So there I am, sitting in the student lounge, chocolate smeared across my cheek, an anthropology textbook cracked open on my lap; I'm down to my last pencil, and "Toothbrush" is playing for what seems to be the fifth time in thirty minutes. It's Monday morning. Somehow the din of the surrounding chatter, the smack of pool balls, and the clacking of computer keys only add to the pangs of alienation. Everyone in here must be at least six feet tall and/or wearing flawless makeup from Sephora. I, meanwhile, am small, timid, have been walking around with a conspicuous rolling bag, and apparently give a constant expression of 'I don't know what the heck I'm doing'. Perfect.
My first day of college began spotlessly-- and by spotlessly, I of course mean that I somehow managed to get into hot water before my first class. Try beating that one, folks. (And as a side note, avoid power walking in the library).
Although I'd tried everything to feel prepared for this day (the usual visualization, school supply splurge, crying in a corner, etc.) there was nothing to keep me from the writhing mass of anxiety I became the moment I walked up the staircase to History. Walked is nondescript: My bag thump, thump, thumped up every step and I barely caught myself out of a stumble at the top of the flight. I'm certain my mom would have reminded me, "Whether you think you can or you think you can't, you're right." Unfortunately, my brain was very committed to analyzing every possible negative outcome.
It's been said that I allow dreams to influence me too deeply, and this may be true. I see them, however, as subconscious references rather than omens or mandates. And almost every morning, I force Hogan into the role of psychotherapist. It eludes me as to how he's so enduringly patient."I had a dream last night", I start-- he must be considering revoking our friendship for the third time this week-- "I couldn't sing. It was really distressing."
Imagine him giving an exaggerated expression of concern accompanied by no vocal change whatsoever. That's Hogan's usual. It's endearing, trust me.
He says, "Huh, sorry. Any idea what the psychological reasoning is?"
The dream had involved evil sororities, Myers-Briggs types, and my sister stealing my singing voice. My memory of a dream is rarely vague, but the plots themselves are convoluted-- more often than not, I find the gaping holes in logic difficult to explain. In this dream my sister had stolen my talents one by one and been praised for them while I struggled to fit in. Apparently she was kind of Ursula, but worse and with less legs. There was a goat somewhere here. I was playing with a snow globe. Idk.
Hogan's gotten used to me analyzing things like this to an almost unhealthy extent-- the underlying psychological metaphors, and so on. It stems from my regrettable middle school mentality. My parents disliked Freud, therefore I vehemently obsessed over him. So it goes. Sorry, Mom.
"It's because I'm scared of entering college and not being comparatively smart, or special, at all. The only things that could give me an edge academically are Jackie's talents. Focus and organization... which I don't have. I'll just be stumbling along."
And that, dear friends, is what eats me up at night:
Hahaha, of course not. You probably wouldn't be reading this blog if you weren't looking forward to hearing about my latest dumb decision-- you all know it's coming by this point.
Anyways, there I am in the student lounge. I've spent my first two-hour break between classes color-coding the syllabus and marking all the assignments in my planner (I'd like you to acknowledge that as a feat for me), and now that it's the second break of the day, time is stretching on into what feels like fantastic gravitational singularity. I've already gone to the cafe for lunch, fed a squirrel, and speculated the possibility that I could get through this whole school year without talking to anyone. Maybe if I pretended to be deaf? More on that later.
I glance down into my bag and the corner of the Book peeks up at me. The cover is an almost obnoxious shade of mustard yellow, yet there's something transfixing about it-- perhaps compared to long passages on dendrochronology, perhaps because of all the events leading up to this-- I pull it up with two fingers and slide the textbook off of my lap. The title screams, in bold black letters, and on no uncertain terms, "This Book Will Change Your Life".
Anyways, that's how I ended up at the gym on Saturday.
You may be asking how a yoga class relates to this challenge to do one singular press-up, and in response, I politely ask you not to judge me.
(I enjoy yoga for the simple reason that it makes me feel sore, in a good way. Well, okay, also-- it's the least possible effort, yet people still ask, with a mixture of awe and understandable surprise, "Oh, wow, you do yoga??" I think it gives them the impression that I've also saved fifteen orphaned puppies, dabbled in Taoism, and drink green tea every morning.)
But that's not the important part. I hope you haven't forgotten that I have issues.
On the way out of the yoga studio, every Saturday morning, you'll pass by several, equally strident group exercise classes. They're all filled with muscular thirty-somethings in color-coordinated athletic wear and high-brand running shoes who are, unequivocally, better than you. So I really can't explain why I looked at the schedule, saw something called "BODYCOMBAT", and said to myself, "hm, that sounds like a reasonable idea." But I did, and I walked right into a room blasting pop rock and boasting a regime of cardioboxing.
If I could offer you one piece of advice for every year, all the gloriously pragmatic bits that I dish out but fail to follow myself, I have a pretty good idea of what I'd be saying.
Okay, but trust me, this time I have good advice. I promise. I triple pinkie promise (ish).
Now listen up; I'm only going to say this once.
My first day of college began spotlessly-- and by spotlessly, I of course mean that I somehow managed to get into hot water before my first class. Try beating that one, folks. (And as a side note, avoid power walking in the library).
Although I'd tried everything to feel prepared for this day (the usual visualization, school supply splurge, crying in a corner, etc.) there was nothing to keep me from the writhing mass of anxiety I became the moment I walked up the staircase to History. Walked is nondescript: My bag thump, thump, thumped up every step and I barely caught myself out of a stumble at the top of the flight. I'm certain my mom would have reminded me, "Whether you think you can or you think you can't, you're right." Unfortunately, my brain was very committed to analyzing every possible negative outcome.
