval Fair, I LIVED THROUGH MY PRESENTATION, and Man Candy should waltz in here any minute now to try and borrow a laptop from me (he won’t be able to do so as they’ve all been checked out for a class, but I’ve conveniently neglected to tell him that. I never said women aren’t manipulative). So I guess I should feel somewhat achieved, if for no other reason than for not letting my day of dysfunction, disappointment, and dreaded public speaking get the best of me. April 1st may have kicked my ass, but I kicked April 2nd’s ass by living to see it…and while I’m at it, I think I’ll go ahead and kick the rest of April’s ass as well.
For what’s the point of living through it if you can’t laugh at it later?
Much love.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Madness is like gravity...
all it takes is a little push.
Perhaps it’s the moon or the unpredictable ebb and flow of my hormone levels, but every few weeks I reach a point of actual, Merriam-Webster-dictionary-definable hysteria.
(Just so we’re clear, Merriam Webster defines hysteria as: psychoneurosis marked by emotional excitability and disturbances of the psychic, sensory, vasomotor, and visceral functions. Save for the fact that I don’t know what “vasomotor” or “visceral” means, I do believe this to be my current state of being).
Typically this misfire of my psyche comes and goes in a matter of days; I may be seized with fits of inexplicable grumpiness and/or joy on Tuesday and Wednesday, but by Thursday I’m back in my right mind and am once again capable of interacting with the general public. But for reasons only known by God and perhaps Obama, this month has provided two long weeks of the Crazies for me.
It all started last Monday when I realized everything upon everything was remarkably bothersome. The traffic on Lindsey street, the cowlick in my hair, the ridiculous water pressure in my shower and the way I can never seem to not flood my bathroom: all these issues cause me minor strife on an average day, but last week they nearly made me off myself with my Schick Quattro for Women. One particularly bad morning I knocked my open box of cereal off the counter…and next thing I know I’m thumping my head on the door-frame and wailing WHY GOD WHY IS THE ENTIRE WORLD AGAINST ME? The moment soon passed and I recognized I may have overreacted just a smiiidge, but for the next 5 days it was all I could do not to mow down lackadaisical pedestrians or scream profanities at Oklahoma’s relentless winds (actually, the wind thing isn’t solely a crazy issue; on any given day it has the power to turn me into a SheDevil. I think if the wind was a person, I would shoot it point-blank…but I digress). For the most part however, my rage was dreadfully unwarranted.
For those of you who think this is clearly a post-PMS blog update, I say to you NOT SO. My neuroses are more complicated than that, thanks very much. For every day of irritable bitchiness is matched with one of equally bizarre hilarity; there are times when I find something so amusing that I simply cannot contain myself, and these situations rarely merit my overjoyed reaction. It may sound like fun, and indeed sometimes it is…today my fellow hot librarian commented on the delectable manliness of one of our patrons, and when he later approached her for a simple librarian-task I was made physically incapacitated by fits of giggles. Luckily she was also hysterical due to severe stress and sleep-deprivation, so she too found the scenario extraordinarily funny. For the next 7-9 minutes we were red-faced and unable to speak, doubled over behind our hot librarian desk in semi-silent laughter. The poor man-candy must’ve thought we were wretchedly mean for laughing at him…I briefly considered explaining myself, but my friendship with Hot Librarian #2 is far more important than some undergrad’s ego (and he wasn’t even my kind of man-candy, anyway).
So, on occasion mania can be fun, especially if you have an equally manic buddy. But when you’re going about your business trying to behave like an adult human, bursts of laughter or uncontrollable smiling just makes you look like a dumbass…or worse, like a raging lunatic.
Today I believe I’m coming off as a raging lunatic, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. I’m not sure when this onset of hysteria will end as it’s already outstayed its usual duration, but I hope to God I can get it in check by class this evening. My Wednesday class is my No-Bullsh*t-Actual-Studying-And-General-Grown-Upness-Is-Required grad course, and if I’m still acting this way at 6:30 tonight…well, I may need to fake sick and make it a mental health day. If you could be in my head right now, you would understand.
I guess it goes without saying that you should disregard my behavior for the duration of this week. I swear to God I’m trying to regain composure, but with funny people doing funny things all about me I feel I’ll have little success. Earlier a girl tripped while walking up the stairs; it was possibly the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. I am a lost cause.
