Screaming over spiders when we smack them off the wall with the end
of a Swiffer mop and they land on top of the trash bin, then jump somewhere.
Somewhere we can't see.
Loud, extended shrieking.
I'm never going to finish my essay.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Perhaps an epiphany?
I don't think guys realize how easily girls (in general, or maybe
just me) startle. It takes less than a quarter of a breath for me to go
from genial and pleasantly minding my own business to suspicious and
overflowing with "oh god what does he want."
(And yes, there is no question mark at the end of that because by the time the thought finishes crossing my mind, I've already moved on to a possible list of answers.)
I dropped by a Redbox today (not sure why I find the Underworld series so endearing, but I finally got around to seeing the third one) and on my way out I stood at the bike rack settling my bag and my jacket into my bike basket and this guy--quite a good looking guy, too, I should add--approached me with a rather hesitant but endearing smile. He said hello, I was polite and answered. He looked like he was gearing up for a question, so I looked up from my stuff and gave him about three-quarters of my attention in case he was lost or needed help or something. He asked if I was a student at UCSB, and I could feel my expression freeze over. I told him yes, but when he asked my name I gave him a fake one. "S--Rachel."
(Rachel is an old, old character of mine from a post-apocalyptic world. She was a timid, frightened little slip of a thing and I've always felt that she wouldn't mind me using her name to make myself feel safer.)
(She was also one of the Animorphs, which I'm pretty sure is where the name originally came from. Originally in my lifetime, I mean.)
So he says something very amicable in an unassuming, nonthreatening way along the lines of "oh, that's where I've seen you from."
Which was a lie. I'm observant and I'm sure I'd have noticed such a good-looking guy in one my lectures--and since I've only had a total of three lectures this year, all small(ish) upper division lectures, it cuts way down on the number of people around me.
That and it was clearly just a line. I almost played along, even, except that it was so clearly a line and I didn't actually know what he wanted out of me. My number? Not happening. Not interested, not even for such a friendly, attractive (brave) guy. So I said something along the lines of "oh, neat. That's cool. See you around, then."
Part of it was that I'm really just not interested in general. But a much bigger part was that he startled me and then I couldn't get over my initial suspicion. And yes, stress and other recent situations have left me more on-guard and less chatty than usual, but I'm pretty certain I still would have reacted better if he hadn't been my age.
So, (girls especially) help me out: am I the only one who startles like a goddamned rabbit over stuff and people that most likely are not dangerous?
(And yes, there is no question mark at the end of that because by the time the thought finishes crossing my mind, I've already moved on to a possible list of answers.)
I dropped by a Redbox today (not sure why I find the Underworld series so endearing, but I finally got around to seeing the third one) and on my way out I stood at the bike rack settling my bag and my jacket into my bike basket and this guy--quite a good looking guy, too, I should add--approached me with a rather hesitant but endearing smile. He said hello, I was polite and answered. He looked like he was gearing up for a question, so I looked up from my stuff and gave him about three-quarters of my attention in case he was lost or needed help or something. He asked if I was a student at UCSB, and I could feel my expression freeze over. I told him yes, but when he asked my name I gave him a fake one. "S--Rachel."
(Rachel is an old, old character of mine from a post-apocalyptic world. She was a timid, frightened little slip of a thing and I've always felt that she wouldn't mind me using her name to make myself feel safer.)
(She was also one of the Animorphs, which I'm pretty sure is where the name originally came from. Originally in my lifetime, I mean.)
So he says something very amicable in an unassuming, nonthreatening way along the lines of "oh, that's where I've seen you from."
Which was a lie. I'm observant and I'm sure I'd have noticed such a good-looking guy in one my lectures--and since I've only had a total of three lectures this year, all small(ish) upper division lectures, it cuts way down on the number of people around me.
That and it was clearly just a line. I almost played along, even, except that it was so clearly a line and I didn't actually know what he wanted out of me. My number? Not happening. Not interested, not even for such a friendly, attractive (brave) guy. So I said something along the lines of "oh, neat. That's cool. See you around, then."
Part of it was that I'm really just not interested in general. But a much bigger part was that he startled me and then I couldn't get over my initial suspicion. And yes, stress and other recent situations have left me more on-guard and less chatty than usual, but I'm pretty certain I still would have reacted better if he hadn't been my age.
So, (girls especially) help me out: am I the only one who startles like a goddamned rabbit over stuff and people that most likely are not dangerous?
God, not another title. I'm out of ideas.
(NOTE: this post was originally entered on May 20, 2012.)
Fourteen class days left. Four weeks to graduation. Twenty-one days. Twenty-five days until my last final exam. An unfortunate biproduct of finishing off GEs at the last possible moment.
When I was thirteen I hurt my left knee playing soccer. I did the whole physical therapy bit (and it sucked, of course) and ended up wearing a brace to bed every night until March 24, 2011 when I took a train from Edinburgh to London at the beginning of a three-week long trip through Greece and Romania and ended up forgetting my brace. I left it under my pillow in Edinburgh.
But as it turns out, I didn’t need it those three weeks I was gone. I just didn’t.
I hadn’t worn my knee brace for 390 days. After leaving Edinburgh I put it inside my hollow purple ottoman and it stayed the ottoman at the foot of my bed all year after moving from San Diego back up to Santa Barbara. I didn’t have to think about it often—the only other things I’ve got inside the ottoman are the serving spoons my grandmother gave me and extra mulled wine spices—but I always knew exactly where my knee brace was.