Imagine him giving an exaggerated expression of concern accompanied by no vocal change whatsoever. That's Hogan's usual. It's endearing, trust me.
He says, "Huh, sorry. Any idea what the psychological reasoning is?"
The dream had involved evil sororities, Myers-Briggs types, and my sister stealing my singing voice. My memory of a dream is rarely vague, but the plots themselves are convoluted-- more often than not, I find the gaping holes in logic difficult to explain. In this dream my sister had stolen my talents one by one and been praised for them while I struggled to fit in. Apparently she was kind of Ursula, but worse and with less legs. There was a goat somewhere here. I was playing with a snow globe. Idk.
And that, dear friends, is what eats me up at night:
Hahaha, of course not. You probably wouldn't be reading this blog if you weren't looking forward to hearing about my latest dumb decision-- you all know it's coming by this point.
Anyways, there I am in the student lounge. I've spent my first two-hour break between classes color-coding the syllabus and marking all the assignments in my planner (I'd like you to acknowledge that as a feat for me), and now that it's the second break of the day, time is stretching on into what feels like fantastic gravitational singularity. I've already gone to the cafe for lunch, fed a squirrel, and speculated the possibility that I could get through this whole school year without talking to anyone. Maybe if I pretended to be deaf? More on that later.
I glance down into my bag and the corner of the Book peeks up at me. The cover is an almost obnoxious shade of mustard yellow, yet there's something transfixing about it-- perhaps compared to long passages on dendrochronology, perhaps because of all the events leading up to this-- I pull it up with two fingers and slide the textbook off of my lap. The title screams, in bold black letters, and on no uncertain terms, "This Book Will Change Your Life".
Rude.
And so, I open to the first page.
Now, ladies and gents, a quick fun fact about me: I need things to be hard. If they aren't, I feel insulted, lose interest, and then purposefully worsen the situation until it meets my criteria of uncomfortability. Examples? Okie doke.
So imagine, if you will, my reaction to the following: I open to the first page, eagerly anticipating the wondrous experiences that await me, only to meet the passage, "As this is your first day, you should warm up with an easy task that will only change your life a little bit." What-- WHAT?!
Oh, and furthermore, "Choose one of the following options". The first one was "Do one press-up". I feel like that kind of sets the tone for the rest of the list.
I would like to state that, for the record, this list of things is half comprised of my daily activities.
That being said, I am not, by nature, athletically inclined-- psychologically or physically. My daily exercise consists of walking to the fridge and back, to the freezer and back, and wandering aimlessly around the kitchen while I try to decide whether I'm hungry or just bored. When my sister Olivia competes in the Olympics (as she surely will) I would like you all to reflect on this irony.
That being said, I am marginally good at two things: ice skating and yoga. I guard these jealously, because I have to be better at something, anything, even if only because they've never tried. We call it the eldest sister complex.
You may be asking how a yoga class relates to this challenge to do one singular press-up, and in response, I politely ask you not to judge me.
(I enjoy yoga for the simple reason that it makes me feel sore, in a good way. Well, okay, also-- it's the least possible effort, yet people still ask, with a mixture of awe and understandable surprise, "Oh, wow, you do yoga??" I think it gives them the impression that I've also saved fifteen orphaned puppies, dabbled in Taoism, and drink green tea every morning.)
But that's not the important part. I hope you haven't forgotten that I have issues.
On the way out of the yoga studio, every Saturday morning, you'll pass by several, equally strident group exercise classes. They're all filled with muscular thirty-somethings in color-coordinated athletic wear and high-brand running shoes who are, unequivocally, better than you. So I really can't explain why I looked at the schedule, saw something called "BODYCOMBAT", and said to myself, "hm, that sounds like a reasonable idea." But I did, and I walked right into a room blasting pop rock and boasting a regime of cardioboxing.
Now listen up; I'm only going to say this once.
Anyways, I walk in there, feeling energized from yoga, and within about five minutes, come to the very definitive conclusion that, out of everyone in the room, I would be the first to die in a zombie apocalypse. They have rooted me out as the weakest specimen, I am sure. "Uma Thurman" is playing. The instructor has us doing roundhouse kicks and curb stomps to the beat. I'm wheezing. The lady next to me could take out a full grown Kodiak bear.
Perhaps purely out of pity for me, the instructor advises us to "visualize" a scenario for our "technique". It gives more stamina and passion to those punches (I can attest to that).
So there I am! Fighting ninjas in the upper story of a fitness club while the music is going all bahDUMbahDUMbahDUMduhDUM (etc). They're swarming me from all directions, arising from the shadows. I feint to the right and swing my fist to catch one in the jaw-- he topples, because he's not actually a good ninja (due to a tragic backstory involving polymyalgia) -- and then I snap kick him in the ribs. The next strangles me from behind, I elbow him sharply to the stomach, everyone's cheering me on, and then--
Admittedly, I zoned out. Perhaps, you could say, got carried away.
-- I uppercut myself straight in the jaw.
Don't ask me how or why this happened.
Don't get me wrong, I'm spiteful and stubborn. I shrugged it off. We went on to punch imaginary speed bags and I walloped myself (more lightly this time) in the nose. Then across my own hand. "You could be a future boxer right here, you have the power and the drive," the instructor offered cheerfully. My hand was starting to bleed.
I walked out of there with an ego more wounded than my sore jugular.
Now wait, here comes my favorite part. Usually, by 6am at the latest, Jackie is doing crunches in her room, having already jogged/walked the dogs, eaten breakfast, applied makeup, gotten dressed with acute fashionable tact, posted a flawless selfie on Instagram, and read her Bible. Now, knowing that, this is actually what she said to me.
And, of course, the book was there to remind me when I got home--
