I went home for two weeks at the beginning of August, and everything that happened in that two week period related in some form or another to a single theme.
That theme was drugs.
My mother, like I imagine many other suburban housewives with internet addictions are prone to do, fancies herself something of a pharmacist. She collects and hoards drugs in a cabinet in our kitchen. My family has so many medical problems (complex migraines, regular migraines, mild headaches, mysterious stomach ailments, back pains, about four different types of insomnia, a jaw that pops out of place, hyperthyroidism, high blood pressure, and so on and so forth) that over the years we have been prescribed literally hundreds (ok maybe dozens. or A hundred. but a lot. actually, maybe hundreds) of different types of drugs. Of course, prescribing drugs is a hit or miss game, especially with problems like insomnia and migraines. I have personally been prescribed around ten different drugs for insomnia over the years, and I still haven’t found anything that works for me.
Now, some mothers might throw away old drugs once a new medication is prescribed, a generic form comes out, or the FDA bans it for safety reasons.
Not my mom. She adds them to the cabinet and proceeds to dole them out in situations that she deems appropriate.
This may sound dangerous, but it’s not. No, she doesn’t have a medical degree- she’s got something better. She has access to Web MD.
Actually, my mother has been playing this game (this game being nonprofessional self diagnosis/diagnosis of one’s family) for much longer than the internet has been playing it. Somewhere in the recesses of our house lies a book that appears to have been passed down through generations but really has just been overused by my mother: Dr. Mom (I called her to verify the title of the book and she said "Oh! It's actually such a great book. Are you buying a copy to use when you nanny?" "No mom, I'm making fun of it in a story I'm writing" "Oh").
I think that every child has a point in the process of maturing that they realize that their parents are not always right, a point where they begin to question their parent’s choices. One of my realizations was that my mother probably shouldn’t be doling out other people’s drugs to family members. As a seven year old, I was very worried.
I’m not saying I don’t take the drugs, I’m just saying that I realize that it is both unsafe and inappropriate. This seems less than important when you are sick and your mother (you can always trust your mom, right?) is offering you medication.
Quickly upon my return, I realized that I seemed to have developed some sort of allergy to my home. Upon further inspection, I realized that the problem was most likely the fact that the top of the huge bookcase in my room hasn’t been dusted in (rough estimate) 4 years. That being said, the idea of my having an allergy to my home itself makes more sense emotionally, so I’m going to go with that.
On my fourth night at home, I broke down and asked my mom for drugs.
The way this really happened is that I begged her for drugs every night after the first one but she was always too busy (doing what? I’m not sure either) to look in her medicine cabinet until she finally decided that listening to my whining about feeling awful was more annoying than the prospect of ceasing her (almost) continual perusal of Yahoo(!) on the fourth night. However, the idea that I broke down and asked on the fourth night and was immediately given the necessary assistance makes me feel better about my home life, so, again, I’m going to go with that.
Visits home are all about the mind games.
Once I had finally caught her attention, I reverted to my previous occupation of bonding with (harassing) Brecken while she made herself dinner (at 11.30pm. don’t tell me she’s not ready for college).
After a few minutes, my mother presented me with a bottle of some sort of syrup.
“Here. Take this senzacarboloxin (or something like that. sort of like that.).”
I began to obediently take the medication but was impeded by my sister’s snatching the bottle from my hand.
“No, don’t take this. You can do better than that, hold out for the phenagran,” she advised haughtily. How dare I be silly enough to fall for this amateurish drug?
I’d like to take this moment to point out (kindly) that Brecken’s best subject is art.
I proceeded to look for a measuring cup to take the medicine, quietly pondering my family’s inappropriate relationship with pharmaceuticals. I realized that I didn’t know what dosage to take, and that my mom was almost out of earshot.
“Mom! How much to I take?” I yelled in the dainty, ladylike sort of fashion that I am wont to use.
“One or two teaspoons,” she bellowed in returned.
Brecken laughed and muttered, “Get a straw.”
