Yes, yes, I know. Don't start with me. I realize that it's been ten years since I've written, but I refuse to justify it. I'm not going to whimper about how busy I've been or any such nonsense -- you've heard it before. Besides, I don't feel like making excuses, quite frankly. So there.
Obviously, it must take a very, very special thing to break such an impressive hiatus from this beloved old blog of mine. Special indeed. Today [yes, boo boo, I'm counting it as today, because I haven't gone to sleep yet, ergo, it is STILL your birthday day. Trust me. I pulled an all nighter last year on my birthday, just to continue basking in the glory. I know what I'm talking about.] is my baby brother's birthday.
My baby brother isn't really a baby anymore; at seventeen, he's much taller and stronger than me, which puts a damper on our old days of forced dress up games. I left for college and when I came back, I found my baby brother to be a little man, full of testosterone and hormones and angst and a voice that originates somewhere around his knees. Where has my cute, baby-faced baby brother gone? Where is the little boy whose largest concern during childhood was his complete inability to make scones? Where did the little boy who needed to be physically dragged out of my bedroom every night disappear to? And when did I start to like this replacement version so much?
It is a gift to have a little brother four years younger than you; you start to come into your own [at varying levels] at about the same time. As Taylor was maturing into a teenager, I began the process of maturing into an adult. These times are strangely similar; everything is new and exciting and terrifying all at once. The stakes seem so high, the possibilities so endless. Taylor and I share our outlook, our passion, and our dreams in a way that few siblings can understand. Truly, I left for college and when I came home again for the first time, the annoying baby brother had been replaced with a lifelong best friend.
I think that is what I love so much about Taylor; we have so much in common. We often say that our parents had two kids, just the male and female version of each and Taylor is my counterpart. I've never met someone whose dreams honestly rival my own. I've never met someone with such an innate desire to see the world, to experience new things, to talk to different people, to play a foreign role in new situations, to make friends and flirt with everybody as a way of life. Taylor embodies all of these and more, and I love and respect his individuality more than I can say.
The thing is, Taylor is exactly who he is. He can't always understand it, necessarily, but he doesn't hide behind trends or subscribe to labels. If he wants to try something that is against the grain and unusual, he's not afraid to take a risk. I love that about him. I've come to expect it, actually. Taylor generally operates at a level that is beyond his years and his bold decisions attest to that fact, so when he actually acts his age, it always throws me. Taylor is not your average teenager... he is so, so much more than that.
Perhaps I am biased. Perhaps I am blinded. Perhaps everyone in the world who is so enamored with my brother is biased and blinded too... but I don't think that is the case. Taylor is an incredibly special man, one who will accomplish anything that he sets his mind to and do amazing things for God. He is loyal and fierce and protective, and the best is yet to come. Happy Birthday, boo boo bear. You are my favorite boy in the world... I would never ignore you for another. ;-)
xoxo.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Saturday, October 17, 2009
I Never Claimed to be Domestic...
Okay. Here's the thing. I come from a long line of amazing cooks. Mimi's food is amazing -- she could seriously hand me a plate with sliced cheese and pickles out of a jar on it, and for some reason, it's just better than any other sliced cheese or pickles that I could find anywhere else. I'm not even going to talk about her real cooking, because it will make me too hungry for it. My mother's food is equally legendary and it's not like I took it for granted growing up, but I certainly miss it a lot when I'm away at school. And Shelby? I mean, it's just ridiculous. Shelby just knows things about cooking, about how things work in a kitchen. Truly, it's a gift.
One that I clearly do not have, I might add.
Now, I've come a long way from my cookie melt down the summer before my senior year. I no longer burst into tears at the sight of a burnt mess and choke out my fears that my future children will need counseling, due to the fact that I cannot bake them the cookies that they so clearly desire, thereby ruining their childhoods and shunting them off to their perfect Aunt Shelby so that their baking needs can be met. Nearly four years have passed, and I am pleased to say that I am now capable of baking a batch of cookies and apple pie.
