I just want it on the record that I think we can get through this together. Even if it turns out that we're an accident all alone in this vast universe and there was no meaning after all, I think, despite all the terrible things we're capable of, we can get through this. I believe in us.
And I needed to say that.
Monday, November 16, 2015
Friday, November 13, 2015
Stages of an Academic Life
(1) The Beginning
You look out over a landscape of books and PDFs of journal articles and papers and everything looks desolate and chaotic and you're sure that if you take even one step down into that maze of tiny pathways between the stacks, the walls of this world will collapse upon you, leaving you buried forever in other people's words and complicated ideas. And you go in anyway.
(2) The Panic
You walk up to an article, pick it up, and realize how woefully unprepared you were. You spend more time looking up the terms used in the paragraph-long sentences than you do actually reading the words on the page. You dig at the ground underneath it only to find a connecting series of tunnels papered with concepts that you may have heard of but certainly don't understand. The sky above you has yet to change from the stormy gray it was when you walked into the maze and so you choose the tunnels. At least it'll stay dry down there.
(3) The Shaky Confidence
The weather seems a little better as you climb out of the tunnels, a storm breaking up rather than waiting to break. You understand the groundwork here, how easy it is to get sucked into old thought patterns and old ideas, but also how so many of these stacks are connected, are built upon each other. You've emerged back into the book-scape in a completely different place than you were before, but that's fine. You've got a compass now, the vaguest ideas of a mental map beginning to form.
(4) The Exploration
It's actually exhilarating, being around this many ideas, this many thoughts, now that you feel like you've found your footing. So you read and you read and you read and then, for a change, you read. You read. There are some suggestions for other things you can read. You start to recognize names and concepts, to know where the tunnels are going to lead you if you take them again, and to see that some tunnels are regular thoroughfares and some are collapsed and some have fallen into disrepair but still have their merits. It was the easiest thing to be lost among all these words, and sometimes you still do, but you know the major streets. You've figured out how to get home and that's a comfort to balance the excitement of leaving in the first place. There's actually some sunshine in this place after all.
(5) The Building
You've noticed some gaps in the walls as you've walked, some question mark-shaped holes in the stacks. Before, you'd thought that surely someone would have considered this possibility or made that connection or clarified this point, but it seems like that's not the case. You settle in, leaving only to pull other words toward you, to help lay the foundation upon which your own thoughts are going to stack. Sometimes what you build tips sideways and sometimes it tumbles completely, but each time you have to correct, you find a better way to build, some way of shoring up the walls or strengthening the joints. You've seen this done before. It just takes time.
Or at least, I assume it does. But what do I know? This is my first time here too.
You look out over a landscape of books and PDFs of journal articles and papers and everything looks desolate and chaotic and you're sure that if you take even one step down into that maze of tiny pathways between the stacks, the walls of this world will collapse upon you, leaving you buried forever in other people's words and complicated ideas. And you go in anyway.
(2) The Panic
You walk up to an article, pick it up, and realize how woefully unprepared you were. You spend more time looking up the terms used in the paragraph-long sentences than you do actually reading the words on the page. You dig at the ground underneath it only to find a connecting series of tunnels papered with concepts that you may have heard of but certainly don't understand. The sky above you has yet to change from the stormy gray it was when you walked into the maze and so you choose the tunnels. At least it'll stay dry down there.
(3) The Shaky Confidence
The weather seems a little better as you climb out of the tunnels, a storm breaking up rather than waiting to break. You understand the groundwork here, how easy it is to get sucked into old thought patterns and old ideas, but also how so many of these stacks are connected, are built upon each other. You've emerged back into the book-scape in a completely different place than you were before, but that's fine. You've got a compass now, the vaguest ideas of a mental map beginning to form.
