Take a look, girls. This is as close as I come to ecstatic.
Some days you scrape the bottom of the barrel for reasons to get out of bed in the morning. I seem to have too many of those days where “I need to go to class or I’ll fail out of law school” is my only real motivation to leave the warm and inviting comfort of my blankets.
I wish I knew before each day what the next would bring. If I had known about days like today, I would have been out of bed at 12:01 am today, just so that I could experience every single moment of it without interruption.
I’m still floating. This is so out of character for me that I’m bemused at my own rose-colored view of how today went. Nevertheless, I’m going to relate the day’s good fortunes, rosy-tint and all. Whether due to the holiday or the accumulation of good events, I don’t know, but today is my day to pass out compliments to the people in my life and to recognize the special-ness of this day.
Evidence class went smoothly. Despite having missed class on Monday, I appear to have missed nothing of consequence. Even though she was sick, the woman who sits beside me (of outlet infamy) looked radiant. I don’t know how she does it, but to look good when I’m ill takes a lot of effort on my part.
Federal Courts was fabulous. The professor got in-class revenge on two of the jackasses who attend (or not, depending on how you look at it) class unprepared. In one instance, the professor asked of a student, “I know you haven’t prepared for this, but could you get up and close the door?” Once the student sat back down, the professor thanked him and told him that he could go back to looking at facebook.com. Priceless, but not Preisless.
To the other student, he lambasted his continual excuse that he forgot his book. This student has perhaps been to 4/5 of the classes, but has failed to bring a book to any of the classes. Whenever called on, he protests that he has forgotten to bring his book. Today’s excuse? He thought his book was in his locker, but it must have been in his van. I’m waiting for him to ‘fess up that he never bought the textbook and that he’s just being a discussion group parasite, but I fear that day will be long in coming. Well, the professor commented that it was his (the professor’s) fault for not putting in the syllabus that students should bring their books to class, and that he just assumed that since we were all smart people that we’d all just do it anyway. Fantastic. I rarely get to laugh out loud in class, and having a professor who can reduce me to more than a polite chuckle a half dozen times in a class is a treat.
Environmental Law went smoothly. The angry little elf got to do an ‘I’m angry’ jig in front of the class when he broke the document projector. Then to top it off, he got to do a second little dance when he wrote on the whiteboard with a permanent red marker (why he brought it to class is still a mystery to me).
Before tax law, a male friend lifted my spirits with a random bit of absurdity by shouting out to me, “Deep-fried, heart-shaped bologna slices!” from across the parking lot, with no forthcoming explanation.
I think I understand tax law so far.
Somewhere in that day of classes, I got a valentine in my school mailbox. It seems that I have my very own stalker. I’m both a little creeped-out and highly flattered by this. On the one hand, I’ve never had a woman express interest in me (not even any of my three prior girlfriends, really, who seemed closer to ‘well, he asked me’ girlfriends). I dare you to put liquor in a head-to-head contest. Nothing is more intoxicating than the possibility that someone out there actually feels a little bit of non-friendly affection for you. Nothing.
The card is gorgeous. It is a single sheet of paper with a hand-drawn pencil sketch on it. The sketch is of a semi-nude woman with wings made out of flowers, and halo made of vines, reclining against a stone block which reads (in French) “the spirit of Love,” while under a sky which features both hopeful rays of sun and dark, stormy clouds. It is entitled “The Narrow Gate” at the bottom of the sketch in a woman’s handwriting, and signed by (who I assume is) the artist. On the back, it simply says, “Happy Valentine’s Day!” and again lists the artist’s name (a girl from the law school). Actually, it doesn’t even say ‘Valentine’s Day.’ The word ‘Valentine’ was replaced by a heart-shaped symbol.
It’s really nice to get a Valentine’s Day card. I haven’t received one of those since 2nd grade when I was at my old elementary school back in Pratt, Kansas. When I moved to Topeka, passing Valentine’s cards was either forbidden during school, or was allowed (but absent any requirement to give one to everybody).
So, like I said, on the one hand, I’m really flattered. But on the other, what the hell? This is a girl I don’t really know. I’ve only spoken with her a half dozen times in almost 2 years. She’s complimented me after a class once about a comment I made during class. She’s photographed me on her phone and with a camera once while I was reading. And she’s recommended a book to me that she thought I would like. This isn’t even coming close to something resembling a friendship. In fact, I’m not even sure I know how to pronounce her name properly.
I’m still debating how to play this out. She may have made dozens of these cards and passed them out to half the school. She may have made just one and is hoping for a response. I’ll have to think about it, but I’m still floating on the flattery right now.
Best of all, when I left school today, I went out on my very first Valentine’s Day ‘not-a-date’ with some of my friends. (Big breath…)
We saw “Rent.” I’m a big fan of musicals, and I’m always moved by song. I’m one of those guys who knows immediately what his answer is when asked if he’d rather be blind or deaf. Blind. No ifs, ands, or buts. Take my eyesight as long as you leave me my hearing. If I couldn’t hear the soft whisper of a woman’s breath or the sweet sound of her voice, I’m not sure I would know what to do.