And it's not like I can't take care of myself at school; I can cook. Kind of. At least, I have improved a lot over the past year or two -- I made these meatloaf things last year that Rachael Ray published and they were delicious. I make excellent stir-fry and I am the queen of anything Mexican [although as some people so generously point out, anyone can chop vegetables into salsa]. I'm not quite at the point where Shelby actually lets me help in the kitchen, but I can fumble through a recipe pretty convincingly.
But it is time for me to take the next step. I sauté my food as if my life depends on it: I'm ready for the next challenge. Besides, come October every year, I am in a constant state of craving chilli and pot roast, and I have no way of making it for myself. When I told Mimi this, she did the only logical thing.
She bought me a crockpot and a cookbook.
The possibilities seemed endless. I had instant fantasies about myself coming home after a long, cold day on campus to the aromatic seduction of something hot and delicious and ready to eat. Plus, the way that Mimi talked about it, the crockpot seemed like a magical cauldron for stone soup -- all I had to do was throw things in it and walk away. Even I can do that, right?
I guess I should double check to make sure I'm throwing the right things in, though, because today I set out on a brand new adventure. I decided that, being a blustery fall day, I needed that chilli that I've been craving for weeks. Now, Jewels makes the best chilli in the world [and no, I am not falling prey to my superlative overdose at the moment... I am extremely serious]. I called her, got her recipe, did the grocery shopping, and woke up this morning craving a masterpiece of my own. When I went to brown the meat, however, I realized that I am the dumbest person in the world; I didn't get ground beef. I got something else that looked equally brainy and intestiney, but much less crumbly.
Here's my question: how can someone mess that up? I mean, who can’t differentiate between the stuff of hamburgers and tacos and… I don’t know, something else? I know it isn’t really that big of a deal; after a few frantic texts to my sister and mother, I dealt with the situation. It just meant that I chopped a little more than would have been otherwise necessary, which was fine. If nothing else, my problem solving skills have skyrocketed due to this new cooking situation. And in the end, my chilli? Oh my gosh, soooo good. My mother would have been proud. But still. It’s annoying to make such basic mistakes.
Oh well. As Julie says, she's been married twenty-five years -- she's supposed to know all of the things that I don't, and once I've been married for that long, maybe I'll have some more stuff figured out. I'm sure she's right, but that doesn't really comfort me about next week...see, I bought this pot roast... but I'm sure it will all be fine, as long as I warn the fire department in advance, right?
One that I clearly do not have, I might add.
Now, I've come a long way from my cookie melt down the summer before my senior year. I no longer burst into tears at the sight of a burnt mess and choke out my fears that my future children will need counseling, due to the fact that I cannot bake them the cookies that they so clearly desire, thereby ruining their childhoods and shunting them off to their perfect Aunt Shelby so that their baking needs can be met. Nearly four years have passed, and I am pleased to say that I am now capable of baking a batch of cookies and apple pie.
And it's not like I can't take care of myself at school; I can cook. Kind of. At least, I have improved a lot over the past year or two -- I made these meatloaf things last year that Rachael Ray published and they were delicious. I make excellent stir-fry and I am the queen of anything Mexican [although as some people so generously point out, anyone can chop vegetables into salsa]. I'm not quite at the point where Shelby actually lets me help in the kitchen, but I can fumble through a recipe pretty convincingly.
But it is time for me to take the next step. I sauté my food as if my life depends on it: I'm ready for the next challenge. Besides, come October every year, I am in a constant state of craving chilli and pot roast, and I have no way of making it for myself. When I told Mimi this, she did the only logical thing.
She bought me a crockpot and a cookbook.
The possibilities seemed endless. I had instant fantasies about myself coming home after a long, cold day on campus to the aromatic seduction of something hot and delicious and ready to eat. Plus, the way that Mimi talked about it, the crockpot seemed like a magical cauldron for stone soup -- all I had to do was throw things in it and walk away. Even I can do that, right?
