It's Cold Again

At the risk of repetition I am going to post my first complaint of the year about the cold and try and attach some mystic slightly poetic highly pathetic meaning to it again. Consider yourself warned.

Washington cold is different than Utah cold. It's not as dry, for one thing, which is nice. I mean my skin still dries out and my lips are still chapped a bit but they don't seem to crack and peel as much, which is always nice for a student budget cause that means you don't need lotion. Still though, it's cold. Everyone laughs when I say that and say it's just starting and going to be so much worse and I'm never going to make it--a sentiment I rather resent as I've never quit anything I've been determined to succeed at. Still, I can honestly say I feel cold here. Maybe part of it is living in the basement too. Not that I don't love my little room--I do, I just am not quite use to the temperature of life here.

I've decided that this temperature--just barely above frozen--is an apt description of myself in a lot of ways. Kind of like the ice right after the Zamboni driver gets done. It is glassy and smooth and welcoming but hard to crack and even harder to penetrate. You can see exactly who I am--I don't try to disguise what I'm really like or put up false pretenses but at the same time I don't let others in easily--not really. I am happy to get to know people and form friendships but I avoid allowing myself to be emotionally vunerable at almost all costs. I wonder why that is sometimes. My family has always been extremely supportive, I have always had good friends, no tramatic events, only one breakup that I thought went over rather smoothly, no huge dissapointments, no drastic failed attempts at anything. I have no idea why I am so protective of myself and insistant to avoid emotional events at all costs, but there you are. I am. Just like the weather here--cold and stoic but still crisp and perfectly upfront at the same time. Bundled and covered up it isn't a problem. It's only when you let your guard down that the cold really bothers you. The rest of the time it's almost tolerable. Just keep your guard up. Don't let anything in.

Also, I learned you have to be careful what you ask for. Again. Why is it that I seem to always need the same cosmic lessons over and over again? You would think I would get the hint and start on some new mistakes, but alas, this is not so. So I say again--make sure what you think you want is really what you want before you think you want it. Otherwise you just might get it and realize how much happier you were before. Of course, I suppose it is that way always. Even things you really do want often seem to have at least some negative consequences when you finally get them. The new haircut may be easier to fix but now all those styles you're use to don't work and you have to start over again. Being newly weds is amazing but it's still hard to get use to his socks all over the place. The appartment is perfect--everything you ever wanted, except for the extra seventy bucks a month. Washington is fun and beautiful and the school is great but the weather is stinking freezing! You get the idea.

Anywho. It's cold. I guess that means I get to bundle up in my favorite sweatshirt ever--an oversized George Washington University one I recieved at a sweatshirt exchange that I never take home for fear my mom will sneakily throw it out in an effort to cutify my wardrobe. I wear it probably every day. Gross? Maybe but I only wear it when I'm sitting in my room alone doing homework, so I'm the only one around to smell me. This is a lovely way for me to get warmth when I know I want it and I don't even mind the smelly consequences. Good. Maybe I'm learning something after all.

Sometimes being single is harder than usual.

Woman Pains

At the risk of embarking on a painfully awkward subject, I have heavily weight the pros and cons of sharing my rather shocking findings of feminine internal behavior and have decided that the information needs to come forth.

I think that on a physiological level, the female uterus purposefully makes life more miserable for poor victims like myself before children are born. Having never undergone said activity I naturally cannot be sure, but that is my belief. Take the pumpkin patch for example--our PT class, which is constantly having social activities, recently went to a local pumpkin patch. Those with kids brought them along and we had a blast. On that tangent, this particular patch had a cannon from which they launched pumpkins--one every hour--at a speed of 900 feet per second into the air, across two fields or so, and in the direction of the evergreen groves. I wonder if the pumpkin seeds affect their Christmas tree crop. So anywho, it was a blast on several levels to play with everyone's kids. As we were going back to the car, one of my fellow single babyless classmates looked over at me and said, "this almost makes your uterus ache, doesn't it." I found the comment strange, but as we helped the little two year old up the path, holding his hand and listening bemusedly to his happy chatter about all kinds of things I'm pretty sure his mom didn't want us to know, I had to agree. A painful, twisting, almost bitter sensation came from inside. Creepy, right? Creepy but true. My own body turning on me. How horribly rude and inconvenient. Maybe that's all part of menopause too. Your body is trying to reward you for doing your job and allowing it the opportunity to carry a child. That would be a lovely theory if only those who actually had bourne children went through it. Now that I think about it, that is not the case. Hmm... I dunno...