Rent was beautiful. Unaccountably so, in fact. I’d avoided seeing Rent for a long time because I have bad memories involving the work.
At my old scholarship hall at KU, we used to have what we called “Coffeehouses” each semester. Basically, people from all over the scholarship hall community would come in, perform music, act, read poetry, tell jokes, or do whatever the hell they wanted to do with their time. They were generally great successes, but we had this one crazy fellow that lived in our hall who always liked to push the envelope by doing weird things. None of his acts ever made much sense to me, and when they did make sense, they seemed trivial, boring, or derivative. I still remember one act where all he did was pace around in front of the audience with a notepad for five minutes while music played in the background. He later explained that he was acting out writing a song, but nobody seemed to get that from his performance.
Well, he also loved musicals, and performed something from Rent one year. I can’t recall the song. I can’t recall what it was about. All I remember is that it was one of the most horrible songs I’d ever heard in my life and I knew that I never wanted to see a show that featured such terrible music.
I wish I’d have realized that he was as bad a singer as he was an actor.
The musical score was flawless. Songs made me want to laugh. Songs made me tap my feet. Songs made me fall in love with the women and ache to be the guy holding her. The songs did what songs do best and snaked their gentle chords into my chest and wound themselves around my heartstrings. Then I was played like a violin.
Tragedy is always a way into my heart. I hate to admit it, because it once again robs me of my thin façade of masculinity, but I caught myself choking back sobs, and often with less success than I would have liked.
As a nearly perfect cap to the evening, I got to go out to dinner with two of my friends. Nothing is quite as big an ego boost than walking into a restaurant with not one, but two, beautiful women in your company. I was the envy of every guy in the place, and I knew it. And on top of that, the food was good.
Kansasgirl? Excellent taste in theater/cinema.
Mrs. Marcia Dentist? Excellent taste in restaurants.
As I wind down my day, I have two more bits of good news. Mind Spewer, who I feel understands me better than has almost any other person I’ve met before in my life, called me her friend on her blog. Being called a friend means a lot to me, and although I’m sure she’s said it before, sometimes (most of the time, actually) I’m dense, and things take longer to sink into my head.
And finally, Mind Spewer asked me to do what I love doing best – coming up with iron-clad arguments against something I despise to put an arrogant blowhard in his place. So to top off what has to be one of my best days ever (seriously… This will go down in the top five or so), I can spend a few hours working on something that matters to me to make a small difference in the course of a debate.
I couldn’t have asked for a better day. Thank you all for being no more and no less than you are. You mean the world to me.
I wish I knew before each day what the next would bring. If I had known about days like today, I would have been out of bed at 12:01 am today, just so that I could experience every single moment of it without interruption.
I’m still floating. This is so out of character for me that I’m bemused at my own rose-colored view of how today went. Nevertheless, I’m going to relate the day’s good fortunes, rosy-tint and all. Whether due to the holiday or the accumulation of good events, I don’t know, but today is my day to pass out compliments to the people in my life and to recognize the special-ness of this day.
Evidence class went smoothly. Despite having missed class on Monday, I appear to have missed nothing of consequence. Even though she was sick, the woman who sits beside me (of outlet infamy) looked radiant. I don’t know how she does it, but to look good when I’m ill takes a lot of effort on my part.
Federal Courts was fabulous. The professor got in-class revenge on two of the jackasses who attend (or not, depending on how you look at it) class unprepared. In one instance, the professor asked of a student, “I know you haven’t prepared for this, but could you get up and close the door?” Once the student sat back down, the professor thanked him and told him that he could go back to looking at facebook.com. Priceless, but not Preisless.
To the other student, he lambasted his continual excuse that he forgot his book. This student has perhaps been to 4/5 of the classes, but has failed to bring a book to any of the classes. Whenever called on, he protests that he has forgotten to bring his book. Today’s excuse? He thought his book was in his locker, but it must have been in his van. I’m waiting for him to ‘fess up that he never bought the textbook and that he’s just being a discussion group parasite, but I fear that day will be long in coming. Well, the professor commented that it was his (the professor’s) fault for not putting in the syllabus that students should bring their books to class, and that he just assumed that since we were all smart people that we’d all just do it anyway. Fantastic. I rarely get to laugh out loud in class, and having a professor who can reduce me to more than a polite chuckle a half dozen times in a class is a treat.
Environmental Law went smoothly. The angry little elf got to do an ‘I’m angry’ jig in front of the class when he broke the document projector. Then to top it off, he got to do a second little dance when he wrote on the whiteboard with a permanent red marker (why he brought it to class is still a mystery to me).
Before tax law, a male friend lifted my spirits with a random bit of absurdity by shouting out to me, “Deep-fried, heart-shaped bologna slices!” from across the parking lot, with no forthcoming explanation.
I think I understand tax law so far.