I guess I should double check to make sure I'm throwing the right things in, though, because today I set out on a brand new adventure. I decided that, being a blustery fall day, I needed that chilli that I've been craving for weeks. Now, Jewels makes the best chilli in the world [and no, I am not falling prey to my superlative overdose at the moment... I am extremely serious]. I called her, got her recipe, did the grocery shopping, and woke up this morning craving a masterpiece of my own. When I went to brown the meat, however, I realized that I am the dumbest person in the world; I didn't get ground beef. I got something else that looked equally brainy and intestiney, but much less crumbly.
Here's my question: how can someone mess that up? I mean, who can’t differentiate between the stuff of hamburgers and tacos and… I don’t know, something else? I know it isn’t really that big of a deal; after a few frantic texts to my sister and mother, I dealt with the situation. It just meant that I chopped a little more than would have been otherwise necessary, which was fine. If nothing else, my problem solving skills have skyrocketed due to this new cooking situation. And in the end, my chilli? Oh my gosh, soooo good. My mother would have been proud. But still. It’s annoying to make such basic mistakes.
Oh well. As Julie says, she's been married twenty-five years -- she's supposed to know all of the things that I don't, and once I've been married for that long, maybe I'll have some more stuff figured out. I'm sure she's right, but that doesn't really comfort me about next week...see, I bought this pot roast... but I'm sure it will all be fine, as long as I warn the fire department in advance, right?
Sunday, October 11, 2009
The Best, Most Honest, Most Gut-Renching Post IN THE WORLD.
It has come to my attention that I may be a bit too generous with my use of superlatives.
Is this my cross to bear? Can I help my ever-burgeoning zest for life? Can I quell these hotsprings of enthusiasm that spring from the least bit of stimulus? [I don't know where those words are coming from, by the way...they were literally the first things that came to mind. Too much Fancy Nancy in one day, I think. Consequently, while I basically adore those books, I detest the word "fancy" in reference to things that are particularly nice. I.e., "This dress is so faaaaancy!" instead of "This dress is pretty and classy and perfect for the occasion," or, "This place is so faaaaancy!" instead of "Nice restaurant." I think it's the fact that people on What Not To Wear use it a lot in defense of their gross clothes and it annoys me, hence the newborn aversion. Right. Moving on.]
I feel like my random outbursts on things such as the word "fancy" and sudden bouts of [possibly] excessive zeal are somewhat definitive of me... I like the fact that I'm passionate about a lot of different things that can be called forth at a moment's notice. Still, I understand how a lot of what I say could contradict itself.
For example, I recently told my newest BEST FRIEND Rachael that she was my favorite person in the world. Jessie was walking with us and just laughed. "You say that to nearly everyone, Carly," she said.
Affronted, I gasped. "I do not!" I insisted.
"Yes, you do!" she said. Then she put on airs and started saying, "She is my favorite person. He is the most interesting person in the world. That is the craziest thing that has ever happened to me. Oh my gosh - I'm dying!"
In a fit of transcendence, I recognized my own catchphrases. I'm pretty sure that I stopped walking in order to better stare at Jess and Rach in disbelief, but that might just be my own dramatic reinterpretation of the event.
Also, a certain individual at work has taken to looking at me meaningfully every single time I use the word "phenomenal," which, as it turns out, is quite frequently. Add to that the lively and energetic impression of me pacing around a hallway that ANOTHER coworker did, and it leads me to one conclusion.
I have superlative issues.
There, I said it. Want more? I have a flair for the dramatics. [That one hurt a little bit.] Also, I tend to emphatically stress certain words when I'm speaking... and while we're on the topic, I might be slightly annoying in general, because of the breathless pace of my mannerisms when I'm excited.
I guess I should have figured out that I had issues when I told my mom about my day in a normal, chilled out manner and she just said, "What's wrong? Why are you sad? You're not gushing about how AWESOME your classes are and how IN LOVE you are with your friends... what is going on?"
In my mind, I know that not every offbeat, quirky, individualistic character I meet is the most interesting person ever. I know that I can only have one favorite person in the world [at a time, at least], and even then that it probably isn't prudent to share with the rest of the world. I have never had a revelation so extreme and amazing that I actually run the risk of dying, like I always claim, and I suppose Terry's fake pregnancy on Glee doesn't actually make her the WORST PERSON IN THE WORLD. I know that not every book I read can be the best book I've ever read and that not every professor can be all THAT much better than the one before.
