Girls Night

Last week was a long week. Lately, all of the weeks seem to be taking increasing amounts of time. Every day seems to drag on with little productivity and lots of busy work. There is so much I know that I need to be doing, but so little I am actually interested in accomplishing.  I really don't think I have caught the senioritis bug that seems to be going around-yet. But I can feel the beginnings of it.
Every year at this time of year I get a cold. Two days ago I woke up with a slightly sore throat and this morning I woke up with a runny nose and voice that decides for itself when it wants to work. Though I have not been properly diagnosed, I am really starting to believe I am alergic to one of those floating air molecules that comes from up north this time of year.  Well, I've gotten the sore throat of senioritis. I'm beginning to feel that urge to leave. I'm enrolled in college. I- despite everyone else's dreams for my life- have made my college decision. I am ready to stop doing BCIS online, and waking up at six o'clock am to sit in classes.
So, feeling a bit downtrodden from my last few weeks, I invited a couple of friends over. I am lonely because the boy has been gone for a while now and I'm sick of school and annoyed with almost everything. So, I needed a bit of a pick-me-up.  So for dinner: bell pepper, mushroom, and italian cheese stuffed chicken breasts, buttered smashed potatoes, sauteed veggies and foccocia bread. What better way to spend a Saturday evening watching the Miss America Pageant. 

And, to top it all off, peach dump cake. Delicious.

I'm hoping that these nice nights may ward off my impending runny nose. And with it keep me a bit more content and happy with my surroundings. 

Patience

Anyone who knows me well has a thorough grasp on my inability to retain patience. Those who I love-and luckily continue to love me back- have seen me time and time again wallowing in my own devastation as a result of impatience. In all transparent honesty, my biggest downfall is impatience.

I am unwilling to wait for traffic, or for a college to call me back, or for a friend a few minutes late to coffee. I am burdened daily by distant response times and tedious activities. Most days, my impatience is something I accept as a part of me and rejoice in. I am grateful for my impatience because it gives me something to whine about. Something to hide behind, and blame and use against me. Patience is my biggest struggle.

So as a result I am placed in situations through which I am forced to be patient every day. Patient with myself. Patient with others. Patient with the cars in front of me in rush hour traffic. Patient with college admissions counselors. But I, in all of my selfishness, hate everything about it. I do not want to grow and become a bigger person. I do not want to take the time to create a great piece of art, or write a novel. I do not want to slow my life down from its 150 miles per hour and walk. I want to run to the next stop and complete the task and move on.

Last week, in the beautiful weather my body began urging for physical activity. It wanted to walk, it said. It wanted to go to the lake and hike around a bit. It wanted to spend time in great conversation and deep thought and long coffee dates. Yet my head denied it. My head said that there were far too many things for me to do to worry about silly self-reflective activities. My head refused to give my heart the patience it craved to enjoy last week's beautiful weather.

And now it is cold again. Ugly, and miserable and rainy. I was bitter at the cold, but mostly I am bitter with myself for not enjoying the beauty of the weather while it was here.

As much as I truly hate being taught patience and learning the hard way, I need it. I just wish I could be taught faster.

Editing

I'm avoiding.

For the past four weeks I have looked across my room. I do not touch it. I try not to think about it. I've begun getting shivers every time I touch it. I can go days without even mentioning it. Sometimes I cringe when dear friends ask about. But the worst, the absolute worst, was when I used to open it. Four weeks ago, I would run my hands across its printed pages and sigh deep sighs of relief. Four weeks ago, I used to enjoy having it under my arm and showing it off.

But now, as much as I hate myself for this, I fear it.  I haven't hit writer's block. No, I've been writing like crazy for four weeks. Short stories, and columns, and anecdotes. I've been pouring out words from my endlessly typing fingers. Yet, I cannot direct them where they need to be. I've read four books in four weeks. All about doing the one thing I cannot bring myself to do: EDIT.

So tonight-despite the fact that it is Friday and I should probably be off galavanting with my cronies- I'm going to stop banging my head against the wall and pick it up. That's step one: Pick it up. Step two: the first. five. pages. Step three: edit.

I'm hoping to get through step one.

The Crimson Theory.