I’ll bet there’s a pill I could take to combat my hysteria, but with the second half of it being so enjoyable I really have no desire to self-medicate. Plus, the irritable bitchiness affects you more than it does me, and if I’m bitchy to begin with chances are I won’t care about upsetting you. So the next time you see that glean in my eyes that says I’M DANGEROUSLY IMBALANCED AND WILL BE PISSED OFF BY WHATEVER YOU SAY OR DO, steer clear for a little while. Just be sure to come back in a few days, because by then I’ll be like that one friend who can’t stop giggling when she’s drunk…
Only I promise not to throw up on your shoes.
Much love.
Perhaps it’s the moon or the unpredictable ebb and flow of my hormone levels, but every few weeks I reach a point of actual, Merriam-Webster-dictionary-definable hysteria.
(Just so we’re clear, Merriam Webster defines hysteria as: psychoneurosis marked by emotional excitability and disturbances of the psychic, sensory, vasomotor, and visceral functions. Save for the fact that I don’t know what “vasomotor” or “visceral” means, I do believe this to be my current state of being).
Typically this misfire of my psyche comes and goes in a matter of days; I may be seized with fits of inexplicable grumpiness and/or joy on Tuesday and Wednesday, but by Thursday I’m back in my right mind and am once again capable of interacting with the general public. But for reasons only known by God and perhaps Obama, this month has provided two long weeks of the Crazies for me.
It all started last Monday when I realized everything upon everything was remarkably bothersome. The traffic on Lindsey street, the cowlick in my hair, the ridiculous water pressure in my shower and the way I can never seem to not flood my bathroom: all these issues cause me minor strife on an average day, but last week they nearly made me off myself with my Schick Quattro for Women. One particularly bad morning I knocked my open box of cereal off the counter…and next thing I know I’m thumping my head on the door-frame and wailing WHY GOD WHY IS THE ENTIRE WORLD AGAINST ME? The moment soon passed and I recognized I may have overreacted just a smiiidge, but for the next 5 days it was all I could do not to mow down lackadaisical pedestrians or scream profanities at Oklahoma’s relentless winds (actually, the wind thing isn’t solely a crazy issue; on any given day it has the power to turn me into a SheDevil. I think if the wind was a person, I would shoot it point-blank…but I digress). For the most part however, my rage was dreadfully unwarranted.
For those of you who think this is clearly a post-PMS blog update, I say to you NOT SO. My neuroses are more complicated than that, thanks very much. For every day of irritable bitchiness is matched with one of equally bizarre hilarity; there are times when I find something so amusing that I simply cannot contain myself, and these situations rarely merit my overjoyed reaction. It may sound like fun, and indeed sometimes it is…today my fellow hot librarian commented on the delectable manliness of one of our patrons, and when he later approached her for a simple librarian-task I was made physically incapacitated by fits of giggles. Luckily she was also hysterical due to severe stress and sleep-deprivation, so she too found the scenario extraordinarily funny. For the next 7-9 minutes we were red-faced and unable to speak, doubled over behind our hot librarian desk in semi-silent laughter. The poor man-candy must’ve thought we were wretchedly mean for laughing at him…I briefly considered explaining myself, but my friendship with Hot Librarian #2 is far more important than some undergrad’s ego (and he wasn’t even my kind of man-candy, anyway).
So, on occasion mania can be fun, especially if you have an equally manic buddy. But when you’re going about your business trying to behave like an adult human, bursts of laughter or uncontrollable smiling just makes you look like a dumbass…or worse, like a raging lunatic.
Today I believe I’m coming off as a raging lunatic, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. I’m not sure when this onset of hysteria will end as it’s already outstayed its usual duration, but I hope to God I can get it in check by class this evening. My Wednesday class is my No-Bullsh*t-Actual-Studying-And-General-Grown-Upness-Is-Required grad course, and if I’m still acting this way at 6:30 tonight…well, I may need to fake sick and make it a mental health day. If you could be in my head right now, you would understand.
I guess it goes without saying that you should disregard my behavior for the duration of this week. I swear to God I’m trying to regain composure, but with funny people doing funny things all about me I feel I’ll have little success. Earlier a girl tripped while walking up the stairs; it was possibly the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. I am a lost cause.