Still, is it horrible to be so enamored with the world around me? I mean, I'm rarely bored. And I'm quite easily entertained. And I would rather be known as that weird girl who gets too excited about life than the muted, emotionless girl. Duh.
It's just that, now that I'm conscious of all of this, I'm really conscious of it. I keep catching myself in the middle of the word "phenomenal" or I'll be about to say that someone is my faaaavorite person in the world... and then I stop halfway through and try to rephrase. But why? I don't care. It's who I am. Extremist. Passionate. Excitable. Ridiculous. My best friend Jessie says, "She's just being Carly."
Okay. I'm going to bed. This is the most annoying blog in the world.
Is this my cross to bear? Can I help my ever-burgeoning zest for life? Can I quell these hotsprings of enthusiasm that spring from the least bit of stimulus? [I don't know where those words are coming from, by the way...they were literally the first things that came to mind. Too much Fancy Nancy in one day, I think. Consequently, while I basically adore those books, I detest the word "fancy" in reference to things that are particularly nice. I.e., "This dress is so faaaaancy!" instead of "This dress is pretty and classy and perfect for the occasion," or, "This place is so faaaaancy!" instead of "Nice restaurant." I think it's the fact that people on What Not To Wear use it a lot in defense of their gross clothes and it annoys me, hence the newborn aversion. Right. Moving on.]
I feel like my random outbursts on things such as the word "fancy" and sudden bouts of [possibly] excessive zeal are somewhat definitive of me... I like the fact that I'm passionate about a lot of different things that can be called forth at a moment's notice. Still, I understand how a lot of what I say could contradict itself.
For example, I recently told my newest BEST FRIEND Rachael that she was my favorite person in the world. Jessie was walking with us and just laughed. "You say that to nearly everyone, Carly," she said.
Affronted, I gasped. "I do not!" I insisted.
"Yes, you do!" she said. Then she put on airs and started saying, "She is my favorite person. He is the most interesting person in the world. That is the craziest thing that has ever happened to me. Oh my gosh - I'm dying!"
In a fit of transcendence, I recognized my own catchphrases. I'm pretty sure that I stopped walking in order to better stare at Jess and Rach in disbelief, but that might just be my own dramatic reinterpretation of the event.
Also, a certain individual at work has taken to looking at me meaningfully every single time I use the word "phenomenal," which, as it turns out, is quite frequently. Add to that the lively and energetic impression of me pacing around a hallway that ANOTHER coworker did, and it leads me to one conclusion.
I have superlative issues.
There, I said it. Want more? I have a flair for the dramatics. [That one hurt a little bit.] Also, I tend to emphatically stress certain words when I'm speaking... and while we're on the topic, I might be slightly annoying in general, because of the breathless pace of my mannerisms when I'm excited.
I guess I should have figured out that I had issues when I told my mom about my day in a normal, chilled out manner and she just said, "What's wrong? Why are you sad? You're not gushing about how AWESOME your classes are and how IN LOVE you are with your friends... what is going on?"
In my mind, I know that not every offbeat, quirky, individualistic character I meet is the most interesting person ever. I know that I can only have one favorite person in the world [at a time, at least], and even then that it probably isn't prudent to share with the rest of the world. I have never had a revelation so extreme and amazing that I actually run the risk of dying, like I always claim, and I suppose Terry's fake pregnancy on Glee doesn't actually make her the WORST PERSON IN THE WORLD. I know that not every book I read can be the best book I've ever read and that not every professor can be all THAT much better than the one before.
Still, is it horrible to be so enamored with the world around me? I mean, I'm rarely bored. And I'm quite easily entertained. And I would rather be known as that weird girl who gets too excited about life than the muted, emotionless girl. Duh.
