Once upon a time, I used to regularly get in my car in Farmville and drive the six hours to Philly, go to a concert, and drive another six hours back that night. Somewhere around Fredericksburg, Richmond, I’d be buzzed out, my grip tight on the wheel as I made my way in the last hour of the drive, trying desperately to avoid deer and/or mailboxes posing as deer. Those were the nights were bushes turned into dinosaurs and old people inexplicably seemed to be crossing the street.
Road trips are a staple in American pop culture. Pile in the car with your friends, immediately end your friendship somewhere around the third state line you cross. Reconcile a few days later and, with the rose-tint of memory, be willing to do the whole thing over again next Spring Break.
Sometimes I am smarter than memory, and, in the case of road trips, I almost always make a point to make the trip solo. Off the top of my head, I can think of one person I really enjoy making long trips with, mostly because she is the one person who can DJ my iPod without managing to pick every song I’m totally not in the mood for. (I’m no joyride myself; I drive, it’s my music, and I have zero qualms with turning up the volume to make you stop talking when I’m bored with you.)
Last week took me to Cambridge, a supposedly nine-hour drive. For this, I was stoked. Aside from my daytrip for Leslie’s wedding in September, I haven’t left Pittsburgh since my grandpa died, which is all but unheard of for me. (I haven’t been to a concert, I think, since Susan was here in May. Who am I?) The trip did not start as planned. Google gave me the first bad advice I think I’ve ever gotten from them, directing me toward 22 to 99 instead of my standard ride along the Turnpike. Apparently, the Turnpike adds an hour to my trip. You know what adds an hour to my trip? Eighty miles on a road with stoplights and construction. Those eighty miles took two hours. Screw that, Google.
In my two-plus years of living in Pittsburgh, I’ve made the drive across the state and back probably a dozen times. Pennsylvania is a long, long state, but, with repetition comes contentment, and I will happily sit in my car, talking to myself, having a dance party of one, ticking off towns and rest stops and gigantic cups of coffee.
The sun went down somewhere after New York, just as I entered territory I had never driven before. I’ve driven as far south as Georgia, driven across the cornfield stretches of the Midwest to Chicago, driven as many as twelve hours by myself in a single stretch. Never, ever have I felt more like I could jump out of a moving car just to have something to do than while driving through Connecticut.
First, I called Cat. “I know I said I’d be at your house by six, but that’s a lie.”
“Where are you?” she asked.
“I have no idea. I passed Hartford and that taps out the number of places I know in Connecticut.”
Sad, but true.
Next, I called Mary/MeLaina/Alex.
“I’m never going to get out of Connecticut,” I whined. Apparently, neither were they. A few exits behind me, MeLaina had the foolish impression she could race me to Cat’s house. I did not learn to drive on the Beltway for nothing, bitch. (I heard later she contemplated calling the cops to report me as an erratic driver just so she could wave as they passed; lucky for her, she realized I’d cut her in her sleep if she did that. This is why I love my friends.)
It wasn’t much longer before Massachusetts became a reality with my car cooling in Cat’s driveway, the front seat littered with the remains of the lead object from Dunkin’ Donuts that I ate for dinner. Our epic adventures had just begun.
Now that the mornings are downright cold, I’m having to transition out of my summer running schedule. The past several winters, I’ve spent my mornings with Denise Austin and, by that, I mean she silently leads me through various exercises while I listen to Elliot in the Morning because they’re far funnier to listen to than an exercise guru’s enthusiasm at six in the morning.
I’ve previously toyed with the idea of joining the JCC in my neighborhood, but grad school doesn’t lend itself to spending money on things like gym memberships (though I would love the pool access). I also gave half a second’s thought to using the free gyms on campus, especially since there’s one in the building where I work. Then I realized that I wouldn’t want to put athletic undergrads in the uncomfortable position of having to feel sorry for the mildly out-of-shape graduate student. What I really miss are dance classes, but those aren’t happening until I get a real job. (I did look up local adult ballet classes and then had wistful reminisce time about leotards and pointe shoes.)
But, really, I’m bored with Ms. Austin. I mean, how many times can you do the same routine over and over again? I enjoy consistency as much as the next person, but there is a line, and I think I’ve found it. So in my travels, I went in search of something new to do with my mornings. It seemed that the it person for home exercise these days is one Jillian Michaels.