Somewhere in that day of classes, I got a valentine in my school mailbox. It seems that I have my very own stalker. I’m both a little creeped-out and highly flattered by this. On the one hand, I’ve never had a woman express interest in me (not even any of my three prior girlfriends, really, who seemed closer to ‘well, he asked me’ girlfriends). I dare you to put liquor in a head-to-head contest. Nothing is more intoxicating than the possibility that someone out there actually feels a little bit of non-friendly affection for you. Nothing.
The card is gorgeous. It is a single sheet of paper with a hand-drawn pencil sketch on it. The sketch is of a semi-nude woman with wings made out of flowers, and halo made of vines, reclining against a stone block which reads (in French) “the spirit of Love,” while under a sky which features both hopeful rays of sun and dark, stormy clouds. It is entitled “The Narrow Gate” at the bottom of the sketch in a woman’s handwriting, and signed by (who I assume is) the artist. On the back, it simply says, “Happy Valentine’s Day!” and again lists the artist’s name (a girl from the law school). Actually, it doesn’t even say ‘Valentine’s Day.’ The word ‘Valentine’ was replaced by a heart-shaped symbol.
It’s really nice to get a Valentine’s Day card. I haven’t received one of those since 2nd grade when I was at my old elementary school back in Pratt, Kansas. When I moved to Topeka, passing Valentine’s cards was either forbidden during school, or was allowed (but absent any requirement to give one to everybody).
So, like I said, on the one hand, I’m really flattered. But on the other, what the hell? This is a girl I don’t really know. I’ve only spoken with her a half dozen times in almost 2 years. She’s complimented me after a class once about a comment I made during class. She’s photographed me on her phone and with a camera once while I was reading. And she’s recommended a book to me that she thought I would like. This isn’t even coming close to something resembling a friendship. In fact, I’m not even sure I know how to pronounce her name properly.
I’m still debating how to play this out. She may have made dozens of these cards and passed them out to half the school. She may have made just one and is hoping for a response. I’ll have to think about it, but I’m still floating on the flattery right now.
Best of all, when I left school today, I went out on my very first Valentine’s Day ‘not-a-date’ with some of my friends. (Big breath…)
We saw “Rent.” I’m a big fan of musicals, and I’m always moved by song. I’m one of those guys who knows immediately what his answer is when asked if he’d rather be blind or deaf. Blind. No ifs, ands, or buts. Take my eyesight as long as you leave me my hearing. If I couldn’t hear the soft whisper of a woman’s breath or the sweet sound of her voice, I’m not sure I would know what to do.
Rent was beautiful. Unaccountably so, in fact. I’d avoided seeing Rent for a long time because I have bad memories involving the work.
At my old scholarship hall at KU, we used to have what we called “Coffeehouses” each semester. Basically, people from all over the scholarship hall community would come in, perform music, act, read poetry, tell jokes, or do whatever the hell they wanted to do with their time. They were generally great successes, but we had this one crazy fellow that lived in our hall who always liked to push the envelope by doing weird things. None of his acts ever made much sense to me, and when they did make sense, they seemed trivial, boring, or derivative. I still remember one act where all he did was pace around in front of the audience with a notepad for five minutes while music played in the background. He later explained that he was acting out writing a song, but nobody seemed to get that from his performance.
Well, he also loved musicals, and performed something from Rent one year. I can’t recall the song. I can’t recall what it was about. All I remember is that it was one of the most horrible songs I’d ever heard in my life and I knew that I never wanted to see a show that featured such terrible music.
I wish I’d have realized that he was as bad a singer as he was an actor.
The musical score was flawless. Songs made me want to laugh. Songs made me tap my feet. Songs made me fall in love with the women and ache to be the guy holding her. The songs did what songs do best and snaked their gentle chords into my chest and wound themselves around my heartstrings. Then I was played like a violin.
Tragedy is always a way into my heart. I hate to admit it, because it once again robs me of my thin façade of masculinity, but I caught myself choking back sobs, and often with less success than I would have liked.
As a nearly perfect cap to the evening, I got to go out to dinner with two of my friends. Nothing is quite as big an ego boost than walking into a restaurant with not one, but two, beautiful women in your company. I was the envy of every guy in the place, and I knew it. And on top of that, the food was good.
Kansasgirl? Excellent taste in theater/cinema.
Mrs. Marcia Dentist? Excellent taste in restaurants.
As I wind down my day, I have two more bits of good news. Mind Spewer, who I feel understands me better than has almost any other person I’ve met before in my life, called me her friend on her blog. Being called a friend means a lot to me, and although I’m sure she’s said it before, sometimes (most of the time, actually) I’m dense, and things take longer to sink into my head.
And finally, Mind Spewer asked me to do what I love doing best – coming up with iron-clad arguments against something I despise to put an arrogant blowhard in his place. So to top off what has to be one of my best days ever (seriously… This will go down in the top five or so), I can spend a few hours working on something that matters to me to make a small difference in the course of a debate.
I couldn’t have asked for a better day. Thank you all for being no more and no less than you are. You mean the world to me.
posted by The Academian | 7:40 PM
1 Comments:
You are a friend, friend. And thanks for that iron-clad argument--that blowhard will soon be out of breath.
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