As a child, I spent many Saturday nights watching my father neglect dinner. It's not that he doesn't like to eat. In fact, he has spent most of my life tidying up whatever we didn't eat of family dinner. Leftovers, in my father's brain, are kind of a waste. Yet whenever his Auburn Tigers ran out onto the field, the food would wait. He loved his team. Correction, he LOVES his team. He watches the pre-game and the post-game show.  My mom, who also went to Auburn and grew up in a football obsessed family, also enjoyed the football games. She, however, could eat.
I grew up an Auburn Tiger. I grew up singing Bottagetta and saying War Eagle during kick-offs. Mostly, I grew up hating the Alabama Crimson Tide. I grew up ignoring people in Alabama sweatshirts. I still feel a great desire to honk at people driving cars with ugly crimson A's on them. My Calculus teacher says that if you have made up your mind about something by age 12, there is a 78% chance you will never change it.
Though her statistics are becoming more and more far-fetched, this one I think are reliable. I made up my mind at the age of three about the way I feel about Crimson, and still today it stands strong.
My number one college choice is the University of Texas at Austin. Their rival is Oklahoma. Who wear what color? Crimson. My reach school is Yale University. Their rival is Harvard. Who wear what color? Crimson. Even my back up schools have blue colors. I have chosen schools that neglect and deny any spiritwear caked in that wretched color. I don't own a single piece of crimson clothing. And I have never done an art piece with Crimson.
My hatred for Crimson runs deep. So last night, watching the BCS Championship Game, I was fuming. When Colt McCoy walked off the field, I cursed the color that did that to him. When we had to put in our baby freshman quarterback, I begged him to beat on the Crimson on the other side of the line.  I fought, hard and long against that Alabama team I had grown up detesting, but they still won. They didn't beat Auburn. It was worse. For once, they were beating MY team. Not my parents team. Not my grandparents team.

I hate alabama.

Barbies and Colleges

The people in my family never played Barbies the right way. My sister would jump the parts of Barbie's life she thought were insignificant. She would move Barbie along to prom, or her wedding without ever having to work to get there. In her world, Barbie had no reason to ride in her yellow Volkswagen bug when she could ride in the pink stretch limo with six of her closest Barbie friends. Barbie always wore full ball gowns and a fancy up-do. Together, we found ourselves fighting over what exactly playing Barbies was supposed to be about.

I thought Barbies should have rules, and regulations. I thought that even make-believe land should follow basic order. And basic order said that Barbie had to go shopping for a dress, and fight to get a date before she could even think about going to prom. My sister viewed it as a time to fantasize; a time with no boundaries and no boring obligations to hold her back. I fought hard for my shopping trip and discreet flirting. I tried to convince her of the obvious reality that my way was the right way. I knew how to play barbies. She was obviously confused.

She wasn't the only one who didn't know how to play though. My father was equally as bad. I remember thumping the front of his newspaper as he tried to read and begging him to play with us. My sister and I would simply move our game to his belly and annoy until he caved. We would beg him to join our game until, with great hesitation, he would gently fold his great paper back up and pick up a Ken doll. Even my idiot baby sister knew he played the wrong way. First, my father never wanted to go to prom. His form of Barbies involved taking Barbie and Ken on an extensive hike up Backofthecouch Mountain. When the two would finally reach the summit, he would throw Ken across the room exclaiming "OWWWW, I broke my leggggg." At which point Ken would retire to the hospital to have his femur set, and my father would return to his paper.

I look back at that little girl, and I can still feel the pulls of frustration she felt. Even writing this, I glared a bit at my sister when she pranced through the living room with a bowl of salsa. Those emotions are still so real and so palpable. So completely... unatractive. I reminisce to those long days clutching plastic dolls, and feel sorry for my young self. Earlier, I was laying in my bed thinking about the past. In so many ways I have changed the type of person I am, and the way that I respond to conflict. Yet, even today, I am still that little girl who doesn't like not having control.

College has been unbearably difficult on me for that reason. Everything I can do to get into college has been done. I have made the grades. I have sent in applications, and expanded resumes and transcripts. Now, I can't do anything. The only thing I can do is check the mail. And I do that with astonishing resiliency. Not only do I check the stack of mail my father places on my desk every day, I hike down to the mailbox "just to make sure". I'm easily frustrated and annoyed these days. I want to just know. I want to be told whether Barbie will be going to prom or dress shopping or hiking(god forbid). I want to be told so that I can know how I will react. Know which place I can play Barbie the boring, controlling way I play Barbies.

Here I am, thirteen years older than my past self. But from the way I act, it could have been yesterday. I've simply replaced my Barbies with Colleges. Instead of Barbie, and Theresa and Mandy I have UT and Yale and Reed. These Barbies and bigger and scarier. Worst of all, these new barbies don't play the way I want them to play. I have to wait until they decide how they want to play. Its much harder to control Universities.

Ten Resolutions for 2010

1.finish the NOVEL! hopefully before May. and send it to an agent. and become a published author. Lofty I know, but hey, its worth a shot.

2.write a little bit every day... including blogging at least 4 times a week. real blogs, not cheap ones.

3. go to college.

4. work out twice a week. Monday/ Thursday: that can't be that hard right?

5. take more pictures. normally I really suck at taking pictures. but 2010. its my year. I need to take my pictures, and upload them here as a testament.

6. take more quiet time. I spend too much time hectic and not enough in thought. Maybe I can combine this and #4 by going on walks.

7. 1 book per week.

8. fill up all of the canvases in the art room

9. stop worrying so much.

10. Love.