You’re probably like, duh, where have you been? But, as I’ve been in my rut for so long and have not seen even a single episode of The Biggest Loser, I missed the memo. I heard much about The 30 Day Shred from the comments section over at Cranky Fitness and the Facebook status updates of the popular girl who had the locker next to mine in high school. (Excellent research methods, I know. Also, where’s the hyphen in 30-Day?)
My initial reaction from reading left me skeptical. Counting warm-up and cool-down, each workout is not even thirty minutes long. Quick exercise fixes like that smack of the same disasters that come from crash dieting. As someone who grew up playing sports, I’ve been readily trained that things like strength and technical skill don’t come quickly. But I decided to give a test whirl anyway as the first two days are available for free On Demand.
Jillian Michaels does not screw around. Those are an intense thirty minutes. It didn’t help that day one starts off with more push-ups than I’ve done in the last year. (My strength is all core- and leg-based. Never in my life have I successfully completed a pull-up.) Also, on my first viewing of any exercise DVD, I do actually keep the volume up, which I dreaded immensely. But Michaels isn’t exactly what you would call cheery. She alternates between telling you to work harder, damnit, and explaining why she’s having you do what you’re doing. Also appreciative is that she demonstrates what your body is not supposed to be doing – common slouches in posture, miss-bending of the knees, etc. Sometimes you’re not sure you’re doing the wrong thing until someone shows you.
I’m impressed enough that I’ll drop some cash on the DVD, though, when I checked, Target was cleaned out of them. (Buffing up for the holidays, Pittsburgh?) Another report when I’ve cycled through.
And, for when I get bored with this, any other recommendations? Have any of you made it through the 30 Day Shred? Or do you hate it and all at-home workouts? Do tell.
In 1997, I got into Ally McBeal from episode one. I don’t even know how I found out about it, how I managed to win the TV battle with my sister. (Only TV battle against her to date? Party of Five over Dawson’s Creek. Suck it, Dawson.) Also, I’m not entirely sure why I liked it. I was fourteen. Not exactly the show’s demographic. (Or the soundtrack’s, which I still have on cassette somewhere.)
But by the second season, I wasn’t as impressed. The quirky things that would have been fine in moderation (dancing baby?) went full-force somewhere in season two, and by season three, they had lost me all together. (That didn’t, however, stop me from watching the series finale years later and crying anyway even though I had no idea what had transpired in the intervening years.)
Every once in a while, when I did DVD checks, I never saw Ally McBeal. There was a best-of type, but not a complete first season. (Like other good shows, it happened in Europe before it happened here. Explain?) And then, and then, a few weeks ago, there it was! First season and a complete box set of the entire series. So, since that day, the first season has been sitting on my coffee table, waiting for me to actually have the time to sit on my futon and enjoy it.
Which I did on Saturday. Oh, my goodness.
It took a minute to switch from Calista Flockhart as Kitty McCallister back to Calista Flockhart as Ally McBeal, but, once I got there. Excellent.
All of the love came right back. Even at fourteen, I knew I was a neurotic ball of mess, prone as Ally McBeal to fantasizing about various forms of destruction mid-conversation, a perpetual voiceover narrating my every move. The other characters that I enjoyed so much were there as well – nebby Elaine, smart-mouthed Renee, Vonda Sheppard singing at the bar, the unisex bathroom, and all the hilarity that appropriately ensues.
And it was in that first episode that new things appeared that would have made sense one way at fourteen that make a totally different level of sense at twenty-six. In that episode, Ally says, “I feel like the clients look at me like I’m a little girl, and I feel puny.” A week or so ago, though this happens with some regularity, I was discussing with one of my classmates the problem with being a small woman: you forever see yourself as a little girl and can’t help wondering if people who are younger, but bigger, maybe see you in the same way. I automatically hand over authority to those larger than I am, even if, at the time, or in retrospect, I know it’s often ridiculous.
I also recently had a conversation with a professor about the realities of being a female in academia, even in 2009. And so, if Ally McBeal wants to offer me commentary about being a woman in the real world, and the way some things never change, I’ll accept. I’ll take any guidance I can. Especially nuggets like this one: “The more lost you are, the more you have to look forward to.”
I look forward to a lot.
And now that this DVD dream has come true, I put in a bid for Boston Public. Anyone else with me?
I can’t believe we’ve already made it this far. Halloween, the kickoff of the holiday season, when the weather will make its sharp turn toward snow and a slush that doesn’t dissipate until April. And, to usher in the next two months of gatherings: the Halloween party.