It's just that, now that I'm conscious of all of this, I'm really conscious of it. I keep catching myself in the middle of the word "phenomenal" or I'll be about to say that someone is my faaaavorite person in the world... and then I stop halfway through and try to rephrase. But why? I don't care. It's who I am. Extremist. Passionate. Excitable. Ridiculous. My best friend Jessie says, "She's just being Carly."
Okay. I'm going to bed. This is the most annoying blog in the world.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
The Only Man A Girl Can Trust
A lot of people think that they have the best dad in the world. I'm happy for each of them... but I know the truth: Fred Crookston is the absolute best father in history.
I'm not saying that he's perfect, because he'll be the first to tell you that he isn't. What I am saying is that I don't know any other man like him. I don't know any other man who I can respect and trust and love as much as my daddy. I just can't help it -- I'm a daddy's girl. I'm nearly 21 years old and I've lived away from home for three years now, but it's always going to be this way. I always have and always will call him Daddy and I don't care who knows. That's just how it is, and I'm okay with that.
I love my daddy for a million reasons. He is the hardest worker I know, for one. He provides for our family and has an incredible wisdom when it comes to prioritizing -- I grew up knowing that family was my dad's main concern. He would rather spend time and money making memories with his wife and children than buying toys; consequently, our family vacations are among my most cherished memories. I appreciate his dedication to his work and his willingness to sacrifice more than I can possibly articulate.
More than just being a hard worker and excellent provider, my father is the definition of a servant. I have never seen my dad put himself first in my entire life. Daddy constantly thinks of others and he goes out of his way to make life easier for those around him. He is logical and a do-er, not a talker. When he sees a need, he does everything that he can to fulfill it instead of forming committees and having meetings and trying to delegate things that he can do himself. He takes care of everyone.
Because I have grown up with a father who is so selfless and available to me, I think that I took his generosity for granted, but now that I'm on my own[ish], I appreciate it more than ever. Daddy is practical and logical to a fault, yes, but when it comes to taking care of his family, there is nobody more giving. My parents constantly have a stream of guests staying in the house and they are picture perfect hosts. I get to bring friends home for a weekend every fall, and not only is it completely stress free for me, but all of my friends leave loving my parents.
Part of the reason that they love them so much is because of how ridiculous and fun Daddy is. I don't think that he has ever been bored for a minute in his life; Fred Games are legendary amongst the four of us and all of our friends. Daddy has fun in everything, whether we're driving in the carpool answering random questions or sitting around the house on a snowy afternoon.
The thing is, my father is more than just a great man. He is more than just a wonderful husband and a hard worker and a Godly example of faith. Daddy is an incredible father. There is limitless literature published on the importance of father figures in a girl's life, and I am blessed to have the picture of a secure, loving man at the center of mine. Never have I doubted that Daddy would do anything for me. Never have I been afraid of my dad or unsure of my worth in his eyes. He has always treated me like a beautiful young woman who deserved respect and appreciation, and that is exactly what he gave me. For my entire life, I have had women tell me that my future husband would have impossible expectations to reach, but I don't think they're impossible at all. Because of who my dad is, I know that I will end up with someone who will love me just as much as he does, who takes care of me just as well as he takes care of my mom, and who will love our children just as much as Daddy loves me.
For a long time, Daddy used to call me his rock, but the truth is, he is mine. I would be lost without him, and I don't tell him that often enough. So Happy Birthday, Daddy. Thank you for showing me what God created men to be. I love you more than I can possibly say.
I'm not saying that he's perfect, because he'll be the first to tell you that he isn't. What I am saying is that I don't know any other man like him. I don't know any other man who I can respect and trust and love as much as my daddy. I just can't help it -- I'm a daddy's girl. I'm nearly 21 years old and I've lived away from home for three years now, but it's always going to be this way. I always have and always will call him Daddy and I don't care who knows. That's just how it is, and I'm okay with that.
I love my daddy for a million reasons. He is the hardest worker I know, for one. He provides for our family and has an incredible wisdom when it comes to prioritizing -- I grew up knowing that family was my dad's main concern. He would rather spend time and money making memories with his wife and children than buying toys; consequently, our family vacations are among my most cherished memories. I appreciate his dedication to his work and his willingness to sacrifice more than I can possibly articulate.
