I am so indecisive

I really am sometimes. The funny thing is, if I'm around a bunch of other indecisive people, I'll just call the shots so we quit staring at each other, waiting for someone to call the shots. Take a typical Tuesday morning for example. That's our 5-mile easy run day in cross-country (henceforth abbreviated as "XC"). Usually our newly elected team captain will look at us and ask which route we want to run. It shouldn't be hard, there are only like three. Yet through some mysterious process, this question is met with blank stares. It doesn't help that it's 6:40 in the morning. Some of us are still sleepwalking. So usually I'll just weigh the options and pick something. I guess I"m one of those behind-the-scenes leaders. I'll wait to see if an obvious leader steps forth; if not, I'll step up to it.

All that to say this: I have a short story (a long short story, about 12 pages double-spaced) I wrote over Hurricane Ike, in snatches on my laptop (which contains the world's crappiest replacement battery), and charged said crappy battery in the car on scouting runs to the Conoco, Shell, and H-E-B (that's a Texas grocery store, for those unfortunate out-of-staters :p). There's a lot in there from my life, and I'm kind of scared to post it. Especially after this. Because a certain person is involved romantically (kind of) in the story, and it's written in first-person (although the narrator is NOT me, thank goodness).

So that's why I'm dithering right now. Cool word, 'dithering'. Can't you tell right now I'm totally stalling? I really can't decide. Especially because I'm concerned people will get the wrong impressions of my exact feelings toward certain persons. Regrettably, Blogger does not have a password-protect function.

Besides, it's not like anything I usually write. Part of this was the super-weird circumstances, which I pray I never undergo again (two words, all you bloggers, for ten days: no internet). It was based off a dream I had, so some real-life things got mixed in.

Okay, I am blathering now. Vulnerability is not something I expose myself to often. It's not safe. It's not supposed to be safe. But it should be part of life. And I suck at telling when is a good time...

Um...weirdness?

Let's start at the very beginning. Some time ago - July, maybe - I had a dream that a friend of mine died in an accident, and I didn't find out until a couple days later. I woke up absolutely freaking out, hyperventilating, crying (yes, but only for a very short time). It was one of the best feelings in the world to realize "He's not dead."

Take 2: Not long ago, I dreamed I was teaching this same person (who shall remain nameless - I'm learning from my mistakes) to waltz. To Waltz of the Flowers, Tchaikovsky. I can only imagine what a psychologist would do with this. The contrast between these dreams is so absurd I'm still laughing about it.

And now, a friend of this Nameless Person (I'm fond of caps in a weird way), has said (actually, IMed on Facebook), and I quote "lol does someone have a crush on [favourite name of your choice] lol".

What is this??? This is the second person I"ve been accused of having a crush on. In like, the same day. Clearly there were benefits to homeschooling. I never had this problem before. It shows me, though, that I must be a red-blooded female, because the whole face-getting-hot thing? Yeah. For the past sixteen years and eleven months of my live, I thought I was immune.

Ha. Apparently I have no power over that reaction. Look, I like both guys, yes. But in a platonic way. (I really like that word, platonic).

I'm sorry if this seemed disjointed and rambling. It's late. I should go to bed. But I'm afraid I'm going to stare at the (mostly) dark ceiling, thinking about this...

Sometimes I swear Facebook is evil. And the friend of this Person is the last person I ever expected to make me twitchy like that. It's even worse than the first accusation (made by two roommates, whom I love), because this Person is...how do I say this? In the vernacular, hot. (I'm sorry, yes, I'm going with SAT vocabulary here. It happens when I get flustered). He's both a football runningback and high school tutor. (I confess my skepticism and snobbery in believing the dumb football player stereotype and am now humble and glad there is an exception.) And we (some days I really hate that pronoun) both tutored at a high school, where freshman and sophomore girls all but glued themselves to him. I feel kind of bad now, because I talked to him quite a bit the first few weeks but not so much later on for fear of being mistaken as having a 'crush' on him. Since then I've had a couple personal epiphanies and realized I was being stupid.

So that is my sad, sad (in the sense of ridiculously pathetic) story. This is not a big deal, really. People are still without power from Ike. But ohhh, if there's something that gets under my skin it's being mistaken as a love-struck, crush-having boy-crazy - okay, no one has accused me of that last one.

It's the small things, right?

My Head is Spinning

Wow. Welcome Days ended a few minutes ago. I have some time before I eat lunch with my parents, so I figured I'd update my wonderful readers.



I am in a whole new world. The going-to-camp feeling hasn't quite faded yet, but when I'm looking at my wreck of a kitchen (okay, it's not quite that bad) tomorrow, it may. Or when I get the syllabus for my Shakespeare class (junior-level, as I found out, yay). Part of it drained with alarming rapidity as I waited at the bookstore desk for my Honors College books. The guy went into the back and reemerged with two white boxes. For two classes. There are four books in the first box, which is doable.



There are eleven in the second box. Lucretius. Plato. Pre-Socratic. Aristophanes. More Plato. I'm excited about getting into this stuff, but my word, that's a lot of heavy reading. *sighs*



I think I've decided how I'm going to blog for a while. Interesting things keep happening to me, so I think I'll post something in nonfiction, and then sort-of fictionalize the second half of the post. You know, a series of College Vignettes (I like capitalizing things, becuase it makes them seem More Important. Weird, I know :-)



Wow. I just typed in labels for this post and began to tap out 'losing my mind', and blogger supplied the rest of it. This may not be indicative of good mental health...