When I was in undergrad, the newspaper staff threw an annual Halloween bash. During those four Halloweens, I have reason to suspect that three of them ended in vomit. (Classy!) The fourth, the one I threw when I was editor in chief, was probably one of my favorite parties I’ve ever hosted. The half of a duplex I shared with my roommate was packed with people, decked out in their costumes, drinking from the cauldron of spiked lemonade that Stephanie toiled over until it reached perfection, pulling beers from tubs of ice. We danced, played cards, otherwise participated in the goofy things that you do when you’re twenty-one.
My favorite part was getting ready for bed that night, after everyone had left and the house remained a disaster, and opening my dresser drawer to find a note that read, “I played with your underwear while you were dancing / –Shawn / Happy Halloween.” I laughed then and laughed even harder the next morning when I saw the following picture on my camera:
(This picture started a party tradition of people sneaking off with my camera and taking pictures with my underwear. When Shawn was in England for a semester, his then-girlfriend took one on his behalf. This would be one of the few instances I truly miss being young and dumb.)
As much fun as that last party was, I wound up taking a Halloween hiatus until this year. Last night, I put on a track suit in the name of Jane Lynch and made an appearance at the annual English grad student party. (My attendance happening only because it was at a fellow nonfictioknight’s apartment; I have a thing about avoiding parties at the houses of people I don’t know.)
(Our hostess as a Lisa Frank unicorn. Epic.)
(Packrat justification: one decade after I quit cheerleading, I finally found an excuse to wear this shirt again.)
(If I stand on a chair, I can be the tallest person in a group picture.)
(Do you see Phil Collins back there? Whenever he caught my eye, I started laughing all over again.)
Some of my favorite costumes included a couple dressed as Jim and Pam from The Office; people as some of the area parks; aforementioned Phil Collins; Amy and her sister as the elves that steal your socks from the dryer; and Renee smoking a cigar, which is the only part of her costume I understood.
Dancing finally broke out once Jessica and I were on the way out, which is all I had been pestering people to do all night. However, I had already mentally checked out, so there was no going back. I haven’t heard any updates today on how the rest of the night went, but I’m sure it was spectacular. And now I spend Halloween proper on my futon, watching Ally McBeal, and being somewhat jealous of all the people who get trick-or-treaters at their door.
Last weekend, one of my fictioneer buddies and his girlfriend threw an impromptu chili party. He, the MFA side of life. She, on the MBA side.
That’s a sitcom waiting to happen.
Small problem: it wasn’t until much later in the evening that other MFA types showed up, so Steve and I represented our life against about ten future business leaders.
There’s a fascinating bunch.
Do you ever look back and wonder exactly when the fulcrum tilted so that parties were no longer guaranteed to end with people getting naked? (That is to say, it could still happen, but chances are greater that it won’t.)
I had a moment, early in the night, when I found out someone at the party was a surgeon, and I thought, I’m sorry, what? And then promptly ran a Kathleen Madigan skit through my head, wherein she thinks about how her friends are filled with knowledge that helps them do things like surgery and how her equivalent knowledge-base is about the Loch Ness Monster.
Apparently, it’s come to that point in my life, too.
This particular party lacked the element of people who have children, so I was spared those conversations. There was also a lot less business talk than I expected. To compare, early in the Halloween party last night, I definitely overheard a conversation involving the merits of Michel Foucault, so, you know.
I think I’m still getting used to how to talk to people when the music isn’t blaring, when people don’t show up to a function trashed, when the expectation is that you can be a contributing member to an intellectual conversation. Sometimes a righteously boring conversation.
Topics included: the weather, wet vs. dry cold (as in Pittsburgh vs. Alaska), sunrise alarm clocks, and if A Different World is a dated show. (Last topic = one I could actually talk/care about.)
And then, the iPhone. Specifically one gentleman with his button-down shirt beneath a college sweatshirt and the kind of jeans you buy ripped for an exorbitant price. You know who I’m talking about. If this were my previous life, he would have been a Hampster. He only keeps his iPhone on vibrate because he can’t get on board with rings/ringtones.
“What about if you’re wearing sweatpants?” Lindsay (Steve’s girlfriend) asked.
Indignant: “I do not wear sweatpants.”
“I thought you were from the Midwest?”
“I am, but I’m not from an episode of Roseanne.”
Zing!
And that’s about that. I remain convinced that someday I’ll find that perfect cross-section of people with whom to share an evening. Until then, I’ll continue to take surreptitiously take notes with people say things of a questionable nature.