I’ll bet there’s a pill I could take to combat my hysteria, but with the second half of it being so enjoyable I really have no desire to self-medicate. Plus, the irritable bitchiness affects you more than it does me, and if I’m bitchy to begin with chances are I won’t care about upsetting you. So the next time you see that glean in my eyes that says I’M DANGEROUSLY IMBALANCED AND WILL BE PISSED OFF BY WHATEVER YOU SAY OR DO, steer clear for a little while. Just be sure to come back in a few days, because by then I’ll be like that one friend who can’t stop giggling when she’s drunk…
Only I promise not to throw up on your shoes.
Much love.
Monday, February 2, 2009
I suggest you keep your distance, sir.
Grouchy.
I am grouchy.
I am sick as a dog. After a full week of doing everything right (ie drinking fluids, sleeping 89 hours a day, and drenching myself in Zicam/Nyquil/Vitamin C), I've surrendered to that fiend known as the Common Cold. She is a backstabbing beast of an illness...and she has taken me down for the count. Thus: grouchy.
I was very tolerant and optimistic the first few days of misery (largely because they were snow days that I could spend snuggled in my duvet), but now I'm just pissed at the world: for being cold, for having germs, for not stopping time when I don't feel well enough to function. That might be the most frustrating thing about being sick; people all around still expect you to think/talk/act normal, when all you want to do is curl up in the fetal position and whimper and eat oreos. Just now I had a student ask if we (we=Hot Librarians) have an industrial-strength stapler. I looked at her, fighting the instinct to feel very put out that she was bothering me, and said, "no, we don't." I couldn't even muster the strength to say "no, we don't...I'm sorry." Because I'm not sorry; go get your own damn stapler and leave me to wallow in my grouchiness.
(Come to find out we do have an industrial-strength stapler. I'm not only grouchy; I'm also a bad librarian.)
To top it off I find it nigh impossible to be funny when sick. Instead of coming off as a kidder I keep coming off as...well, as a psycho-bitch. Things that I say in jest keep falling flat, and I'm pretty sure I've hurt at least 3 people's feelings today. This morning I told a guy I blamed him for my sickness, because he was the last ill person I saw before my body began to sabotage me. And instead of laughing and saying something obnoxious back (which was the reaction I sought), he leaped into a drawn-out explanation as to why it couldn't be his fault. I just sat there, weighing the pros and cons of explaining my joke (pros: not look like a psycho-bitch, cons: expend precious energy and be lame (because explaining one's jokes is lame)). I eventually mumbled something about "no of course, it couldn't be your fault," and resigned myself to be being purposefully droll for the remainder of my illness so as to avoid awkward moments like that one. I then coughed unattractively and left his office with just a scoche less will to live than when I entered it...if there's one thing I hate more than being sick, it's being serious. And now I have to be both.
So for today, and for tomorrow, and for the near future in general (or until I break down and go to the doctor), I suggest you keep your distance from me. I go right, you go left, I go to Target, you go to Wal-Mart (spitspit)...it's better this way. Oh, and avoid eye contact with me if you can, because I'm pretty sure I'm just glowering at everybody these days. If you cannot stand to tear yourself from my presence, you must agree to take everything I say or do with a grain of salt - I will not be held accountable for my behavior when sick. It's bad enough I've lost this week in the prime of my life; I refuse to lose my dignity as well. For without my dignity, I am nothing...now look the other way, because I've got to spray Afrin up my nose.
Much love (and phlegm).
I am grouchy.
I am sick as a dog. After a full week of doing everything right (ie drinking fluids, sleeping 89 hours a day, and drenching myself in Zicam/Nyquil/Vitamin C), I've surrendered to that fiend known as the Common Cold. She is a backstabbing beast of an illness...and she has taken me down for the count. Thus: grouchy.
I was very tolerant and optimistic the first few days of misery (largely because they were snow days that I could spend snuggled in my duvet), but now I'm just pissed at the world: for being cold, for having germs, for not stopping time when I don't feel well enough to function. That might be the most frustrating thing about being sick; people all around still expect you to think/talk/act normal, when all you want to do is curl up in the fetal position and whimper and eat oreos. Just now I had a student ask if we (we=Hot Librarians) have an industrial-strength stapler. I looked at her, fighting the instinct to feel very put out that she was bothering me, and said, "no, we don't." I couldn't even muster the strength to say "no, we don't...I'm sorry." Because I'm not sorry; go get your own damn stapler and leave me to wallow in my grouchiness.