I can never tell if Brecken is us or them.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Summer, In Conclusion
Imaginary readers, I have not updated you as to my current situation since this blog’s nascence, and for that I apologize. I can only imagine that you have been both insatiably curious and deeply concerned as to what I’ve been doing.
Translation: I know you don’t care about this, feel free to not read it. I’ll post something interesting soon.
I made the trip back to Jackson last Sunday, meaning that my summer is essentially over. I”m going to look back at (this post) and respond to it in an attempt to see what has changed in the (exactly - I counted) 60 days that I spent in Nashville this summer.
I mentioned that I had previously made attempts at blogging but never passed the three post threshold. This attempt seems to have stuck, with at least a greater degree of permanence than any other. I applaud myself for sticking with it (read: for having so little to do that I stuck with it) and you, imaginary readers, for actually suffering through it.
Seriously, I have really appreciated everyone who has told me that you have enjoyed my nonsense.
On an equally serious note, I have really appreciated everyone who has told me that you think I need to be committed. You make a valid point.
However, I am still roaming the streets at the time this post goes to (imaginary) press.
I’m glad I went with the “Blank Slate” title/theme, because even though it’s a touch on the completely lame side, I like the idea that you can start over. In some ways, I want to start over almost every day. I’d change a lot - you’re lying to yourself if you think you wouldn’t. I wouldn’t take all those stressful pre-med classes that turned out to be worthless and tanked my GPA. I wouldn’t have wasted all that time on that boy that I couldn’t respect. I’d get up and run in the mornings so I could see the sun come up. Continue to insert regrets, each more cliché than the next.
That was cliché too. See what I did there?
Sorry.
On one hand, I think that you can start over every day. To an extent, I’ve accomplished that this summer. It takes a lot of self-pep talking, a lot of perseverance, and a little bit of crying while you drive around beautiful Tennessee backroads. Saying you’re going to start over with a blank slate is like quitting smoking - it usually doesn’t take until the fourth or fifth or sixth try. But you hang in there.
On the other hand, I’ve realized that the idea of the blank slate, the tabula rasa, if you will, is an impossibility.
Consider this quote from Cormac McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men.
“It’s not about knowing where you are. It’s about thinking you got there without taking anything with you. Your notions about starting over. Or anybody’s. You don’t start over. That’s what it’s about. Every step you take is forever. You can’t make it go away. None of it.” - Llewelyn Moss
I wrote this down when I read it last summer, for no other reason than it spoke to me. It seems entirely more relevant now. What I take away from it is that I can’t change where I’ve come from, because it has made me who I am.
I like that. Even though I’d do things differently a second time around, I wouldn’t be who I am today if I had done things differently the first time around. Yes, I wouldn’t have taken all the pre-med classes that have turned out to be unnecessary, but I also wouldn’t have been able to explain to someone how and why goiters form when it came up at dinner the other night.
Don’t invite me to dinner. I’m disgusting.
So you can’t start over. I can’t change that I spent three years taking classes to get into medical school before I decided to not to go. I can’t change the fact that I have been a terrible judge of character with regard to whom I spend time with for almost my whole life. I can’t change the fact that Lori and I got Qdoba at 2 am last saturday morning.
Believe me, I would change that if I could.
I think what Llewelyn Moss misses in NCFOM is that while you can’t start over, you can head in a new direction. You are who you are because of where you’ve been, but you can still go anywhere you want.
Of course, I wouldn’t expect Moss to be very introspective. He does manage to get more or less everyone he knows killed, so introspection is most likely not one of his strong points.
Thirty-two pages later, Anton Chigurh tells Moss’s wife that “Every moment in your life is a turning and every one a choosing,” and I think he’s hit the nail on the head, personally. You can’t ignore where you came from and what made you who you are, but you can always pick up and go where ever you want to.
Ignore the fact that I identify more with the homicidal maniac than with the good guy. If you’ve read (this post) you should’ve seen that coming. Although I must say, he does seem to know what he’s talking about.
The homicidal maniac is, after all, the one that survives.
I’ll quit with the literary analysis before someone shows this to a psychiatrist and gets me my very own made-to-fit straight jacket.
So there’s that.