Twice a week, my friend Katy is foolish enough to leave me in charge of her three-month old son, whom I call Coyote (for his trickster non-nap-taking). Coyote is really hardcore about screaming and not sleeping, which I relate to. Every time I tell my mom about our adventures together, she says, “I used to know a baby just like that.”
Sorry, parental units! At least the only thing that has to deal with my not-sleeping now is my cat. And she hates me regardless.
For a while, Katy had been suggesting that I might take Coyote to the zoo while the weather was still nice. I love the zoo. My family is a zoo family, having spent many a Saturday morning at the National Zoo. My dad’s dream is to retire to a condo near the zoo so he can take walks there in the mornings and watch the tigers getting fed. That’s not the worst retirement dream I’ve ever heard.
(I sent him a text with a picture of this guy and said, “Someone you may know.” He was saddened that I was at the zoo without him.)
The problem with going on adventures with Coyote is his aforementioned screaming/sleeping problems. In theory, he should be spending some of our time together snoozing, which he does on occasion. About a week ago, we had a string of beautiful days, and I decided to make use of one of them. Also, if I’m going to pimp a car seat in my car (soccer mom fantasies briefly coming true!), I thought maybe someone should use it other than my stuffed Ralph Wiggum doll. (When I was a nanny and rocked a car seat for a summer, my friends decided Ralph needed to live in that one, too.)
So Coyote and I rocked it to the zoo. He didn’t even start squalling until we pulled into the parking lot. I’ll tell you what, though. You want some compassion over a screaming child? Zoo on a weekday morning. Because it’s filled with nothing but women and small children. And small children are often concerned for crying babies and the women understand and say comforting things (information I promptly texted to Katy so she might find a public place of refuge).
(Hey, this is how Mrs. D. hangs on the back of the futon. Sometimes I wonder if she thinks she’s as big as a lion. I bet the lion is nicer.)
(Coyote wanted nothing to do with the zoo. Not even a little bit.)
(I loved it anyway and chuckled over things like gorilla butt because I’m a twelve-year-old boy.)
It wasn’t until we were about to leave that Coyote decided he was done screaming. It was too nice not to take another lap, so we did, this time entering the shark tunnel, having skipped it the first time around because I wasn’t sure how echo-y his screams might be in there. I still couldn’t get him to smile (he seems to prefer to do that post-poop or when he discovers that I scream if he pulls my earring), but he did chill out long enough for one nice picture to send to Katy.
(Perhaps Coyote is actually a shark.)
While I will not be spending as much time with Coyote in the spring, I think I will steal him from Katy long enough for another round at the zoo, and maybe that time he’ll love it as much as I do.
Today is Blog-Swap Day, brought to us by the fine folks over at 20-Something Bloggers. My guest today is Mike from This Song Starts a Craze. You can check out his blog for excellent music-related writing (and for my half of today’s swap).
Without further ado, here’s Mike:
“Getting Over The Terminator 2 Syndrome (Or How I Stopped Worrying About Judgment Day And Learned To Enjoy My Fancy Crap For What It Was)”
Since the dawn of time, man has been terrified of technology.
It’s simple really; technology is almost always foreign, representing a huge shift in how people live their lives. It forces change, and isn’t exactly something you can sit down over a cup of coffee and hash your problems out with. Technology is seen as something that ruins things, much like that stewardess daddy prefers over mommy.
It comes in without warning and changes all the rules.
This is all true; technology is a bit of a home wrecker.
But aside from taking music to mp3s and obliterating the need to write actual letters, it’s not all bad. What? You heard me: People do, indeed, overreact to how life shifts in technology are seen as threats when they actually open up a world to all sorts of possibilities.
Food for thought:
-Rian Johnson’s 2005 film “Brick” was edited on his Mac laptop.
-In 2007, Radiohead put up their album “In Rainbows,” for whatever price fans felt like paying, for download on their official website.
-Most smart phones have GPS or a Google Maps type application.
-The iPod Shuffle, a machine that’s the size of a stick of gum, can hold 1,000 songs.
-We can talk to anyone in the world at anytime. Just use Skype.
-Bands on tour can record demos in their tour bus and email them to producers.
-Thanks to Twitter, as soon as something hits the new wire, hundreds of people have reactions to it.
I’m not saying that everything is roses, people can barely type, the deluge of information is overwhelming, and people’s perceptions are more narrow than ever. However, we hear that message far too often. When’s the last time anyone’s really marveled at the time we’re in? The things we can do from our home are extraordinary, and the comforts we have in life are pretty incredible.