(Come to find out we do have an industrial-strength stapler. I'm not only grouchy; I'm also a bad librarian.)
To top it off I find it nigh impossible to be funny when sick. Instead of coming off as a kidder I keep coming off as...well, as a psycho-bitch. Things that I say in jest keep falling flat, and I'm pretty sure I've hurt at least 3 people's feelings today. This morning I told a guy I blamed him for my sickness, because he was the last ill person I saw before my body began to sabotage me. And instead of laughing and saying something obnoxious back (which was the reaction I sought), he leaped into a drawn-out explanation as to why it couldn't be his fault. I just sat there, weighing the pros and cons of explaining my joke (pros: not look like a psycho-bitch, cons: expend precious energy and be lame (because explaining one's jokes is lame)). I eventually mumbled something about "no of course, it couldn't be your fault," and resigned myself to be being purposefully droll for the remainder of my illness so as to avoid awkward moments like that one. I then coughed unattractively and left his office with just a scoche less will to live than when I entered it...if there's one thing I hate more than being sick, it's being serious. And now I have to be both.
So for today, and for tomorrow, and for the near future in general (or until I break down and go to the doctor), I suggest you keep your distance from me. I go right, you go left, I go to Target, you go to Wal-Mart (spitspit)...it's better this way. Oh, and avoid eye contact with me if you can, because I'm pretty sure I'm just glowering at everybody these days. If you cannot stand to tear yourself from my presence, you must agree to take everything I say or do with a grain of salt - I will not be held accountable for my behavior when sick. It's bad enough I've lost this week in the prime of my life; I refuse to lose my dignity as well. For without my dignity, I am nothing...now look the other way, because I've got to spray Afrin up my nose.
Much love (and phlegm).
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
The Feds are going to confiscate my Bic
Today is a weird day. I've officially begun my new graduate assistantship (the reasons why I have a new one are both mysterious and ominous to me), and I'm therefore now sitting in the grand Gaylord library, gazing upon the football stadium across the street and wondering how in the blue blazes I ended up here. I mean, if a year ago you'd told me I'd soon become a librarian.........but then, my life has never had much organizational structure so I shouldn't be surprised. I will say that I've already been referred to as the "hot librarian," and this nickname has made me at least 30% happier about my new job. He who originated said title will not be named (as I have no desire to make him stop saying nice things about me), but let it be known that I give serious brownie points for clever nicknames that are also complimentary. Anonymous Man has already mastered the skill, but you should probably keep that in mind.
Today is also weird for a second reason: it's day 2 of the semester, and I've yet to decide what classes I'm taking. I mean, I know that I'm having coffee with Kris tomorrow and that I'm going shopping for vintage clothes on Saturday, but as for my graduate course schedule....yeah, that's pretty much up in the air. Sigh, I can no longer deny that I suck at being a grown-up. In my defense, however, I tried my damnedest to be responsible and pre-enroll over the holiday. Unfortunately that meant choosing classes all by me oncey - something a 24.93-year-old should theoretically be able to accomplish without much bloodshed or trauma. Not for me, however...I am the queen of getting myself into the wrong place at the wrong time (and of just generally making dumb decisions), and yesterday's class meeting was certainly no exception.
So, some background: I found this class via OU's enrollment website. It was outside of my department but similar enough to intrigue me, and the course description seemed both relevant and highly academic. Sure it was a doctoral level class, but I'm a smart girl, right? (I find that, while on holiday and therefore removed from reality, I am far too educationally ambitious for my own good). But I hadn't been to school in weeks, and I'd almost entirely forgotten how much of my self-professed "love of learning" is total BS. I don't love to learn; I love to think. And I love to choose what I think about, and I would never choose to think about the theoretical frameworks of multicultural communication studies....but I digress.
Point being I was stupid, and I picked a class so far out of my league that I blame OU for not saying "uhhh, no" and refusing to let me enroll in it. Approximately 3 days before the first class session I began to have that "hmmm, I think I may have really screwed myself" feeling. But to my cred I'm remarkably good at believing my own lies, so it wasn't until I actually attended the class that I realized exactly how much of a toolbag I am.