I also wrote a to do list in my first post. It was really just for that day, but some parts of the list are more far reaching goals, so I’ll let you know how it turned out anyway.
1- Finding a job - Done. Sighs of relief were breathed. I did end up getting the job at Sweet Cece’s, and I love it. I don’t know that I am any more a functional member of society, but I can pay the rent. I’ve met so many great people. I’ve also started babysitting on the side, which I unexpectedly love. Something about people paying me to sit down is fantastic.
2- Starting a blog. I did that, clearly. Honestly, I really like it. There’s something really nice about putting thoughts down on paper (you get what I mean) that weren’t there before. I’ve started writing other stuff too, for no other reason than wanting to make something.
3- Reading Cien Años de Soledad- I got two pages in and was so overwhelmed by the number of words I’d written in the margin in order to remind myself to find out what the hell they mean that I promptly quit. I leave the book out on my desk so I can pretend to be reading it.
4- Learning all the words to Sorry, Mrs. Jackson by Outkast in order to increase my awesomeness levels- I sort of did this. I downloaded the lyrics and more or less know the words, but I still cannot sing along. I have no rhythm. It can’t be helped.
5- Working on the book I’m writing- If you read (this post), you know more or less how this is going. For those who have expressed doubt as to whether I’m actually writing it, fear not. It’s not a joke. It is being written.
6- Journaling again- This has been hard. I’ve been slightly reticent to be as honest with myself as journaling requires that I be, so I’ve more or less put this on the back burner. It’s always at the top of my to do list, but I never do it.
7-Restart my picture a day project - This is been a miserable failure. I’m thinking about trying to take a picture every day of senior year, because I like the idea. Also, I completely stole this idea from Caroline Tredway, which is where I got the original idea from as well. She’s recently started a blog detailing her own senior year, and I really like it! It includes her daily photos and great tips for people who know nothing about photography, like myself.
Caroline is one of those quiet people who sees everything.
(You should check out her blog).
8- Do something artsy- I painted my nails and called it a day.
So there’s my summer to do list, all wrapped up.
The beginning of fall semester seems like it’s far away, but time always goes faster than I think it will, so I’m going to make a tentative to do list for the fall.
1- Get my bank account back to where it was at the beginning of the summer! - Because dear God that thing could use some cash.
2- Make all A’s this fall! - It could happen. Right? Right. Plus, it would be nice to do that at least one semester of college.
3- Say those 3 little words more - I have a weird thing about not telling people that I love them when I don’t mean it and sometimes even when I do. It’s a good habit because I don’t throw those words around and people know I mean it when I say it, but it’s good to let the people you care about know that you care about them...right? Right.
4- Read all the books on my summer reading list - because I finished 2/14. I’m literallly just crossing our “summer” and writing “fall” over it. Whoops.
5 - Do things I haven’t done before! - I want to explore Tennessee (who is down to go apple picking with me this fall? comment on this post to sign up, because I don’t care if I have to go by myself, I’m going apple picking this fall), go on more road trips (read: revisit the Lost Caves of Kentucky), meet more people (Josh Turner), go to more concerts (3rdEyeBlindRaRaRiotTheNationalMGMTetcohmygod), and just get into all sorts of new adventures. I’ve got to come up with something to keep you people entertained, since I have a feeling hearing my descriptions of the interiors of Vanderbilt’s nine libraries is not going to keep anyone reading for long (feel free to make a joke about me going to a library, if you’re one of my close friends. I’m being optimistic that I might go.)
6 - Fiddle player. enough said. several of you already know about my life goals with regard to this.
So there you go. At some point I’ll report back on how those things went, and until then I’ll keep up you to date with whatever adventures (read: misadventures) that befall me (read: that I bring crashing down around my own head).
It'll be fine.
Translation: I know you don’t care about this, feel free to not read it. I’ll post something interesting soon.
I made the trip back to Jackson last Sunday, meaning that my summer is essentially over. I”m going to look back at (this post) and respond to it in an attempt to see what has changed in the (exactly - I counted) 60 days that I spent in Nashville this summer.