(4) The Exploration
It's actually exhilarating, being around this many ideas, this many thoughts, now that you feel like you've found your footing. So you read and you read and you read and then, for a change, you read. You read. There are some suggestions for other things you can read. You start to recognize names and concepts, to know where the tunnels are going to lead you if you take them again, and to see that some tunnels are regular thoroughfares and some are collapsed and some have fallen into disrepair but still have their merits. It was the easiest thing to be lost among all these words, and sometimes you still do, but you know the major streets. You've figured out how to get home and that's a comfort to balance the excitement of leaving in the first place. There's actually some sunshine in this place after all.
(5) The Building
You've noticed some gaps in the walls as you've walked, some question mark-shaped holes in the stacks. Before, you'd thought that surely someone would have considered this possibility or made that connection or clarified this point, but it seems like that's not the case. You settle in, leaving only to pull other words toward you, to help lay the foundation upon which your own thoughts are going to stack. Sometimes what you build tips sideways and sometimes it tumbles completely, but each time you have to correct, you find a better way to build, some way of shoring up the walls or strengthening the joints. You've seen this done before. It just takes time.
Or at least, I assume it does. But what do I know? This is my first time here too.
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Roses
Last Thursday was a good day. I got up, I went to Starbucks, I got some work done, I went to go sit in Rainy Hall and I knocked out at least 45 pages in my book for my book review, then I went home and made my best approximation of a Sunrise Ski from B-Ski's and took a really well-timed nap and got an episode of Daredevil in before I went out with friends to go see Bonfire Night fireworks then watch V for Vendetta.
Last Friday was a good day. I got up, went to an extra masters-level session for my Philosophy of Time class and not only understood everything that was being talked about but asked a question that led the discussion to an interesting place that produced a clear framework for understanding various ideas about time, came home and made french toast, then went to a seminar on the academic job market, came back home and took an academic break by writing several scenes that made me happy in my NaNoWriMo novel.
Last Saturday was a good day. I slept in and when I got up, I spent the day alternating between writing, academic work, playing my ukulele and television while watching the rain from my window before going out in the evening to a nice little place down the street with some people from my building, where I had one of the best whiskies of my life and talked about everything from arriving in town to working jobs before going back to school to buying pizza at 2am and regretting nothing, then walked home, listing off favorite TV shows and chatting about life experiences.
Last Sunday was a good day. I lazed about, walked with friends to church, got to sing Come Thou Fount, had a real emotional moment with God, several real emotional moments with God, actually, went home, made a better version of the Sunrise Ski, watched some Simpsons, which was on the television in the common room, and got some work done before going to a movie night and having a deep discussion about good and evil and why I still go to church.
Monday was a good day. I got up, took a shower, ate some cereal, went to Rainy Hall, knocked out some reading, wrote a post, then went to a group discussion where the topics ranged from the image of God to transhumanism to Superman.
I'm writing this on Monday night, but let's just assume that Tuesday was also a good day. It promises to be. They're showing Treasure Planet through the film society and I have a friend to go with me and there's talk of nachos.
I don't say all this to be Little Miss Sunshine and Roses. I say all this because there are different definitions of good. I have a friend who is at this very moment reading my definition of what a good day is and yelling, "NEEEEERD!" in the most loving way possible, and that's a good thing too. It's good that there's not just one answer the question of What Makes People Happy, that our experiences of happiness are as diverse as we are. We're all little islands, little worlds inside heads that have to struggle to come together, to connect in any way. The world this week granted me a hundred ways to connect with other people, a thousand graces and miracles.
Which is rather nice, come to think of it.
Last Friday was a good day. I got up, went to an extra masters-level session for my Philosophy of Time class and not only understood everything that was being talked about but asked a question that led the discussion to an interesting place that produced a clear framework for understanding various ideas about time, came home and made french toast, then went to a seminar on the academic job market, came back home and took an academic break by writing several scenes that made me happy in my NaNoWriMo novel.