I am blond now--officially. The girl at the salon put way too much color in my highlights. I guess that's what you get when you always shoot for the cheapest option. Bet guys don't get that problem too much. Guys get a bad haircut and can get it fixed up in about a month. Girls, we have to wait years or shovel out enough money for another treatment. Me, I'll take the waiting. Anyway, maybe this way the teachers will be nicer to me. No one seems to expect as much out of a blondie who obviously paid someone else to alter my body to force it to become blond. Not nice, when said that way.

And now I fall asleep as I write. That's my excuse for the convoluted excuse for a paragraph above. Goodnight!

Everyday Victories and Disasters

Well, it has been awhile hasn't it? I guess this whole grad school thing is really quite busy in the end. Wild. I'm sure I had a lot to report if I had described the conglomeration of emotions I began this journey with, but three weeks in it feels as if I have grown accustomed to the road and besides the small pebbles beneath my feet there is little to upset or amaze me anymore. Suffice it to say it has been delightfully overwhelming. The most exciting, intense, and natural thing I have ever embarked upon. I am so grateful for the opportunity and still cheerfully confused as to how I ended up in this frozen corner of the country studying physical therapy of all things. In the few times I take to actually think about where I am I get all giggly and puzzled. What a tangled thing life ends up to be.

I opened the pickle jar myself this week. This may seem little more than slight elbow flexion and internal rotation and abduction of the shoulder joint (haha I crack myself up) but really this was a symbolic victory of sorts. High on the list of reasons single women need a man is to open jars. I ask myself, what does this mean? Have the women of the country become so independent that we have revolutionized the manufacturing of pickle jars everywhere in order to accommodate the growing single woman population? Perhaps I was naturally drawn to the jar that was easier to open through a complicated mixture of Pavlov, genetic selection, and feminine intuition. (Really, it was the cheapest jar, but maybe this plays into the psyche of singledom as well?) Maybe the ability to open it means that I have accepted my current single status with grace. Or would it be strength and dexterity? I certainly wasn't graceful in my attempt. Come to mention it, it certainly wasn't an especially impressive display of strength either. I said I opened it, I didn't say it was easy or pretty. Anyway. Eating pickles has never been so complicated.

As for other interesting developments... there isn't too much to be honest. Life is good. Simple, predictable, and all around blissful. Except today in the cadaver lab I totally swallowed dead people juice when the cadaver leg was suddenly dropped in my general direction. Gross gross gross!!! The general response was far from encouraging. First everyone laughed then they all asked how it tasted. If people really wanted to know, they should drink it themselves then I can laugh at them! Oh well. For the record, it was not delicious, salty, or anything I want to focus on too much.

The Colts are winning agin. Leading the AFC, infact. 5 and 0. What can I say, I sure can pick em, huh? and to squash any rumors I was a huge Colts fan almost since I started watching football over 10 years ago. A colt is a delight to any thirteen year old girl plus I liked their colors. Now they are still my team and I honestly count their first superbowl win as partially payoff for years of fruitless cheering combined with the sacrifice of missionary service. Excuse me while doge the lightning bolt. I am an acknowledged Peyton lover, but this year Austin Collie, a BYU graduate, is a rookie on the team who actually caught a touchdown a few weeks ago. So see, I am a real live fan. And they are winning. And I like that.