I mentioned that I had previously made attempts at blogging but never passed the three post threshold. This attempt seems to have stuck, with at least a greater degree of permanence than any other. I applaud myself for sticking with it (read: for having so little to do that I stuck with it) and you, imaginary readers, for actually suffering through it.
Seriously, I have really appreciated everyone who has told me that you have enjoyed my nonsense.
On an equally serious note, I have really appreciated everyone who has told me that you think I need to be committed. You make a valid point.
However, I am still roaming the streets at the time this post goes to (imaginary) press.
I’m glad I went with the “Blank Slate” title/theme, because even though it’s a touch on the completely lame side, I like the idea that you can start over. In some ways, I want to start over almost every day. I’d change a lot - you’re lying to yourself if you think you wouldn’t. I wouldn’t take all those stressful pre-med classes that turned out to be worthless and tanked my GPA. I wouldn’t have wasted all that time on that boy that I couldn’t respect. I’d get up and run in the mornings so I could see the sun come up. Continue to insert regrets, each more cliché than the next.
That was cliché too. See what I did there?
Sorry.
On one hand, I think that you can start over every day. To an extent, I’ve accomplished that this summer. It takes a lot of self-pep talking, a lot of perseverance, and a little bit of crying while you drive around beautiful Tennessee backroads. Saying you’re going to start over with a blank slate is like quitting smoking - it usually doesn’t take until the fourth or fifth or sixth try. But you hang in there.
On the other hand, I’ve realized that the idea of the blank slate, the tabula rasa, if you will, is an impossibility.
Consider this quote from Cormac McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men.
“It’s not about knowing where you are. It’s about thinking you got there without taking anything with you. Your notions about starting over. Or anybody’s. You don’t start over. That’s what it’s about. Every step you take is forever. You can’t make it go away. None of it.” - Llewelyn Moss
I wrote this down when I read it last summer, for no other reason than it spoke to me. It seems entirely more relevant now. What I take away from it is that I can’t change where I’ve come from, because it has made me who I am.
I like that. Even though I’d do things differently a second time around, I wouldn’t be who I am today if I had done things differently the first time around. Yes, I wouldn’t have taken all the pre-med classes that have turned out to be unnecessary, but I also wouldn’t have been able to explain to someone how and why goiters form when it came up at dinner the other night.
Don’t invite me to dinner. I’m disgusting.
So you can’t start over. I can’t change that I spent three years taking classes to get into medical school before I decided to not to go. I can’t change the fact that I have been a terrible judge of character with regard to whom I spend time with for almost my whole life. I can’t change the fact that Lori and I got Qdoba at 2 am last saturday morning.
Believe me, I would change that if I could.
I think what Llewelyn Moss misses in NCFOM is that while you can’t start over, you can head in a new direction. You are who you are because of where you’ve been, but you can still go anywhere you want.
Of course, I wouldn’t expect Moss to be very introspective. He does manage to get more or less everyone he knows killed, so introspection is most likely not one of his strong points.
Thirty-two pages later, Anton Chigurh tells Moss’s wife that “Every moment in your life is a turning and every one a choosing,” and I think he’s hit the nail on the head, personally. You can’t ignore where you came from and what made you who you are, but you can always pick up and go where ever you want to.
Ignore the fact that I identify more with the homicidal maniac than with the good guy. If you’ve read (this post) you should’ve seen that coming. Although I must say, he does seem to know what he’s talking about.
The homicidal maniac is, after all, the one that survives.
I’ll quit with the literary analysis before someone shows this to a psychiatrist and gets me my very own made-to-fit straight jacket.
So there’s that.
I also wrote a to do list in my first post. It was really just for that day, but some parts of the list are more far reaching goals, so I’ll let you know how it turned out anyway.
1- Finding a job - Done. Sighs of relief were breathed. I did end up getting the job at Sweet Cece’s, and I love it. I don’t know that I am any more a functional member of society, but I can pay the rent. I’ve met so many great people. I’ve also started babysitting on the side, which I unexpectedly love. Something about people paying me to sit down is fantastic.