Last Saturday was a good day. I slept in and when I got up, I spent the day alternating between writing, academic work, playing my ukulele and television while watching the rain from my window before going out in the evening to a nice little place down the street with some people from my building, where I had one of the best whiskies of my life and talked about everything from arriving in town to working jobs before going back to school to buying pizza at 2am and regretting nothing, then walked home, listing off favorite TV shows and chatting about life experiences.
Last Sunday was a good day. I lazed about, walked with friends to church, got to sing Come Thou Fount, had a real emotional moment with God, several real emotional moments with God, actually, went home, made a better version of the Sunrise Ski, watched some Simpsons, which was on the television in the common room, and got some work done before going to a movie night and having a deep discussion about good and evil and why I still go to church.
Monday was a good day. I got up, took a shower, ate some cereal, went to Rainy Hall, knocked out some reading, wrote a post, then went to a group discussion where the topics ranged from the image of God to transhumanism to Superman.
I'm writing this on Monday night, but let's just assume that Tuesday was also a good day. It promises to be. They're showing Treasure Planet through the film society and I have a friend to go with me and there's talk of nachos.
I don't say all this to be Little Miss Sunshine and Roses. I say all this because there are different definitions of good. I have a friend who is at this very moment reading my definition of what a good day is and yelling, "NEEEEERD!" in the most loving way possible, and that's a good thing too. It's good that there's not just one answer the question of What Makes People Happy, that our experiences of happiness are as diverse as we are. We're all little islands, little worlds inside heads that have to struggle to come together, to connect in any way. The world this week granted me a hundred ways to connect with other people, a thousand graces and miracles.
Which is rather nice, come to think of it.
Monday, November 9, 2015
Music Videos Part 2
Oh hey! It looks like I didn't have time to write a post this week, or that I wasn't happy with the posts I wrote, or that I just want something to be easy for once, okay, Patrice1? Just for once. So here's another list of fantastic music videos that I think you'd like to watch, Dear Reader.
1. Thinking Out Loud by Ed Sheeran
I find this to cinematographically beautiful and you can't convince me otherwise.
2. Ghost Story by Charming Disaster
Another Welcome to Night Vale weather selection (seriously, have you not started listening to Night Vale yet?). The story told through the song is my favorite thing about it, but the costume changes are compelling as well.
3. Dearly Departed by Shakey Graves
A story within a story and one of the more catchy ooo sections you'll find in life.
4. Bad Self Portraits by Lake Street Dive
It's a twenty-something anthem for the ages, with just enough sincerity and determination to get you through the years. As a bonus, give their cover of I Want You Back a listen/watch as well.
5. St. Joseph's by The Avett Brothers
If you thought you were going to get away from this post without a little Avetts in your day, you were wrong. I like the concept, I love the song, and I can't say no to any live performance by The Avett Brothers.
BONUS: Hello by Adele
So excited for some new Adele in the world, but also in love with the apparent instagram filter they applied to this whole video.
1 I don't actually know someone named Patrice that I'm yelling at here. It's a HIMYM reference. But also, I'd advocate for Patrice as, like, the best fake-anger name to exist.↩
1. Thinking Out Loud by Ed Sheeran
I find this to cinematographically beautiful and you can't convince me otherwise.
2. Ghost Story by Charming Disaster
Another Welcome to Night Vale weather selection (seriously, have you not started listening to Night Vale yet?). The story told through the song is my favorite thing about it, but the costume changes are compelling as well.
3. Dearly Departed by Shakey Graves
A story within a story and one of the more catchy ooo sections you'll find in life.
4. Bad Self Portraits by Lake Street Dive
It's a twenty-something anthem for the ages, with just enough sincerity and determination to get you through the years. As a bonus, give their cover of I Want You Back a listen/watch as well.
5. St. Joseph's by The Avett Brothers
If you thought you were going to get away from this post without a little Avetts in your day, you were wrong. I like the concept, I love the song, and I can't say no to any live performance by The Avett Brothers.
BONUS: Hello by Adele
So excited for some new Adele in the world, but also in love with the apparent instagram filter they applied to this whole video.