Speaking of sports, it ends up the rest of the world are Texas sport haters. Who knew? If you ask me, I am a slight female (although I can open pickle jars... hmm...) who is far away from home all on her little lonesome so people should be nice to me and my state. But they aren't! I can understand Cowboy bashing--everyone does that, especially with stinking Tony Romo in the lead. But Longhorn bashing? Stars? Rangers? Even the Mavericks! I defy you to find another man in professional sports who is more down to earth than Dirk Nawitzki except for, of course, Peyton Manning. Grr. I know it's just jealousy and severe inferiority complexity, but still. I wish people would back off if they don't have the backbone to recognize real true talent. Hmph.

Anyway. To quote one of my favorite movies, "life is a quick succession of busy nothings." I had better go to bed. Or maybe I will eat a pickle... its flavor strangely reminded me of the cadaver juice... maybe they were a little similar? Oh on...

Dodgeball Delight

I should be going to bed now as orientation starts tomorrow and I need to be awake and alert. Also I should be punished and sent straight to bed after the pathetic title I gave. Still, I need to toot my own horn a little bit before I forget.

Tonight for FHE the ward played dodge ball. I, of course, am dismal. I played virtually no role whatsoever in any of the first four games but still enjoyed myself and met some kind people. Anyway, so I was horrible. Perhaps my completely nonthreatening and timid playing style was the reason that the last game--the tiebreaker-- found me as the last member of my team still able to play against two stocky boys on the other team. Naturally, as I'm female, smallish, and new they didn't want to release everything they had but things still weren't looking good. Most of the balls were on our side of the gym and they only had 3 between them. They threw two at me at once and somehow I was able to dodge both (a miracle, I'm sure). In an effort to stop one from crossing back over I slid and grabbed it from just over the line. I barely got it but was kneeling at their mercy when they threw the last ball at me. Again some miracle helped me block it with the one I had just got. Everyone (including me) was duly surprised and impressed. Then--my true moment of triumph--one of they boys threw the ball back at me (it had bounced back into their side) and I caught it! It was amazing! That boy was out, it brought in one of our own boys and we won the tiebreaker!

As it was church dodge ball there really wasn't that much competition or anything, but it was a satisfying surprise that I didn't totally embarrass myself. Weird.

Sadness is usually always selfish but that doesn't make the rusty acrid aftertaste any easier to spit out. The knowledge that your life is not what you dreamed it would be, that no matter how happy you are you have failed in some big way from becoming the person and doing the things you always wanted to do is a secret you cannot always keep even from yourself. A life does not have to be bad to be a disappointment when under the microscope. The key of course is to keep the microscope far away from the examination table and giggles and fulfillment are bound to result. I am, after all, happy. Really truly genuinely deep in my bones I laugh all the time life is wonderful brand of happy. I am excited about school, about becoming a physical therapist, about my housing accommodations, about my new hair highlights and about the delicious pasta I made a few days ago. I seek out and take all the opportunities to laugh each day that I can but still... if I am honest with myself my life is still void of the things I want (and have always wanted) more than anything. Being a sister is amazing but I have always always wanted to be a mother. The affection of a parent is both essential and beloved but sometimes I wonder if I will ever know the other kind of love also...

Sometimes I wonder when I will become the main character of my own life. When will my dreams come true? When will it be my turn if not for the spotlight at least for the happily ever after? I mean, don't the Flounders and Charlotte Lucases and Gimlees and Neville Longbottoms eventually get rewarded for their hard work and friendship and determination? Where is their happy ending? Is it their destiny to help others reach theirs without ever finding their own? Where is the justice in that? Surly their stories are real even if they are unsung, right? I mean, being an extra doesn't mean you are a nobody. Being a supporting role surly doesn't mean that is all you are god for, does it? And if the happily ever after never comes along, if Prince Charming gets lost or finds someone else or fate never cooperates and you never catch that big brake or you give it all you have and still somehow fail in your quest then what? Do you make up an almost happily ever after and improvise for life without the fairy tale ending? Can you consider your life a success if you reached all your dreams except for the ones absolutely most important to you? How does one mourn the death of their deepest desire?