2- Starting a blog. I did that, clearly. Honestly, I really like it. There’s something really nice about putting thoughts down on paper (you get what I mean) that weren’t there before. I’ve started writing other stuff too, for no other reason than wanting to make something.
3- Reading Cien Años de Soledad- I got two pages in and was so overwhelmed by the number of words I’d written in the margin in order to remind myself to find out what the hell they mean that I promptly quit. I leave the book out on my desk so I can pretend to be reading it.
4- Learning all the words to Sorry, Mrs. Jackson by Outkast in order to increase my awesomeness levels- I sort of did this. I downloaded the lyrics and more or less know the words, but I still cannot sing along. I have no rhythm. It can’t be helped.
5- Working on the book I’m writing- If you read (this post), you know more or less how this is going. For those who have expressed doubt as to whether I’m actually writing it, fear not. It’s not a joke. It is being written.
6- Journaling again- This has been hard. I’ve been slightly reticent to be as honest with myself as journaling requires that I be, so I’ve more or less put this on the back burner. It’s always at the top of my to do list, but I never do it.
7-Restart my picture a day project - This is been a miserable failure. I’m thinking about trying to take a picture every day of senior year, because I like the idea. Also, I completely stole this idea from Caroline Tredway, which is where I got the original idea from as well. She’s recently started a blog detailing her own senior year, and I really like it! It includes her daily photos and great tips for people who know nothing about photography, like myself.
Caroline is one of those quiet people who sees everything.
(You should check out her blog).
8- Do something artsy- I painted my nails and called it a day.
So there’s my summer to do list, all wrapped up.
The beginning of fall semester seems like it’s far away, but time always goes faster than I think it will, so I’m going to make a tentative to do list for the fall.
1- Get my bank account back to where it was at the beginning of the summer! - Because dear God that thing could use some cash.
2- Make all A’s this fall! - It could happen. Right? Right. Plus, it would be nice to do that at least one semester of college.
3- Say those 3 little words more - I have a weird thing about not telling people that I love them when I don’t mean it and sometimes even when I do. It’s a good habit because I don’t throw those words around and people know I mean it when I say it, but it’s good to let the people you care about know that you care about them...right? Right.
4- Read all the books on my summer reading list - because I finished 2/14. I’m literallly just crossing our “summer” and writing “fall” over it. Whoops.
5 - Do things I haven’t done before! - I want to explore Tennessee (who is down to go apple picking with me this fall? comment on this post to sign up, because I don’t care if I have to go by myself, I’m going apple picking this fall), go on more road trips (read: revisit the Lost Caves of Kentucky), meet more people (Josh Turner), go to more concerts (3rdEyeBlindRaRaRiotTheNationalMGMTetcohmygod), and just get into all sorts of new adventures. I’ve got to come up with something to keep you people entertained, since I have a feeling hearing my descriptions of the interiors of Vanderbilt’s nine libraries is not going to keep anyone reading for long (feel free to make a joke about me going to a library, if you’re one of my close friends. I’m being optimistic that I might go.)
6 - Fiddle player. enough said. several of you already know about my life goals with regard to this.
So there you go. At some point I’ll report back on how those things went, and until then I’ll keep up you to date with whatever adventures (read: misadventures) that befall me (read: that I bring crashing down around my own head).
It'll be fine.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Donuts, Rain, and the Whole Crazy Thing
You’re in a public place. Maybe it’s a coffee shop, or a clothing store, or a classroom, or maybe even a bookstore. Actually, it’s probably not a bookstore.
But you’re there. You’re going about your own business, because you are a functional adult in society, or whatever the modern equivalent of that is (read: you’re probably a codependent, chain smoking, Jersey Shore watching, McDonalds scarfing wreck, but this is pretty much par for the course these days. society has gone to hell). Regardless, you’re doing what you’re there to do. You’re drinking a cappuccino (skim milk, of course), shopping for a pair of pants (which you’ll buy a size too small, because you’re going to get back to the gym really soon), catching up on the reading you didn’t do the night before (again, Jersey Shore), and probably simultaneously texting.