________________________________________



We sit in the little auditorium, the cross-country team coming together the first time for the semester. I stare at the paper in front of me, and not reading it, write my signature for the 19th time. The letters start to blur, and my autograph is distinctly more of a scrawl on this sheet than the one before it. Yes, I am an amateur. No, no recruiter has ever given me or my family/friends free tickets to more than three athletic events. I have not taken HGH - hold on. I'm a skinny white girl. Seriously. Do I look like I've taken HGH?



The woman handling NCAA compliance issues begins to hand out another packet of information, and I groan under my breath. She followed the NCAA rules and read the first miniaturized version of the handbook to us. It's sixteen pages long. Double-sided. I skim the first page. Ah, the fun stuff. Yes, I give the NCAA permission to ban me for a full calendar year (i.e. 365 days) from NCAA Athletic Competition if my drug tests return positive or if I miss a scheduled drug test. That's harsh. If your alarm decides to fail you, or you're deathly ill of pneumonia, or someone T-bones your car, you will miss a scheduled drug test.

This counts, automatically, as a positive test, and you're banned for a year. Nice, huh?

The compliance woman looks at all of us. It's a small group - the team started just last year. "Before you start on this next form, are any of you under eighteen?"

I slouch and throw up a hand, with a half-smile like yeah, I'm the young one. It wouldn't surprise me if someone else was just under eighteen.

It does surprise me that no one else is. First thought: Aw, crap.

The woman adjusts her glasses and looks at me. "Alright, put a big X at the top of your form."

What if I put two Xs side-by-side with a nose and frowning mouth below?

I dutifully etch an X into the top of my form.

She glances at my form. "That's great. When will you turn eighteen?"

Next thought: Aw, Crap. (Remember what I said about capitalization?) I shrink into my chair. Can I just say August? I keep my voice low, like I'm passing off a classified secret. "Next August."

I hear a few 'Ohhhs', see a couple knowing looks.

"Cool, seventeen," one guy says.

I think for a long time about blowing my last ace, just to see the reaction. I am a sad sucker for reactions, have I mentioned that? "Actually, I don't turn seventeen until next Friday."

The 'Oohs' this time are a decibel louder, and now everyone is looking at me. I wouldn't call myself desperate for attention (by a far stretch), but I might as well go down with style.

WHERE IS MY MIND? HAVE YOU SEEN IT? I HAVE LOST IT!

I stare at the woman behind the desk at the DPS. "I can't renew my license until my birthday?"

She nods sagely, already glancing at the person behind me in line. "That's right hon. When you renew your license next time before you turn eighteen, you can renew up to thirty days ahead of time. This time you have to renew it on your birthday. And make sure you have a VOE form."

I blink, mind tearing at the acronym. Verification of Enrollment. "Yes, ma'am, but I'm starting college in a week." And I need a freakin' license to drive myself there!

"Okay, then make sure you have your diploma or last report card."

The scream builds low in my gut, rising into my chest. I cram it into a tiny box. "I was home schooled." Don't get me wrong, I'm sooo glad I was home schooled, but as I've discovered with the SAT, SAT subject tests, driver's ed, two college applications, NCAA, and Department of Public Safety, it really screws up the system. My atypicalness earns me lots of extra paperwork.

I think fast, before I am dismissed and the guy slouching behind me renews his motorcycle license. "Can I bring my bill and school schedule from --- University?"

She nods. "That should work fine, hon."

Well, something ought to go my way today.

_______________________________

I realize the absurdity of the situation. If I drive myself to the DPS on my birthday, I'll be driving on an expired license, giving them reason to slap me with a fine. The woman must be confused. Three days later, I head up again. The line is long. Lo and behold, the same woman sits at the desk. I bottle the scream that's been occupying my chest.

And five minutes later, the woman switches posts with a state trooper. I shoot a glance at my dad, smiling like an idiot.

An hour and a half later, I dish up ten bucks, smile for the camera, and get a piece of paper with a Texas stamp as a temporary license. Life is good.

________________________________

I growl at the computer monitor. "What do you mean I'm not cleared? I had those transcripts sent two weeks ago?" I call the NCAA Eligibility Center. And I eat breakfast, pack some clothes, endure the never-ending torture of Muzak over my phone's speaker before a representative picks up. Turns out one community college never sent them a transcript.

I peel out of the driveway, tires squealing -

Ahem. No, Mom's with me. I drive legally and safely to the college, fill out a form, hand it in, and wait. I'm gonna send the stupid thing overnight myself. I plop into a chair against the back of the wall, and wait.

Five minutes later, a woman emerges from her office with a transcript, calling my name.

I stand up, gaze trapped by the white envelope she holds. Oh, my precious. Come to Gollum.

"I need to see an ID, please."

"Sure." I open my wallet and have a heart attack. My license? Where's my license? My beautiful face does not smile at me from the top of the wallet, as it always does. A blur of pictures flash in my eyes, and I remember. Right. Temporary license. I pull out the folded paper and hand it to her. "Here you go."

She frowns at it. "I'm sorry, but I have to have a photo ID for privacy reasons."

The scream makes it halfway up my throat before I slap it back. I mutter "You've gotta be kidding me." Force a smile. "I just got my license renewed a few days ago."

"Do you have a school ID? That would work."

"I was home schooled. "

She says finally, after checking with someone, that she can just see my mom's ID instead.

I take the transcript and hurry to the post office before she can change her mind and send campus police after me. Thirty-three dollars later (overnight = wincing wallet), I have a little peace of mind.

Until I come home and trip over one of three suitcases on my bedroom floor.

(This is one-hundred percent truth, by the way.)