Tears taste funny when you are too proud to let them fall. Especially when you hold them in against yourself cause no one else cares. They are more snotty that way, somehow. More salty. Almost like the liquid evaporates a little bit and leaves the remaining goopy dregs just a little bit more minerally than they would be if they just came out right. Instead when they do come they burn a little like acid and shame because they've been stewing for too long. They look funny too--too round, too real somehow. If a tear falls and no one is there to wipe it what is its purpose? What are tears even for--they don't make anything better. Surely if it was just for washing eyes than a good sweat or dust storm would bring them about, not a sudden bout of lost purpose and hopelessness. Why is it that a good cry feels so miserable? What is good about it anyway? What an insipid phrase.

I heard once that God blessed the Brother of Jared with air immediately but made him work for the light. The speaker observed that when there is a true life-depending need, that God will not make us wait to receive it. However, when the need is really just a convenience that seems indispensable to us that it may cost us quite a bit more in sweat, blood, work, effort, and even tears. As a single girl it seems like everything is air, but I suppose much of it is really just light. And the encouraging thing is that after the Brother of Jared brought Jehovah rocks, his faith was strong enough that even his odd and probably insufficient offering was enough to allow God to take care of the rest. It's not really air, I can work and wait.

Also, I know of course I am not going to die tomorrow. I know I am plenty young and should not be speaking so morbidly of burying my deepest desires or balling my eyes out. (Which I do not, by the way). Still, sometimes even the strongest feel a little down, don't they? Sometimes people lose hope in each other. Sometimes... maybe often... we lose hope in ourselves. Hope can be a fickle friend when we aren't' careful. Very fickle indeed. Still, as long as there is hope there is happiness and dreams can be kept alive on a very scanty portion when that is all available. Tonight, therefor, I feed my dreams on leftovers and hope that later I have a more befitting feast for them. If not, though, somehow I think it will all be alright. Dreams, unlike sorrow, are rarely completely selfish and therefor quite a bit harder to kill.

The Overstimulating Sensations of a 28 Hour Car Ride

Yup, you read that right. Twenty Eight Hours. It sounds even longer when you read it in longhand. Somehow I always romanticize it in my head before we actually go. Eating out for every meal, the being together and talking and playing, listening to my favorite songs or a book on tape, and enjoying the general spledor of the great outdoors always seems so exciting and inviting somehow before the trip actually begins. Unfortunately, by the end, those ideals have usually discintegrated somewhat. The hamburger for every meal turns into a constipation concoction in my stomach gurgling with gas and oozing with extremely awkward sensations. I am reminded of the stinkpots in Yellowstone we drove to see one year. Being together becomes more of a sentence than a treat, especially as the conversation leads closer and closer to bickering over which side of the seat line one's hand is lying or whose unmentionable (caused of course by the diet of grease and salt) is filling the car with stink. I always end up hating what once was my favorite song by the end of the trip and the endless drone of the reader proves more hypnotic than stimmulationg as I strive to stay awake and not leave us all as souveniers splattered accross the road. Even the general outdoor majesty turns tired and endless. Especially in Texas with no mountains, rivers, or anything at all to break up the monotomy of sky and prarie, the landscape can seem absolutely eternal. This of course makes me even more proud to be a Texan, but does not change the fact that driving through my beloved state is very nearly unbearable.

And that's just the contrastof what I expect to what I get. THat doesn't even begin on th smells of the thing. Six to eight human bodies cramped in the same twelve by six feet (or whatever it is) for that amount of time doesn't exactly smell good, especially when you add in the grease and salt. You know you smell bad when you smell yourself. You know you are grimy when the scum on your teeth and oil on your face are about the same thckness. When you taste your own breath... well, you get the idea.

But now it's over. An absolutely fabulous week in Idaho on Grandpa's ranch with hourses, ATVs, the rodeo, and all the fishing I could want (which, between you and me is a lot). We got home safely after the ride refered to above at around 9 this morning then I slept grumpily till noon then went to church. Today was actually quite an adventure with broken toes, near death experiences, and worship service as well. Sounds a bit like a movie, doesn't it. All in all a good Sunday.