Everyone is always texting. Have you ever thought about that? I am relatively certain that texting is going to play a rather large hand in the downfall of our society, which to me seems fairly imminent. Think about it. All over the world, people are constantly sending messages to each other about what they’re doing, what they’re thinking, what they’re seeing.
The ironic part, of course, is that no one is doing, thinking, or seeing anything, because they’re texting. Jogs are going unjogged, conversations unhad, scenic views unseen, and memorable moments unexchanged, because we are texting and we miss them.
Excuse my tangent. Return to your mental image. As you sit in your coffeehouse/store/classroom or what have you, behaving as well as you can be expected to behave given the fact that you were raised on Rainbow Brite and corndogs (thanks, mom), something happens.
You get annoyed.
It’s a girl, probably. It is in my mental image, at least, and I’m leading this parade. I will, however, allow you to imagine that it is a boy, in order to prove wrong some nasty accusations in 2007 that I “have some sexist views” (from my twelfth grade English teacher. about a paper I wrote. which she also called “very good”)
This girl is probably being too loud. She’s laughing uncontrollably about something that probably isn’t even funny. She’s making faces, or noises, or jokes. She looks like an idiot.
You’re judging her. She’s an adult, for God’s sake, and people are trying to go about their business. Specifically, you. You are trying to go about your business, and she is interrupting you. What is she laughing about, anyway?
Approximately sixty-two percent of the time, I am you. I am annoyed at that girl. I am trying to read Faulkner, or mourn the state of my checking account, or study, or stalk Benson Luk on facebook (heyyy Benson), or write my riddled-with-genius blog (alternate reality). She gets on my nerves and I take advantage of the situation to use her existence as an excuse to whine.
The other thirty-eight percent of that time, I am that girl.
Warning: I will hear nothing of my own hypocrisy. I love hypocrisy. I don’t even think it’s bad. I have accepted it about myself and expect you do to the same.
Excuse me, I just got a text.
Back.
So that girl is me. I’m laughing at that text, or at the book I’m reading, or at whatever I’m making fun of Daniel about, or at something that I actually said (yeah. sometimes I laugh at myself.)
And you know what? I’m having more fun than you are.
I started thinking about being that girl when I read one of the epigraphs of Chuck Klosterman’s Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs, which I am currently rereading. (read it. it really is genius.)
Here it is:
“‘I remember saying things, but I have no idea what was said. It was generally a friendly conversation.’ - Associated Press reporter Jack Sullivan, attempting to recount a 3 A.M. exchange we had at a dinner party and inadvertently describing the past ten years of my life.”
This epigraph resonated with me, because I feel more or less the same about the last seven years of my life. More or less, because when I think back, I remember a lot of laughing and silliness and happiness, and very few details. I like this.
When I originally read this quote, my first thought was of Tanya Tiwari. This meant, of course, that my second thought was of donuts.
If you know Tanya then you know what I mean. That girl is a ninety pound donut eating machine. Her ability to show a baker’s dozen of donuts where they can go (her mouth) defies the laws of physics, gravity and good sense.
The specific memory that popped to mind was of a rainy midmorning in the spring of 2007. We were seniors in high school, and we had a fifteen minute break before our Block 3 classes.
I was sitting in the locker area with Tanya when she glanced at me innocently. This is always a bad sign.
“I really, really want a donut.” she opened.
“Of course you do.” This was nothing new.
“I have some in my car,” she stated slyly.
“Are you serious?” I asked, completely unsurprised but hoping to help her see how ridiculous it was to hoard donuts in one’s vehicle.
“We could go get them...” she said, trying to make it my idea.
“Tanya. I don’t like donuts and it’s pouring down rain.”
“I have a huge umbrella!”
And so we ventured into the senior parking lot. The second that we reached her car, the innocent spring rainfall turned gale force and started whipping at our bodies from every angle, making the ridiculously large umbrella all but useless. I stood, battling the wind and rain and umbrella, while Tanya sat in her back seat wolfing down donuts from a Krispy Kreme box that appeared to have held at one point (presumably that morning) a dozen donuts. Maybe two. I chose to hold my comments until we had reached a dryer venue.