More than just being a hard worker and excellent provider, my father is the definition of a servant. I have never seen my dad put himself first in my entire life. Daddy constantly thinks of others and he goes out of his way to make life easier for those around him. He is logical and a do-er, not a talker. When he sees a need, he does everything that he can to fulfill it instead of forming committees and having meetings and trying to delegate things that he can do himself. He takes care of everyone.
Because I have grown up with a father who is so selfless and available to me, I think that I took his generosity for granted, but now that I'm on my own[ish], I appreciate it more than ever. Daddy is practical and logical to a fault, yes, but when it comes to taking care of his family, there is nobody more giving. My parents constantly have a stream of guests staying in the house and they are picture perfect hosts. I get to bring friends home for a weekend every fall, and not only is it completely stress free for me, but all of my friends leave loving my parents.
Part of the reason that they love them so much is because of how ridiculous and fun Daddy is. I don't think that he has ever been bored for a minute in his life; Fred Games are legendary amongst the four of us and all of our friends. Daddy has fun in everything, whether we're driving in the carpool answering random questions or sitting around the house on a snowy afternoon.
The thing is, my father is more than just a great man. He is more than just a wonderful husband and a hard worker and a Godly example of faith. Daddy is an incredible father. There is limitless literature published on the importance of father figures in a girl's life, and I am blessed to have the picture of a secure, loving man at the center of mine. Never have I doubted that Daddy would do anything for me. Never have I been afraid of my dad or unsure of my worth in his eyes. He has always treated me like a beautiful young woman who deserved respect and appreciation, and that is exactly what he gave me. For my entire life, I have had women tell me that my future husband would have impossible expectations to reach, but I don't think they're impossible at all. Because of who my dad is, I know that I will end up with someone who will love me just as much as he does, who takes care of me just as well as he takes care of my mom, and who will love our children just as much as Daddy loves me.
For a long time, Daddy used to call me his rock, but the truth is, he is mine. I would be lost without him, and I don't tell him that often enough. So Happy Birthday, Daddy. Thank you for showing me what God created men to be. I love you more than I can possibly say.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Good Bye... Forever.
Dear Friends,
Remember last year when my class schedule threatened to swallow me whole? And I constantly wrote about how busy I was and how I had so little time to write? And secretly in my mind, I thought that my professors were trying to kill me?
Well, I was wrong -- that time. This semester, however? This semester is a very different story. All that I can say is that I now know for certain that my classes are trying to kill me. Trust me -- I am very, very right.
Let's start with my Pilates instructor and her personal vendetta against my abs. First of all, you should know something about this woman: I have never in my life seen anyone who looks like her. We all have those women around us who look so impossibly good that it's sickening, but Claire looks even better than that. She looks like the airbrushed bodies that you see in magazines. You know, the ones that you look at, but always find solace in the fact that nobody really looks like that in real life, right? Uhhmmm...she does. PLUS, just to add insult to injury, the other day she let the fact that she is 50 years old slip. Excuse me?? Don't get me wrong -- a lot of women who are extremely dear to me are in that age range, and I'm excited for the chance to age as gracefully and wonderfully as they have, but I mean, come on. This is just embarrassing.
So her class twice a week is motivation enough to stick with Pilates for, oh I don't know, the rest of my life. It's tough, but it's awesome. I love it. Sometimes I daydream about getting really good at it and owning a studio one day and wearing that pretty, flowy, dancer-y clothing that Claire wears and subsisting on raw nuts and veggies and meditating on mountaintops in my spare time. But that's neither here nor there.
If, then, my Pilates instructor is gorgeous [albeit a Nazi when it comes to my core], my rock climbing instructor can be summed up in a single phrase: OH MY GOSH. Despite his Napoleon complex, he is smoldering. Literally, I get distracted from his "lectures" because he is so ridiculously attractive. I don't know where Grand Valley has been hiding all of these painfully good looking people for the past two years, but Joe is making my goal of dating a professor seem more and more immediately plausible [...just kidding, Mom. I won't date him. He's not really even a professor, and I would obviously want someone far more academic. Plus, like you always taught me, you can't have a conversation with brawn and rippling muscles, now can you? Okay, now I feel awkward...].