1 I don't actually know someone named Patrice that I'm yelling at here. It's a HIMYM reference. But also, I'd advocate for Patrice as, like, the best fake-anger name to exist.↩
Friday, November 6, 2015
God Save the Queen
When I was in college, or maybe right after college, I was playing with the bell choir, so I was in my black dress pants (permanently borrowed from my roommate after she lost some weight) and my black long sleeved dress shirt, purchased many moons ago for one concert or another. The last hymn in the service was Here I Am, Lord. I don't remember what the sermon was about or even what songs we played as a bell choir, but I remember standing, being on the front pew, and singing my little heart out, never glancing down at the hymnal. And the pastor came up to me after the service and said, "On that last hymn, it looked like something was happening there." I think I smiled and stuttered something and returned to packing up the bells like I was supposed to be doing and the pastor went back to greeting people like he was supposed to be doing, but what I was really thinking was:
"There's always been 'something happening there' with this hymn, ever since the first time I heard it in high school. It's always spoken to me, always been a part of my life. It's been the hymn that I go to, when no one's around and the piano and the sanctuary is all mine, the one that I play and sing and cry to. This is a part of my DNA, it's a part of my soul, it's the very definition of my relationship with God, put into lyrics and tune. I can't help but feel something here.
"And where was this noticing of my reaction to this hymn three years ago when I was sitting two-thirds of the way back in the sanctuary, freezing my face so I wouldn't break out in sobs? Where was this caring when I was lost, when I didn't know my purpose, when I had broken my heart and realized again that I can't even stand on my own two feet by myself? Did you see how I stared at the top right corner of the sanctuary, how my voice failed? Could you feel my heart begging for God to use me instead of setting me aside again and again, for God to call me, just me, no one else but me, to some real and good and concrete purpose? Did you see that? Did you see?
"Or was I too far away?"
On Wednesday, I was singing with the New College Choir at the installation of one of New College's professors as a Chaplain-in-Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen (pulled that straight off the order of service) and since it was an event with a musical group, I was in my black dress pants (stretched out over the years as I've gained and lost weight) and my black long sleeved dress shirt, a little frayed at the edges of the sleeves. The last song in the service was God Save the Queen, which I could not in good American conscience sing, but the song after the sermon was Be Thou My Vision. I stood on the second row, and glanced at the screen because those Brits changed the words on me, and sang my little broken heart out. No one came over to me after the service. No one commented on what it seemed like I was feeling. But that's all right because those years ago in Chapel Hill, I wasn't really talking to the pastor. What I meant was:
"God, there's something happening here. There's always been something happening here.
"God, this is us. This is You.
"God, why don't you speak to me?
"God, where have you been?
"God, why don't you call me?
"God, do you see? Do you see me, here and hurting and alone again? Do you see what's happening?"
Because I do want to rest here. I want to stay in these hymns and these words and these walls. My heart breaks for the Church like it breaks for nothing else. I want to stand beside it through its travails and trials, to stand in familial shame with it when it falters and to burst with quiet pride when it succeeds. I don't want holiness for myself, but I would strive for it for the Church, to see it built again as a bastion of Christ's love for the world and a perpetual reminder of the deep truth of God in a world that skirts the surface of everything that's out there. I could, in complete unfeigned humility, spend a lifetime in service to a Church bent on loving and caring and saving the world around it, the world it's placed in, to live and breathe and move in. That I can do.
I just need God to tell me that that's God's plan as well as mine. I need God to tell me that I'm leaning on a desire that's true and real and good. I need God to come into my heart like Jesus overturning the tables of the money-changers and wreck the parts of me that I shouldn't have had in the first place. I grab hold of dreams like I'm grasping at straws and I build up capabilities like a person abandoned in a desert. I can weather many a storm. That doesn't mean that I should. It doesn't mean that I have to. And all these thoughts and fears and bastions I've built, some of them may be holding me back from the place that I am best suited to be.