She finally finished at jumped back under the umbrella with me. Had I actually been strong enough to hold on to it, the sheer size of the umbrella might have actually offered some protection from the rain. As it were, it actually became a sort of wind surfing parachute that began to threaten to lift me right off the ground and whisk me away. It slipped from my fingers and flew across the field adjacent to the parking lot.
We were soaked in approximately two seconds.
Screaming with laughter and being pelted in the face with cold rain, we tore across the field and managed to recover the umbrella, which I promptly folded up and put under my arm for the run back to the locker area.
We returned just as people were beginning to pack up for Block 3 classes. We were soaked through (by the way, yellow skirts are see through when they’re wet), and laughing so hard that we could barely breathe. Tanya probably didn’t have donut crumbs on her face, but I choose to remember it that way, so that is the way I will tell it.
Tanya had donut crumbs on her face.
It probably doesn’t seem particularly funny, but I remember laughing hysterically at the whole situation. Maybe it was the fact that we were the only people who were wet at all, that we just suffered through that incident so that Tanya could eat a donut, or that we just felt overwhelmingly alive the way you do after you get caught in a rainstorm.
Who can say?
I remember people looking us like we were idiots. Which is fair, because we looked like idiots.
That being said, when I read Klosterman’s epigraph about thinking back on the previous years in a generally positive light, I agree and that situation pops to mind.
It was totally worth looking stupid, to have that memory of just being happy for no reason at all.
If you think that I’m going to wind this up by advising you to withhold judgement the next time you see that girl (or boy!) in a coffeehouse/store/classroom/zoo, I’m not.
I think she’s obnoxious too, possibly more obnoxious than you think she is due to my predisposition towards disdain.
I’m just saying, I’m not going to apologize when it’s me.
But you’re there. You’re going about your own business, because you are a functional adult in society, or whatever the modern equivalent of that is (read: you’re probably a codependent, chain smoking, Jersey Shore watching, McDonalds scarfing wreck, but this is pretty much par for the course these days. society has gone to hell). Regardless, you’re doing what you’re there to do. You’re drinking a cappuccino (skim milk, of course), shopping for a pair of pants (which you’ll buy a size too small, because you’re going to get back to the gym really soon), catching up on the reading you didn’t do the night before (again, Jersey Shore), and probably simultaneously texting.
Everyone is always texting. Have you ever thought about that? I am relatively certain that texting is going to play a rather large hand in the downfall of our society, which to me seems fairly imminent. Think about it. All over the world, people are constantly sending messages to each other about what they’re doing, what they’re thinking, what they’re seeing.
The ironic part, of course, is that no one is doing, thinking, or seeing anything, because they’re texting. Jogs are going unjogged, conversations unhad, scenic views unseen, and memorable moments unexchanged, because we are texting and we miss them.
Excuse my tangent. Return to your mental image. As you sit in your coffeehouse/store/classroom or what have you, behaving as well as you can be expected to behave given the fact that you were raised on Rainbow Brite and corndogs (thanks, mom), something happens.
You get annoyed.
It’s a girl, probably. It is in my mental image, at least, and I’m leading this parade. I will, however, allow you to imagine that it is a boy, in order to prove wrong some nasty accusations in 2007 that I “have some sexist views” (from my twelfth grade English teacher. about a paper I wrote. which she also called “very good”)
This girl is probably being too loud. She’s laughing uncontrollably about something that probably isn’t even funny. She’s making faces, or noises, or jokes. She looks like an idiot.
You’re judging her. She’s an adult, for God’s sake, and people are trying to go about their business. Specifically, you. You are trying to go about your business, and she is interrupting you. What is she laughing about, anyway?
Approximately sixty-two percent of the time, I am you. I am annoyed at that girl. I am trying to read Faulkner, or mourn the state of my checking account, or study, or stalk Benson Luk on facebook (heyyy Benson), or write my riddled-with-genius blog (alternate reality). She gets on my nerves and I take advantage of the situation to use her existence as an excuse to whine.
The other thirty-eight percent of that time, I am that girl.