Think about this: Our parents used to have address books that grew into monstrous piles of loose leaf, with half scribbled addresses and a bunch of names they’d never remember because they’ve moved and fallen out of touch. Now, we have Facebook, a clean place to store contact information, be reminded of who people are, keep precious memories via photo albums, and know what’s going on in someone’s life so that when they contact us, we have something to talk about.
That’s a pretty huge thing that didn’t exist a few short years ago.
My point is new technology is never a good or bad thing. It always comes down to how people use it. I do think, however, that it’s a thing to marvel at, as its scope of connectivity knows no bounds. For being mostly strangers, the world is smaller than ever, and we’ve got technology to thank for that. It falls on us, then, to appreciate it for what it is.
A couple days ago, I was having a fairly crappy day and I texted a friend of mine I met online about 6 years ago. To date, we’ve only ever met once in person, but we’ve grown to know each other through things like AIM and blogging. She responded in less than a minute to my frustrated message with an “I love you.” I reciprocated, and headed off to bed. Now, I’m not saying this is love with a capital L, the kind that would make me throw myself in front of a gun man to protect, or loan out a ton of money to, but it does mean something important to me. At a time where I felt particularly lonely, I knew within the blink of an eye that someone miles away was at least hoping I was okay.
I immediately knew that someone in this world was thinking about me. Technology helped with that.
And in the end, isn’t that a comforting thought?
As a rule, I don’t do a whole lot of cooking. I enjoy the act, but, as I’ve said before, cooking for one isn’t the most satisfying activity. As a single woman in her twenties, I’m also bound by the laws of nature to buy stock in Lean Cuisine. Except that’s not all mainstream-y anymore. Being a foodie is in, and, while I don’t have that kind of time or money on my hands, I suppose it wouldn’t kill me to cook once in a while.
But, have you seen my kitchen?
(Yeah, that’s it. Oven so small, I can’t even stick my head in it.)
Two apartments ago, I had a glorious kitchen. Cabinets top and bottom. A stellar fridge that kept things cool without freezing and a freezer that actually kept foods frozen. There was room to move. Room to cook with a friend. A double sink. And most of all? Counter space. Glorious, glorious counter space.
(Yeah, that’s also about it. There’s an equivalent amount on the other side of the sink where the dish rack is.)
But I got it into my head the other day that I wanted to make butternut squash soup, rather than dump it out of the cardboard container supplied by Campbell’s. Since Wednesday is my only week night home, today was the day. (Also, I think I’m finally catching the ick that’s been incubating in everyone I encounter. I have to preemptively buy sick foods because my cat is apparently less than enthused about hitting up the grocery store for me.)
First? Picked the easiest recipe I could find. There was one on the Food Network website that looked like it might be a good idea until I kept reading. I didn’t know what half the ingredients were and thus assumed I wasn’t about to find them in my local grocery store. Simple, simple, with the squash and potatoes and an onion and chicken stock. It also had a stalk of celery and a carrot, but I loathe celery, and it turns out you can’t buy just one carrot. So, carrot gone.
My relationship with squash is as follows: every holiday, my grandma buys me the frozen brick of squash because that’s my favorite. It’s my only request ever. So I was unaware that you had to do things like peel it or that it had insides like a pumpkin.
I don’t always follow rules very well, I hacked away at the squash before I gave in and listened to the Internet. For all the cooking I’ve done, and all of the kitchen stuff I do, in fact, own, I somehow do not have one of this big effing knives of doom. So, cooking on pause to go to Target and get a big effing knife of doom since my “never dulls” steak knives were about to result in an ER visit.
(Look what happens when you follow directions! Things happen the way they’re supposed to! But, Amy, you might be asking, you don’t have counter space. Fear not, all the cutting happened on my coffee table.)
Eventually we got to this:
Forty minutes and one snack bag of Doritos later (see, I’m still the same girl you love!), it was time to put it in the blender. But, you know, I wasn’t really feeling getting down the blender, figuring out how to get the soup into it, what to do when it didn’t all fit at once. That just sounded like disaster. So I took the mixer to it.
Which actually worked out really well if you eat around the flecks of Teflon.
I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I’m co-host for a weekly student reading series here in graduate student land. Said event takes place at a local bar, which exponentially increases the number of times I’ve ever hung out in a bar.