And last night I pulled it it out and put it on, and I hate myself a little bit for it. I got up this morning (afternoon) and did the leg exercises I’m supposed to do something like three to five times a day, but I made this horrific, relieved noise when the brace closed over my knee last night before I could even stop myself and I can’t stop thinking about how much I hadn’t even realized it hurt until it suddenly only hurt half as much.
This is mostly just a melodramatic complaint about how difficult it is to take care of myself. Food every five or so hours (it never ends!), laundry, exercise—the only enjoyable part of the upkeep are warm showers.
Fourteen class days left. Four weeks to graduation. Twenty-one days. Twenty-five days until my last final exam. An unfortunate biproduct of finishing off GEs at the last possible moment.
When I was thirteen I hurt my left knee playing soccer. I did the whole physical therapy bit (and it sucked, of course) and ended up wearing a brace to bed every night until March 24, 2011 when I took a train from Edinburgh to London at the beginning of a three-week long trip through Greece and Romania and ended up forgetting my brace. I left it under my pillow in Edinburgh.
But as it turns out, I didn’t need it those three weeks I was gone. I just didn’t.
I hadn’t worn my knee brace for 390 days. After leaving Edinburgh I put it inside my hollow purple ottoman and it stayed the ottoman at the foot of my bed all year after moving from San Diego back up to Santa Barbara. I didn’t have to think about it often—the only other things I’ve got inside the ottoman are the serving spoons my grandmother gave me and extra mulled wine spices—but I always knew exactly where my knee brace was.
And last night I pulled it it out and put it on, and I hate myself a little bit for it. I got up this morning (afternoon) and did the leg exercises I’m supposed to do something like three to five times a day, but I made this horrific, relieved noise when the brace closed over my knee last night before I could even stop myself and I can’t stop thinking about how much I hadn’t even realized it hurt until it suddenly only hurt half as much.
This is mostly just a melodramatic complaint about how difficult it is to take care of myself. Food every five or so hours (it never ends!), laundry, exercise—the only enjoyable part of the upkeep are warm showers.
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Wibbly-wobbly
My last post didn’t show up on my Facebook newsfeed; I’m kind of hoping this one doesn’t, either.
Every Tuesday and Thursday I’ve a class on Thoreau with possibly the biggest contemporary hippie in Santa Barbara (at least)—he’s a wonderful man and marvelous professor and I think he is most likely the kindest and most compassionate man I’ve ever meet and maybe will ever meet. And for some reason last Thursday he mentioned that in one of his other classes he participated in his first class-wide group hug ever and wasn’t it a shame that was the first and that it hadn’t happened again and who knew how long it would take before it did happen again—
And my first thought was, 'Before it happens again? I doubt anyone in this class would mind doing a group hug for Teddy. We all adore him enough.'
And my second thought dawned with an awful kind of sinking feeling: 'I don’t want to hug anyone.'
But they’d already voted on it and I think I was the only one to not raise my hand—we trudged (well, I trudged) outside beyond the concrete patio and huddled together in a big group.
Then everyone lifted their arms and I was the last one out of the building so they made room for me and the guy who’d held the door for me and we squeezed in at different spots of the circle and I was suddenly surrounded by warm bodies. Warm, breathing, kind bodies. People. On my left was a girl I knew solely because she submits beautiful poetry to the magazine I work for and on my right was a young guy who I’m not sure I’ve ever really even looked at before, let alone spoken to. But my arm fit around the girl’s waist kind of perfectly and I fit slotted into the guy’s side with his arm over my shoulders kind of equally perfectly.
We stood out there with our arms around our classmates and our professor for what felt like a long time, but was probably only a minute or two, and for the most part we kept silent. I wanted to say, "I’m glad I’m in this class. Even if I haven’t been keeping up with the reading, it helps. With everything."
But I didn’t. I couldn’t make the words take on air and noise.
And then after a long moment we all went back inside and continued on with our discussion on Walden.
Every Tuesday and Thursday I’ve a class on Thoreau with possibly the biggest contemporary hippie in Santa Barbara (at least)—he’s a wonderful man and marvelous professor and I think he is most likely the kindest and most compassionate man I’ve ever meet and maybe will ever meet. And for some reason last Thursday he mentioned that in one of his other classes he participated in his first class-wide group hug ever and wasn’t it a shame that was the first and that it hadn’t happened again and who knew how long it would take before it did happen again—
And my first thought was, 'Before it happens again? I doubt anyone in this class would mind doing a group hug for Teddy. We all adore him enough.'
And my second thought dawned with an awful kind of sinking feeling: 'I don’t want to hug anyone.'
But they’d already voted on it and I think I was the only one to not raise my hand—we trudged (well, I trudged) outside beyond the concrete patio and huddled together in a big group.
Then everyone lifted their arms and I was the last one out of the building so they made room for me and the guy who’d held the door for me and we squeezed in at different spots of the circle and I was suddenly surrounded by warm bodies. Warm, breathing, kind bodies. People. On my left was a girl I knew solely because she submits beautiful poetry to the magazine I work for and on my right was a young guy who I’m not sure I’ve ever really even looked at before, let alone spoken to. But my arm fit around the girl’s waist kind of perfectly and I fit slotted into the guy’s side with his arm over my shoulders kind of equally perfectly.
We stood out there with our arms around our classmates and our professor for what felt like a long time, but was probably only a minute or two, and for the most part we kept silent. I wanted to say, "I’m glad I’m in this class. Even if I haven’t been keeping up with the reading, it helps. With everything."
But I didn’t. I couldn’t make the words take on air and noise.
And then after a long moment we all went back inside and continued on with our discussion on Walden.
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