I need to know where that is, like a touchstone, like a path I've walked before, many moons ago. I need to be sure that I'm not sending my life off to live for some cause that's seen its day and its usefulness. If I'm going to invest heart and soul and give up the things that I feel deep in my bones would make me happy, I need to know that this, at least, will give me a happiness worth having. If I'm giving up the world for God, I need to know God's going to catch me on the other side.
I want it to be true. Like a longing in my heart, I want it to be true. But like anything else to do with my heart, I don't trust it.
Not yet, anyway.
"There's always been 'something happening there' with this hymn, ever since the first time I heard it in high school. It's always spoken to me, always been a part of my life. It's been the hymn that I go to, when no one's around and the piano and the sanctuary is all mine, the one that I play and sing and cry to. This is a part of my DNA, it's a part of my soul, it's the very definition of my relationship with God, put into lyrics and tune. I can't help but feel something here.
"And where was this noticing of my reaction to this hymn three years ago when I was sitting two-thirds of the way back in the sanctuary, freezing my face so I wouldn't break out in sobs? Where was this caring when I was lost, when I didn't know my purpose, when I had broken my heart and realized again that I can't even stand on my own two feet by myself? Did you see how I stared at the top right corner of the sanctuary, how my voice failed? Could you feel my heart begging for God to use me instead of setting me aside again and again, for God to call me, just me, no one else but me, to some real and good and concrete purpose? Did you see that? Did you see?
"Or was I too far away?"
On Wednesday, I was singing with the New College Choir at the installation of one of New College's professors as a Chaplain-in-Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen (pulled that straight off the order of service) and since it was an event with a musical group, I was in my black dress pants (stretched out over the years as I've gained and lost weight) and my black long sleeved dress shirt, a little frayed at the edges of the sleeves. The last song in the service was God Save the Queen, which I could not in good American conscience sing, but the song after the sermon was Be Thou My Vision. I stood on the second row, and glanced at the screen because those Brits changed the words on me, and sang my little broken heart out. No one came over to me after the service. No one commented on what it seemed like I was feeling. But that's all right because those years ago in Chapel Hill, I wasn't really talking to the pastor. What I meant was:
"God, there's something happening here. There's always been something happening here.
"God, this is us. This is You.
"God, why don't you speak to me?
"God, where have you been?
"God, why don't you call me?
"God, do you see? Do you see me, here and hurting and alone again? Do you see what's happening?"
Because I do want to rest here. I want to stay in these hymns and these words and these walls. My heart breaks for the Church like it breaks for nothing else. I want to stand beside it through its travails and trials, to stand in familial shame with it when it falters and to burst with quiet pride when it succeeds. I don't want holiness for myself, but I would strive for it for the Church, to see it built again as a bastion of Christ's love for the world and a perpetual reminder of the deep truth of God in a world that skirts the surface of everything that's out there. I could, in complete unfeigned humility, spend a lifetime in service to a Church bent on loving and caring and saving the world around it, the world it's placed in, to live and breathe and move in. That I can do.
I just need God to tell me that that's God's plan as well as mine. I need God to tell me that I'm leaning on a desire that's true and real and good. I need God to come into my heart like Jesus overturning the tables of the money-changers and wreck the parts of me that I shouldn't have had in the first place. I grab hold of dreams like I'm grasping at straws and I build up capabilities like a person abandoned in a desert. I can weather many a storm. That doesn't mean that I should. It doesn't mean that I have to. And all these thoughts and fears and bastions I've built, some of them may be holding me back from the place that I am best suited to be.
I need to know where that is, like a touchstone, like a path I've walked before, many moons ago. I need to be sure that I'm not sending my life off to live for some cause that's seen its day and its usefulness. If I'm going to invest heart and soul and give up the things that I feel deep in my bones would make me happy, I need to know that this, at least, will give me a happiness worth having. If I'm giving up the world for God, I need to know God's going to catch me on the other side.