Just picture it: I walk into Territory Unknown, and the warm-welcome I receive from my professor includes the phrase "I think you're really courageous." Umm, never a good sign. Then, I come to notice the (5) other students in the class are staring at me with both awe and trepidation. A few blissfully clueless moments pass before I realize it's because they think I must be a genius...for what other person would strut, unaware and unphased, into a PhD-level course in a foreign department? (A genius or a fool, and they kindly (and incorrectly) gave me the benefit of the doubt.) So 5 minutes in and I'm already battling my fight or flight instincts.
Then I'm given a syllabus, and I have to call upon my pride to keep from running out the door at a breakneck speed. The reading list is, simply put, insanity incarnated. The assignments are utter madness, and the sheer volume of formal presentations strikes fear and horror to the depths of my soul. I keep my eyes trained on the paper and my head down (as I know the colorless nature of my face will give me away), and I begin reasoning with myself as to why I can't flee the scene.
"You got yourself into this, you moron. Be a woman and keep your butt in the chair."
"If you leave now and can't enroll in another class, you'll be even more effed than you are right now."
"Your schoolbag's too heavy for you to get far and the Prof will catch you before you're out of the building."
"Everyone here thinks you're brilliant, and if you run away they'll probably figure out that you're not."
That final argument gave me the strength to stay, because let's face it; it feels good to have people believe you're awesome...even when they're completely wrong. So, I stifled the scream rising in my throat and committed myself to 2 hours of torture.
And torture it was.
I won't burden you with all the details, but let me just say that after that class I will not live as long as God originally intended. For the first hour I fought the urge to cry out in terror, and for the second hour I fought the urge to cry out in soul-crushing boredom. I underestimated the course in more ways than one...not only was it waaay more of a Smart Kid Class than I could handle; it was also taught by one of the most monotonously droll people the Earth has ever known. (Lovely woman, remarkably intelligent, could kick my butt at just about any standardized IQ test. But oh my sweet baby Jesus - THE DROLLDOM.) I kid you not; the entire class period was dedicated to reading the syllabus. Reading it. You know, out loud. Then, if we weren't reciting verbatim that "articles A1, A2, and A3, and subarticles a1-17 are to be read for class on March 19th," we were pondering the cyclical and identical natures of research proposals and presentations. WHY GOD WHY. I mean this in all seriousness, a violent part of me that has been made dormant by millions of years of meticulous evolution began to resurface over the span of that class period. I actually imagined taking my Bic and stabbing her in the eyeball with it...and when I became disturbed by this sadistic desire to hurt a sweet little woman, I turned the daydream inward and thought about stabbing the Bic in my own eye. And then I began once again fantasizing about running away (in all honesty, that fancy never fully left my mind). By the end of the class my thoughts were roaming about somewhere in Nor-Eastern OK, but even my best attempts at imaginative escapism could not ease the misery of those two hours. I have been scarred by the events of yesterday, and I'm only partially kidding when I write that.
So, needless to say I dropped that course like a vicious snapping turtle (...what?). I implored my Academic Advisor to help my wayward, wandering soul, and she agreed to look into some classes that are less likely to make me want to hurt myself or others. But until then I'm sittin' pretty with not enough hours and no real idea what to do about it. So I guess it makes sense that I go vintage-clothes-shopping this weekend; because if I get kicked out of school for not being a full-time, responsible, grown-up grad student, I'm going down with fierceness and style. God have mercy on my soul.
Much love.
Today is also weird for a second reason: it's day 2 of the semester, and I've yet to decide what classes I'm taking. I mean, I know that I'm having coffee with Kris tomorrow and that I'm going shopping for vintage clothes on Saturday, but as for my graduate course schedule....yeah, that's pretty much up in the air. Sigh, I can no longer deny that I suck at being a grown-up. In my defense, however, I tried my damnedest to be responsible and pre-enroll over the holiday. Unfortunately that meant choosing classes all by me oncey - something a 24.93-year-old should theoretically be able to accomplish without much bloodshed or trauma. Not for me, however...I am the queen of getting myself into the wrong place at the wrong time (and of just generally making dumb decisions), and yesterday's class meeting was certainly no exception.