ANYWAY, I have run into a bit of an issue as far as the actual rock climbing goes. We were bouldering on the second day of class, which just means that were climbing horizontally instead of vertically and therefore had no harnesses or ropes. I was climbing with a group of kids and I reached for a hold, but lost my grip and fell. It wasn't that huge of a deal, I didn't think... I mean, it hurt my ankle, but I didn't want to be That Girl on the second day of class. Besides, we have to wear the school's rock climbing shoes, which smell like a mixture between kitty litter and butt, and there was no way I was going to let Joe check my injury and consequently get near enough to catch a whiff of my clean feet in those things. So I limped out of class with my dignity trailing somewhere behind me.
Long story short, it's been a month and I'm still limping. I think it's a stress fracture, though, because yesterday [quick update] I was walking off the bus, heard/felt a pop, and tonight it is nearly as swollen as it was in the beginning. It's awesome, I'm really excited about it... plus, it makes rock climbing class really fun. Not. I haven't been on the wall the entire time, due to my sweet injury. I can't move my foot in the directions that I need to be able to climb, so I've been belaying a 37 lb Chinese girl named Ayaka for the entirety of the two hour class periods.
On the plus side, I have gotten so good at belaying that Joe has taken to pimping my services out... but I don't really know what to do with that.
So, I've been wandering around campus with a broken ankle and permanently sore muscles and you'd think that the one class that would give me a break would be boring old science, right? I'm in an honors geology course right now, which is basically watered down earth science with a few third grade activities thrown in to keep us non-science majors afloat. Seriously, I'm not kidding. Last week, for example, we made glaciers out of dirt, ice, and sand, and then graphed the subsequent bodies onto a sheet of paper with colored highlighters to label things like the "water level" and "delta." It's just short of awesome.
As with all earth science classes, though, we had to start with a unit on streams and erosion and other such nonsense. Interestingly enough, Grand Valley happens to be built on a stream system that runs into the Grand River, aka The Ravines. As a super cool class field trip, then, my professor [who apparently wants to be Bear Grylls] led us on an expedition into the uncharted wilderness surrounding Grand Valley. Now, I'm not saying that under the right circumstances [i.e., a cute boy asking me to go exploring and the luxury of a functioning ankle] I wouldn't have enjoyed this. I definitely could have. But to come to the edge of a cliff and have the professor peer over it and say, "Well, it's pretty steep, but just make sure to zigzag on your way down and help each other!" only to bound merrily over the precipice and jog ahead of the class, happily pointing out meander beds and failed sediment traps and terraces and flood plains.... well, I'll let you imagine how thrilled I was to hobble along behind my classmates, swatting at the lethal looking bugs that buzzed around me.
So, in conclusion, I would like to say that truly, literally, seriously -- my classes this semester want me dead. Maybe just suffering...but more likely, dead. You should consider this my farewell should they succeed. I shall miss you all.
xoxo,
Carly
Remember last year when my class schedule threatened to swallow me whole? And I constantly wrote about how busy I was and how I had so little time to write? And secretly in my mind, I thought that my professors were trying to kill me?
Well, I was wrong -- that time. This semester, however? This semester is a very different story. All that I can say is that I now know for certain that my classes are trying to kill me. Trust me -- I am very, very right.
Let's start with my Pilates instructor and her personal vendetta against my abs. First of all, you should know something about this woman: I have never in my life seen anyone who looks like her. We all have those women around us who look so impossibly good that it's sickening, but Claire looks even better than that. She looks like the airbrushed bodies that you see in magazines. You know, the ones that you look at, but always find solace in the fact that nobody really looks like that in real life, right? Uhhmmm...she does. PLUS, just to add insult to injury, the other day she let the fact that she is 50 years old slip. Excuse me?? Don't get me wrong -- a lot of women who are extremely dear to me are in that age range, and I'm excited for the chance to age as gracefully and wonderfully as they have, but I mean, come on. This is just embarrassing.
