what Was, what Is, and what Will Be

There is perverse beauty in the sight of heavy white snow sitting on branches that have already started to leaf out.  It’s April 28th, and four inches of snow are contaminating my spring morning with pure bright cold.  There is nothing I want more right now than to be able to go sandal clad out to a field and toss around a frisbee with friends.  No more teachers, no more books, no more stats classes to sit and sleep through.  But here it is, Monday morning, and I’m trying my best to affectivly avoid studying for an exam on Wednesday.  Fantastic.

I am very ready for this school year to be done, if for no other reason than I have very litte interest in any of the classes I’m in right now.  It could be that the professors aren’t making connections that pull my interest back in or even more simply that I’ve gotten lazy and just fed up with putting work in and getting only a grade back out.  I don’t feel like I’m getting anything out of what I’m doing here.  They do say that you get out what you put in and maybe this means that I’m not putting enough in, but I really don’t think that’s the entire heart of the issue here.  Time is nothing if experiences aren’t recorded and remembered, so what is the point of classes that I go to and sit in to learn, but can’t apply the material anywhere in the real world?  Obviously I’m picking up information and gaining knowledge, but it feels like there is no tangible outcome of this futile cycle of learn, study, be tested.  Not enough to make me keep going without feeling like I’m dragging myself through the motions just to finish something I started and am now obligated to finish.

Yesterday was filled with amazing things in including a trip back into DI (Destination Imagination) performance memories, an accidental 9 mile bike ride, multiple failed attempts at cartwheels, and an incredible game of ultimate followed by a romp through the mud on the edge of the fields.  That was, however, where the fun tapered off and the frustration began. 

People act differently in different situations with different people.  When a women is not clear about what she wants (or doesn’t want) but just barely distances herself from the problem, the problem at hand is only temporarily fixed.  Putting a friend (or three) between yourself and a guy you don’t want around you (especially on the dance floor) is no way to get him to leave you alone for good.  “No, piss off you jerk” means no, but “I think I’ll just wiggle provocativelyjust slightly to the left over here still within your sight” means about nothing.  Well, in this case, it meant that one of those friends could be due for a punch up the bracket in one or two more “accidental” brushes of friend’s shoulder with erstwhile potential boyfriend’s face.

Now while I was neither the pick-setting friend nor the shifty dancer, I did happen to be the rather tired roommate allong for the outing.  We could have left the problem behind at any time by jumping right back into either my sporty little Saturn or even back into the dark and warm night, but the decision was up to the powers that be dancing, and not the one who owned the car.  Not quite sure how that worked.  I made it abundantly clear that I was not comfortable with the situation at all, especially with the possibility of a fight between a short Brit armed with a very blunt metal hitty stick carefully concealed in his pocket and a tall, most likely drunk, incredibly pissed off bar hopper.     

Despite all this, we did get out with no damage, no scars, and no police citations.  Which is good.  But that may be the last time I go “out” to “dance” in a year or two.

I am 21 years.  Like most, I only remember flashes of my life before the age of13.  This virtual journal is meant to ensure that that grievous loss of time does not happen again.  This is the Beginning.