Warning: I will hear nothing of my own hypocrisy. I love hypocrisy. I don’t even think it’s bad. I have accepted it about myself and expect you do to the same.
Excuse me, I just got a text.
Back.
So that girl is me. I’m laughing at that text, or at the book I’m reading, or at whatever I’m making fun of Daniel about, or at something that I actually said (yeah. sometimes I laugh at myself.)
And you know what? I’m having more fun than you are.
I started thinking about being that girl when I read one of the epigraphs of Chuck Klosterman’s Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs, which I am currently rereading. (read it. it really is genius.)
Here it is:
“‘I remember saying things, but I have no idea what was said. It was generally a friendly conversation.’ - Associated Press reporter Jack Sullivan, attempting to recount a 3 A.M. exchange we had at a dinner party and inadvertently describing the past ten years of my life.”
This epigraph resonated with me, because I feel more or less the same about the last seven years of my life. More or less, because when I think back, I remember a lot of laughing and silliness and happiness, and very few details. I like this.
When I originally read this quote, my first thought was of Tanya Tiwari. This meant, of course, that my second thought was of donuts.
If you know Tanya then you know what I mean. That girl is a ninety pound donut eating machine. Her ability to show a baker’s dozen of donuts where they can go (her mouth) defies the laws of physics, gravity and good sense.
The specific memory that popped to mind was of a rainy midmorning in the spring of 2007. We were seniors in high school, and we had a fifteen minute break before our Block 3 classes.
I was sitting in the locker area with Tanya when she glanced at me innocently. This is always a bad sign.
“I really, really want a donut.” she opened.
“Of course you do.” This was nothing new.
“I have some in my car,” she stated slyly.
“Are you serious?” I asked, completely unsurprised but hoping to help her see how ridiculous it was to hoard donuts in one’s vehicle.
“We could go get them...” she said, trying to make it my idea.
“Tanya. I don’t like donuts and it’s pouring down rain.”
“I have a huge umbrella!”
And so we ventured into the senior parking lot. The second that we reached her car, the innocent spring rainfall turned gale force and started whipping at our bodies from every angle, making the ridiculously large umbrella all but useless. I stood, battling the wind and rain and umbrella, while Tanya sat in her back seat wolfing down donuts from a Krispy Kreme box that appeared to have held at one point (presumably that morning) a dozen donuts. Maybe two. I chose to hold my comments until we had reached a dryer venue.
She finally finished at jumped back under the umbrella with me. Had I actually been strong enough to hold on to it, the sheer size of the umbrella might have actually offered some protection from the rain. As it were, it actually became a sort of wind surfing parachute that began to threaten to lift me right off the ground and whisk me away. It slipped from my fingers and flew across the field adjacent to the parking lot.
We were soaked in approximately two seconds.
Screaming with laughter and being pelted in the face with cold rain, we tore across the field and managed to recover the umbrella, which I promptly folded up and put under my arm for the run back to the locker area.
We returned just as people were beginning to pack up for Block 3 classes. We were soaked through (by the way, yellow skirts are see through when they’re wet), and laughing so hard that we could barely breathe. Tanya probably didn’t have donut crumbs on her face, but I choose to remember it that way, so that is the way I will tell it.
Tanya had donut crumbs on her face.
It probably doesn’t seem particularly funny, but I remember laughing hysterically at the whole situation. Maybe it was the fact that we were the only people who were wet at all, that we just suffered through that incident so that Tanya could eat a donut, or that we just felt overwhelmingly alive the way you do after you get caught in a rainstorm.
Who can say?
I remember people looking us like we were idiots. Which is fair, because we looked like idiots.
That being said, when I read Klosterman’s epigraph about thinking back on the previous years in a generally positive light, I agree and that situation pops to mind.
It was totally worth looking stupid, to have that memory of just being happy for no reason at all.
If you think that I’m going to wind this up by advising you to withhold judgement the next time you see that girl (or boy!) in a coffeehouse/store/classroom/zoo, I’m not.
I think she’s obnoxious too, possibly more obnoxious than you think she is due to my predisposition towards disdain.
I’m just saying, I’m not going to apologize when it’s me.
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