So, some background: I found this class via OU's enrollment website. It was outside of my department but similar enough to intrigue me, and the course description seemed both relevant and highly academic. Sure it was a doctoral level class, but I'm a smart girl, right? (I find that, while on holiday and therefore removed from reality, I am far too educationally ambitious for my own good). But I hadn't been to school in weeks, and I'd almost entirely forgotten how much of my self-professed "love of learning" is total BS. I don't love to learn; I love to think. And I love to choose what I think about, and I would never choose to think about the theoretical frameworks of multicultural communication studies....but I digress.
Point being I was stupid, and I picked a class so far out of my league that I blame OU for not saying "uhhh, no" and refusing to let me enroll in it. Approximately 3 days before the first class session I began to have that "hmmm, I think I may have really screwed myself" feeling. But to my cred I'm remarkably good at believing my own lies, so it wasn't until I actually attended the class that I realized exactly how much of a toolbag I am.
Just picture it: I walk into Territory Unknown, and the warm-welcome I receive from my professor includes the phrase "I think you're really courageous." Umm, never a good sign. Then, I come to notice the (5) other students in the class are staring at me with both awe and trepidation. A few blissfully clueless moments pass before I realize it's because they think I must be a genius...for what other person would strut, unaware and unphased, into a PhD-level course in a foreign department? (A genius or a fool, and they kindly (and incorrectly) gave me the benefit of the doubt.) So 5 minutes in and I'm already battling my fight or flight instincts.
Then I'm given a syllabus, and I have to call upon my pride to keep from running out the door at a breakneck speed. The reading list is, simply put, insanity incarnated. The assignments are utter madness, and the sheer volume of formal presentations strikes fear and horror to the depths of my soul. I keep my eyes trained on the paper and my head down (as I know the colorless nature of my face will give me away), and I begin reasoning with myself as to why I can't flee the scene.
"You got yourself into this, you moron. Be a woman and keep your butt in the chair."
"If you leave now and can't enroll in another class, you'll be even more effed than you are right now."
"Your schoolbag's too heavy for you to get far and the Prof will catch you before you're out of the building."
"Everyone here thinks you're brilliant, and if you run away they'll probably figure out that you're not."
That final argument gave me the strength to stay, because let's face it; it feels good to have people believe you're awesome...even when they're completely wrong. So, I stifled the scream rising in my throat and committed myself to 2 hours of torture.
And torture it was.
I won't burden you with all the details, but let me just say that after that class I will not live as long as God originally intended. For the first hour I fought the urge to cry out in terror, and for the second hour I fought the urge to cry out in soul-crushing boredom. I underestimated the course in more ways than one...not only was it waaay more of a Smart Kid Class than I could handle; it was also taught by one of the most monotonously droll people the Earth has ever known. (Lovely woman, remarkably intelligent, could kick my butt at just about any standardized IQ test. But oh my sweet baby Jesus - THE DROLLDOM.) I kid you not; the entire class period was dedicated to reading the syllabus. Reading it. You know, out loud. Then, if we weren't reciting verbatim that "articles A1, A2, and A3, and subarticles a1-17 are to be read for class on March 19th," we were pondering the cyclical and identical natures of research proposals and presentations. WHY GOD WHY. I mean this in all seriousness, a violent part of me that has been made dormant by millions of years of meticulous evolution began to resurface over the span of that class period. I actually imagined taking my Bic and stabbing her in the eyeball with it...and when I became disturbed by this sadistic desire to hurt a sweet little woman, I turned the daydream inward and thought about stabbing the Bic in my own eye. And then I began once again fantasizing about running away (in all honesty, that fancy never fully left my mind). By the end of the class my thoughts were roaming about somewhere in Nor-Eastern OK, but even my best attempts at imaginative escapism could not ease the misery of those two hours. I have been scarred by the events of yesterday, and I'm only partially kidding when I write that.
So, needless to say I dropped that course like a vicious snapping turtle (...what?). I implored my Academic Advisor to help my wayward, wandering soul, and she agreed to look into some classes that are less likely to make me want to hurt myself or others. But until then I'm sittin' pretty with not enough hours and no real idea what to do about it. So I guess it makes sense that I go vintage-clothes-shopping this weekend; because if I get kicked out of school for not being a full-time, responsible, grown-up grad student, I'm going down with fierceness and style. God have mercy on my soul.
Much love.
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