Day 4. Or Born to Soar

Life is not for the claustrophobic.

It's especially hard if you wear the weight of it on your shoulders. Take it from someone who knows, it'll press you deep into the ground, encapsulate you and keep you from moving and shaking it off.

Every time I get another e-mail with bad news, sad news, troubling news, bitter news, heartbreaking news, my chest tightens. There's another dumbbell added to the load. Another straw slowly breaking my back. I'm numbed and at the same time resigned to it. I sink an inch deeper and struggle a little less. This morning I read the e-mail and cried, I felt the tears falling down my cheeks and simultaneously opened my next assignment.

The world doesn't stop.

I can't afford to.

I'm only acknowledging it now because four days ago I made myself. And that's what is truly sad. Whether ninety-six leaving a gloriously appreciated life behind or twenty-three and tragically lost to us--life is ... there. It happened, it's beautiful, it's frustrating, it's terrifying. It goes and comes as it will, and it leaves us behind choking in the dust.

Today I'm going to work in my stomping boots. Because I can, today. I may not be able to so chose if and when I want life to happen, because it will, but I can decide how I react. So I'm acknowledging this crazy day by stomping.

Come stomp with me.

Day 3 or How is it possible that my genetics lasted this long?

 

In all honesty, for anyone who doesn't know my family history I'll just toss it out there: I had an ice cube's chance in hell to actually have been born. So, go me! And while it's neat to think that my family had the resilience to survive the black plague, I wonder how fast I'd crumble since I can't even manage to combat the smallest most common-est common cold out there.

This is what I ponder as I lean over the bathroom sink to wash my hands after having just dispelled the grossest, most gnarly loogy I could have imagined coming from my own body. But wait, there's more! The surprises of being sick just keep on coming. And in the shape of blistering cold sores. 

Oh, cold sores, how I loathe thee. Because it's not like I have a sexually transmitted disease, what I have, in fact, is a disgusting reminder that my immune system sucks. But instead of the empathy and compassion that I deserve, what everyone reads on my face is a pulsing red flag screaming, "I'm the baby cousin of genital herpes! Isn't that GROSS?" Yes, tiny demon virus. It is gross. Now go away. 

 

Please excuse me now while I go grab some tissues and a cup of tea. 

 

Day 2. Or random memory of the day.

Weather like today makes me want to play solitaire.

Not that rainy sledge-snow makes me want to pull out a deck of cards, mostly because I don't own a deck of cards.

I learned how to play on the kitchen floor. The home where I grew up was heated with a wood stove and on cool evenings my mom would perch in front of the heater in the kitchen and play cards. It was a coveted spot, in front of the heater. Whoever didn't fit there was banished to a pile of blankets in the living room to wallow in the midst of siblings to stay warm. Being the youngest at that time, I used my tiny stature to my advantage to crawl under my mother's arm and curl up in her lap. Advantaged seating by proxy.

Looking out from between her feet, I watched her play solitaire. At first it was a bit like trying to comprehend a book without being able to read words. Mysteriously she would place cards on top of the stack, create rows from thin air, and remove others all while I peered out and traced the lines of the thin, blue carpeting. I can still remember being very proud of figuring out that you needed to alternate colors, but then there is a large gap and I can't actually remember learning to play. There is only complete lack of understanding and enlightenment.

Solitaire enlightenment, it was a big step up in my life.

Mostly I just want to curl up in front of a heater. Which brings me to my next, and the more pressing, topic. Why isn't the heat on in my apartment?
Seriously.

Ten Minute, Ten Day Challenge

Game on, Computer.

Stark realizations make me think that I may be destined to become a hermit crab in the next life. Or this life. I've never been convinced Kafka's Metamorphosis wasn't based on true events. Plus, didn't your mother always tell you that if you make that face long enough, it'll stick? I'm fairly certain (within one standard deviation and under four degrees of freedom) that it applies to life habits as well. Which leads me to believe that if I keep my shenanigans up, I'll either become a hermit crab or the puppet that lived in the trash can on Sesame Street.

Side note: Oscar had it rough. He lived in a trash can, for crying out loud. I mean, let's be honest, what did he eat? Where did he go to the bathroom? If that were me then I'm sure I'd be grouchy, too. You'd think at least occasionally Bert and Ernie would let him crash on the couch or something...

Seriously, Jerks.

What was I talking about?

Oh yeah, so since I live the antithesis of what college life should be (Because who actually assumed college was for academic work and furthering your career prospects? Haven't you people watched American Pie 7 or whatever? The real U of M is featured in that film.) I am deciding now, and holding myself to it by announcing it to whomever still reads this thing, to get myself out of my books.

Once a day I will blog for ten minutes, starting today. The rules are:
1. Write about everything BUT academics, because right now they are the devil.
2. At least ten minutes must be perused in the act of writing. No watching America's Next Top Model in front of a blinking courser and calling it good. ...Not that I'd ever do that anyway.
3. I will do this for ten days straight.
4. When If I do succeed, I will reward myself with an undisclosed gift.

So this is basically a win-win. I'm hoping that it will prep me for talking to real people in the real world and I get a break from the hell-hole that is Microsoft Word in exchange for Blogger's wonderful interface. 

(If that won me any brownie points at all, Blogger. Add an umlaut function. I get sick of copy-pasting those suckers.)
Let the games begin and May the odds be ever in my favor.