hello, good friend

Last night at dance class we made the mistake of praying before class. Not that praying’s bad. Just that the eye-closing and head-bowing makes already tired bodies very sleep prone. We have several more weeks til the annual Acclamation concert, but few of us feel any sense of urgency about it. Our routine isn’t finished. That’s probably bad.

Last night I should have devoted the two hours before bed to my obnoxiously unfinished Literary Criticism midterm exam, but American Idol beckoned. So, yes. That was a bad choice.

This morning a productive self would have arisen slightly before, oh, say, 10am. Alas, productive self didn’t show up today, so here I sit, actively procrastinating on a few remaining assignments, delaying that midterm exam until about 2am, and moderately content with the whole lack of ordeal. Spring Break’s acomin’.

That glorious celebration chimes in at about 4pm-ish tomorrow. I’ll be celebrating with a full tank of gas, residual sleep deprivation, and a fully-charged iPod. I’ll also be blog-absent until March 25th, or thereabouts. Merry Spring Breaking!

Bienvenidos, blog devotees. I apologize for the lengthy absence. Recently, my blogging attentions have focused on Godspell-related journaling. You can peer into my current goings-on at our web magazine, The Bridge Online.

But now we’re back in business.

Recent components of my erratically-constructed world:
Fasting, Feasting by Anita Desai
a well-worn Dell Pocket Crossword Puzzles book
The Union’s cookie dough Microblasts (what does that mean, “microblast”?)
Oprah (admittedly)
orange juice and black beans (odd combo, I’m aware)
apartment shopping
Towson, Maryland
www.verseit.com (guaranteed entertainment, check it out)
“Clap Ya Hands” on repeat. Choreography.
World Magazine
The “Juno” soundtrack (well worth the listen)
Spring Break planning
The Cloister Walk by Kathleen Norris

Currently, lists are my genre. Thus far in the semester, I’ve read and written more than I have in a while, so lists are about all I can muster. I’m in the midst of composing a 30-page senior thesis on my writing life. Go figure. I wasn’t aware that I led a writing life. (If I didn’t before, I certainly do now. Cranking out several pages a day hasn’t been easy.) So the straining, striving, and overall stressing yields a measly list. Hmph.

My fiancé and I would like to use this forum to formally advocate elopement. Bring your parents, bring your sibs, bring your closest, wealthy-enough-to-fly-to-the-Caribbean friends. But, please, consider the advantages of small, private, tan-included affairs.

Sure, you say you won’t budge on hosting anything larger than the mythical “intimate family gathering.” But intimate family gatherings propagate exponentially when they include Great Aunt Mildred (Who is that anyway? She’s apparently related to everyone in the world but me.), who casually mentions the occasion to her Bunko cronies, and word travels to distant acquaintances, who all want inclusion on the please-buy-me-a-gift list, then suddenly you’re inviting your former preschool teacher, your penpal from North Dakota, and your bunkmate from the overnight camp you attended the summer after first grade.

A few days ago we entertained this idea: why not lever our unintentially lengthy guest list (no, seriously, we want y’all there) and request that our friends/strangers/random attendees pool their money and pay for our first year of rent? See, even if we do receive these lovely household items, we’ll have nowhere to store them. That’s because we don’t own an apartment. And that’s because we can’t find a single one-bedroom domicile in Baltimore-D.C. suburbia for less than…well, what we consider an atrocious amount of money.

Call it a rude awakening, but we’ve spent the past weekish in irritable states. We blame the housing market.

And while I’m recounting this predicament to my trusty cubicle-mate, Dan, he presents the most brilliant idea yet:

“Well, they make nice tents. That’ll last you at least a year.”

Maybe we’ll haul a pop-up residence to an island flight site. The weather’s certainly nicer.

I don’t know why I always tell people that I love the unexpected. You know, the interviewer prompts, “Tell me something about yourself,” and you say (on cue) “I’m totally a people person, and I just love spontaneity!”

(False. Sometimes I thoroughly enjoy isolating myself in my apartment with a few movies and junk food, and I flip out when I don’t have every life step planned to the most minute detail.)

“I can definitely roll with the punches. I’m organized, yet flexible!”

(False. It unnerves me to not know what I’m doing next year, month, week, day. Actually, at the moment, I loathe spontaneity.)

“I’m up for whatever life throws my way! I just love new opportunities!”

(False. Actually, I have a lengthy list of things which, if life were to casually toss them my direction, would trigger in me a severe mental breakdown.)

So, yes, this optimism comes effortlessly on sunny days when my hair looks great, my GPA solid, my employment prospects promising, my relationships intact, my future secure, and my finances stable.

But on those mediocre, borderline–frazzled days when the slightest wrinkle in my starched-and-pressed plans exposes its imperfections, I just smile…and fake it. Recitation breeds authenticity, right?

“I’m totally up for anything!”