Even as a hostess (a bad one at that; last year, Billy rocked the house, and no one can compete with Billy. Also, until this week, I’ve been coming from lit class, where I spend the entire three hours trying not to cry. Not the best mindset to be in when a microphone is in your face), I pretty much bolt once the readings are done. I get up at five, get work done, go to two classes, so by the time ten, ten-thirty rolls around, I’m more or less convinced the world is crashing on my head.
We switched venues and days this week. This particular venue doesn’t kick us out at ten-thirty and allows us to have our event on a night other than Monday. No one likes hanging out on a Monday. (Not that Tuesday, our new day, is much better in terms of drinking stigma, but most creative writing classes are done after Tuesday night.) Also, various fiction people already go to this venue on Tuesday nights to drink after class. Bonus = automatic audience members. Plus, I’m in a substantially better mood after fiction than I am after lit.
So we had our inaugural night, which was supposed to be a revival, but people outside of the fiction class more or less failed to understand that, in order to revive, one must show up. But, first things first, the fiction folk don’t fool around with their beverage orders. Pitchers are five bucks at this bar (Pittsburgh also not known for fooling around with their frosty beverages), and they use that price to their advantage. After the reading (including a dramatic rendition of Updike’s “A&P” wherein the girl inexplicably had a British accent), people filtered out except for five quite fun fictioneers, two other nonfictioknights, and one nonfictionknight’s fiancé.
And then we talked massive amounts of shit.
Perhaps you do that with most of your time. It’s one of my favorite hell-bound activities. But, see, and I say this lovingly because I do adore my classmates, nonfictioknights, on the whole, are Nice People. They do not talk massive amounts of shit, especially not in a group setting. Words get exchanged in pairs or trios, but only when there’s significant cause. They do not have the rowdy fun banter that you might enjoy in a bar scene in How I Met Your Mother or the incessant arguing of the gang on It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. (New goal in life, by the way, road trip in the back of a U-Haul. Complete with campfire. It’s going to happen.)
I’ve been thinking lately about the underrepresentation of twenty-somethings on television. Teenagers get a huge share of the market. Thirty-somethings seem to get a good deal of the grown-up shows. Sometimes, when shows like Beverly Hills, 90210, grow up and up and up, wind up with a show about twenty-somethings. Mostly, though, we get the what-the-hell-do-we-do-now movies like Reality Bites, Garden State, and St. Elmo’s Fire. (Also, by the way, Jessica and I are no longer friends because she loathed St. Elmo’s. Banished!)
According to the fine folks over at We Feel Fine, twenty-somethings have the most feelings on the Internet. Perhaps we could translate some of those feelings to the TV? Or at least to the bar on Tuesday nights.
As we sat in lit class last week, talking about our final paper, our professor made a jab at the unhealthy things grad students do in the name of getting their work done. He’s of the opinion that the experience doesn’t need to be nearly as bad as we make it.
But, you know what? I love all-nighters.
Seriously.
I know, I know, they end so badly on TV. The tortured study session that ends in Carlton’s laptop plug getting pulled and Will drooling on his textbook on the kitchen table. So many people who fall asleep before the work is barely started, let alone finished.
But, no, not me.
It started senior year of undergrad, end of the spring semester (you know, when the whole charade was pretty much over). I had poems due. Fiction due. A long paper that answered a post-modern question using literary criticism as the answer. Before that year, my answer to unfinished work was to leave it unfinished. In my life, I have skipped finals, ignored midterms, eschewed entire papers. Why? Because I could. Because it never seemed worth the effort.
And then I decided I should probably not do that anymore.
The idea had been festering for a while, slowly coming out in smaller ways. Actually reading for classes, turning in work on time. And then I realized that the only way to truly get things done is to invest in the hours where we’re all supposed to be asleep.
I discovered something that first night. If four is a reasonable bedtime (especially, say, on the weekends in college) and five is a reasonable waking time (especially, say, in the real world), then the hour between four and five is this untouched space where everyone probably really is asleep.
Something else I discovered that first night: don’t wax pothead about times when everyone in the time zone is sleeping.
Regardless, I fell hard for the form, especially upon entering grad school.
I love the spinning buzz of too little sleep, too much caffeine, the way words snap from the brain to the computer. Regardless of what the caring lit professor says, I’ve already started planning the appropriate nights for each of my classes, for the miscellaneous I haven’t been able to get around to for the past two months. And if I’m totally dreading the day after already, I’m doubly looking forward to that long stretch of night.
(Moral of the story: this is what happens when you don’t do things like drink. Then you can pace this stuff out accordingly and not do dumb things like stay up all night.)