So her class twice a week is motivation enough to stick with Pilates for, oh I don't know, the rest of my life. It's tough, but it's awesome. I love it. Sometimes I daydream about getting really good at it and owning a studio one day and wearing that pretty, flowy, dancer-y clothing that Claire wears and subsisting on raw nuts and veggies and meditating on mountaintops in my spare time. But that's neither here nor there.
If, then, my Pilates instructor is gorgeous [albeit a Nazi when it comes to my core], my rock climbing instructor can be summed up in a single phrase: OH MY GOSH. Despite his Napoleon complex, he is smoldering. Literally, I get distracted from his "lectures" because he is so ridiculously attractive. I don't know where Grand Valley has been hiding all of these painfully good looking people for the past two years, but Joe is making my goal of dating a professor seem more and more immediately plausible [...just kidding, Mom. I won't date him. He's not really even a professor, and I would obviously want someone far more academic. Plus, like you always taught me, you can't have a conversation with brawn and rippling muscles, now can you? Okay, now I feel awkward...].
ANYWAY, I have run into a bit of an issue as far as the actual rock climbing goes. We were bouldering on the second day of class, which just means that were climbing horizontally instead of vertically and therefore had no harnesses or ropes. I was climbing with a group of kids and I reached for a hold, but lost my grip and fell. It wasn't that huge of a deal, I didn't think... I mean, it hurt my ankle, but I didn't want to be That Girl on the second day of class. Besides, we have to wear the school's rock climbing shoes, which smell like a mixture between kitty litter and butt, and there was no way I was going to let Joe check my injury and consequently get near enough to catch a whiff of my clean feet in those things. So I limped out of class with my dignity trailing somewhere behind me.
Long story short, it's been a month and I'm still limping. I think it's a stress fracture, though, because yesterday [quick update] I was walking off the bus, heard/felt a pop, and tonight it is nearly as swollen as it was in the beginning. It's awesome, I'm really excited about it... plus, it makes rock climbing class really fun. Not. I haven't been on the wall the entire time, due to my sweet injury. I can't move my foot in the directions that I need to be able to climb, so I've been belaying a 37 lb Chinese girl named Ayaka for the entirety of the two hour class periods.
On the plus side, I have gotten so good at belaying that Joe has taken to pimping my services out... but I don't really know what to do with that.
So, I've been wandering around campus with a broken ankle and permanently sore muscles and you'd think that the one class that would give me a break would be boring old science, right? I'm in an honors geology course right now, which is basically watered down earth science with a few third grade activities thrown in to keep us non-science majors afloat. Seriously, I'm not kidding. Last week, for example, we made glaciers out of dirt, ice, and sand, and then graphed the subsequent bodies onto a sheet of paper with colored highlighters to label things like the "water level" and "delta." It's just short of awesome.
As with all earth science classes, though, we had to start with a unit on streams and erosion and other such nonsense. Interestingly enough, Grand Valley happens to be built on a stream system that runs into the Grand River, aka The Ravines. As a super cool class field trip, then, my professor [who apparently wants to be Bear Grylls] led us on an expedition into the uncharted wilderness surrounding Grand Valley. Now, I'm not saying that under the right circumstances [i.e., a cute boy asking me to go exploring and the luxury of a functioning ankle] I wouldn't have enjoyed this. I definitely could have. But to come to the edge of a cliff and have the professor peer over it and say, "Well, it's pretty steep, but just make sure to zigzag on your way down and help each other!" only to bound merrily over the precipice and jog ahead of the class, happily pointing out meander beds and failed sediment traps and terraces and flood plains.... well, I'll let you imagine how thrilled I was to hobble along behind my classmates, swatting at the lethal looking bugs that buzzed around me.
So, in conclusion, I would like to say that truly, literally, seriously -- my classes this semester want me dead. Maybe just suffering...but more likely, dead. You should consider this my farewell should they succeed. I shall miss you all.
xoxo,
Carly
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