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The contents of this website are mine personally and do not reflect any position of the U.S. government or the Peace Corps.

Thursday, May 29, 2008

And Now, Let's Talk About Me Some More

I just didn't feel like the content of this post would mesh well with the contents of the previous. So here they are, two in one day, when usually I'm lucky to get 5 in a whole month.

I've run out of pants. They all have holes, these holes have been stitched up, and now the stitched bits are falling apart. Other just don't fit anymore, which makes sense, they're throwbacks I've been keeping around since my high school days. But this is becoming a very serious problem. Usually one pair of jeans works as the bottom half of my wardrobe for two weeks - now I have nothing. I pulled out some old capris that gloriously still fit, so every sunny day you can find my running about in green clam diggers. But what to do on gloomy, rain-threatening spring days such as today?

The answer, it turns out, is to dress up. While Jessica was visiting earlier this month, we went on a failed pants-shopping trip that ended with me purchasing an inappropriately thick, professionally chic skirt and classy heels. The weather was nice, and I doubted this ensemble would see the light of day before next December.

So I wore it today. I stayed warm despite the weather, despite the open air between my legs and the skirt. Also, my roommates wished me luck on my presentation, and on campus people asked if I had an interview later. What could I say? I told them the sad truth. I'm out of pants.

After finals I'm going shopping, come Hell or high water.

Also, last night at Boundary Bay, I pulled off a moment of rare genius. Kenny's got an ex-girlfriend that we love to hate, so when she approached our table to say hello and chat, I turned my face away to the others across the table. Holding my hands up to the side of my face, "Hey guys, which impressionistic painting am I??" and then contorted my face into the grisliest scream I could muster.

When I turned back she was gone.

A Long Lifetime

I turned 21 recently. Although I've been living it up ever since, consistently ordering beers and margaritas with my meals, I've also been haunted by a painful reality:

I am not a child anymore.

This is a fact that most people are quick to recognize; they fight for that truth to arrive and fake it if it hasn't. But our society lacks a clear definition for the difference between child and adult. It used to be when a girl had her period she became a woman. Now, not even losing your virginity guarantees that transformation. Some nations send their boys on spirit quests - if you survive, welcome back sir.

Our lines between the two descriptions have blurred. At 18, I went off to college. I ceased to have a curfew, I spent weeks without talking to my parents, and my educational success became entirely up to me. However, my parents still paid my bills, sent me money when I became broke, and called up and lectured my brother when we fought. How could that possibly be described as the circumstances of adulthood?

But I think I'm there now. School is getting hard. It requires more energy of me, energy that I'm not willing to give. But I give it anyway. Money is becoming a serious concern. I'll be working two jobs this summer, with any luck. I went on a road trip this weekend and realized that no one back home knew I had left.

The biggest sign, however, was that no one coddled me when I went to the emergency room Monday morning. And rather than feeling abandoned or unloved, I was glad for the space. I relished the time alone I had to deal with reality.

So there it is. I'm not a child anymore. I am an adult, I am responsible for myself, and I am glad to have finally arrived.

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

Sap

Hormones? Wuss? What? All I know is that I'll cry at the drop of a hat.

Reading an article for my management class, they mention a company that awards its top employees with a prize of their choice, worth up to $10,000.

"It's another thing when, in addition to public recognition of your performance, you receive a college tuition fund for your child, or the Harley-Davidson motorcycle you've always dreamed of, or -- the prize everyone at the company still talks about -- the airline tickets to fly you and your family back to Mexico to visit the grandmother you haven't seen in ten years."

Yep, teary-eyed. And in public.

Not Chuck Norris Yet

I always thought I was a decently bendy person. I mean, I can't do the splits, but I feel like I'm not in the minority here.
Yeah, well, kicking in my martial arts class today taught me that not only am I a crippled old woman, but that my balance is shit, too.
Time to start practicing the splits.

Also, there are other things going on in my life besides my attempts to become Bruce Lee. They're just not as fun to think about.

Wednesday, May 7, 2008

I Know Kung-Fu

Okay, really, I don't. But last night was my first martial arts lesson and it was GREAT. There were only five other students, so it wasn't reminiscent of being a soldier in one man's (well, woman actually) personal army. The other new kid in class was actually a very large, very strong black man. We were partnered up so we wouldn't hold the other students back, and trust me, if you're a short little girl versus a very large man, holding a pad between you and his kicking shin is not much of a reassurance. Also, he had to kneel down so my "high" kick would actually connect.
Of course this morning I skipped class to sleep in. My left arm especially is complaining about the abuse, so I think I'll take a few Tylenol and a very hot shower before going on with my day.

Friday, May 2, 2008

Levelling the Status Quo

Also, Mission: Super! is one step closer. Nick and I now have a Very High musical compatibility.

Exceptions

It's 12:30 on a Thursday night. Most of Bellingham is out at the bars, or playing beer pong with friends in someone's garage. I'm not among them. Instead, I've settled onto the couch in the living room, my textbook and notes and computer and calculator sprawled in a mess at my feet. There's a cup of Kenny's Signature Coffee, strong enough to hold a coffee stirrer upright, nestled precariously over my practice exams. My studio headphones, second hand from an older brother, are plugged into my laptop. Bob Seger tells me about his night moves while I attempt to figure out statistics. It's not fun, not by any stretch of the definition, but it's oddly satisfying. This is an evening that I will look back on and be glad that I experienced it.
Now if only I could stop losing my goddamn eraser every time I set it down.