I want it to be true. Like a longing in my heart, I want it to be true. But like anything else to do with my heart, I don't trust it.
Not yet, anyway.
Wednesday, November 4, 2015
Sports Envy
I have a sports problem.
Actually, lemme clarify. I feel as if that statement misrepresents me. I have a sports-access problem. Because, see, I'm really good at cheering for sports teams.
And I miss having that in my life.
For example, my Tar Heels are RANKED in football, are 7-1 on the year, and are undefeated in ACC play AND I CAN'T WATCH A SINGLE GAME. I live in Chapel Hill for EIGHT YEARS and rarely if ever experienced this kind of hope and happiness when it came to life on the gridiron. The UNC-Duke football game, which is happening at noon, is sold out. Sold. Out. I went to a UNC-Duke football game when I was a kid because the tickets were cheap and group rates fill seats. What is going on in the world and why am I not there to experience it?
In a related example, the UNC Basketball team is preseason #1 for a record ninth time, according to the news articles, and I have a really good feeling about this year and as long as we don't have a Kendal Marshall situation happen with Marcus Paige, there could be some really good things happening come March. This could be somebody's year. Not mine, though. I'm across an ocean and I don't think they even know what ACC basketball is over here. Dear God, so help me, I don't think they even know what the ACC is.
Hell, even THE PANTHERS are having a knock-down season. I DON'T EVEN WATCH PANTHERS GAMES AND I'M JEALOUS.
And don't tell me that I could get into soccer. It's not even a real game.
Listen, nobody feel sorry for me or anything because I'm living my dreams and having a great time and all of that stuff and I definitely have not been missing crisp fall mornings turn into perfect fall afternoons than lean into chilly fall evenings whose time and tenor is directed by the travails and triumphs of the eleven men on the field wearing the right color jersey. I definitely do not have a deep-seated longing to walk into the Dean Dome one more time and Jump Around and scream and shout and cheer and put my arms around my friends while we sing Hark. I also do not need at all to dry my eyes right now.
All I'm saying is that I have some pent-up energy that is usually reserved for active following of athletics and I'm unsure of how to address that issue. Ugh. Maybe I'll take up baking or something.
Actually, lemme clarify. I feel as if that statement misrepresents me. I have a sports-access problem. Because, see, I'm really good at cheering for sports teams.
 |
| Good enough for ACC TV, good enough for anything. |
For example, my Tar Heels are RANKED in football, are 7-1 on the year, and are undefeated in ACC play AND I CAN'T WATCH A SINGLE GAME. I live in Chapel Hill for EIGHT YEARS and rarely if ever experienced this kind of hope and happiness when it came to life on the gridiron. The UNC-Duke football game, which is happening at noon, is sold out. Sold. Out. I went to a UNC-Duke football game when I was a kid because the tickets were cheap and group rates fill seats. What is going on in the world and why am I not there to experience it?
In a related example, the UNC Basketball team is preseason #1 for a record ninth time, according to the news articles, and I have a really good feeling about this year and as long as we don't have a Kendal Marshall situation happen with Marcus Paige, there could be some really good things happening come March. This could be somebody's year. Not mine, though. I'm across an ocean and I don't think they even know what ACC basketball is over here. Dear God, so help me, I don't think they even know what the ACC is.
Hell, even THE PANTHERS are having a knock-down season. I DON'T EVEN WATCH PANTHERS GAMES AND I'M JEALOUS.
And don't tell me that I could get into soccer. It's not even a real game.
Listen, nobody feel sorry for me or anything because I'm living my dreams and having a great time and all of that stuff and I definitely have not been missing crisp fall mornings turn into perfect fall afternoons than lean into chilly fall evenings whose time and tenor is directed by the travails and triumphs of the eleven men on the field wearing the right color jersey. I definitely do not have a deep-seated longing to walk into the Dean Dome one more time and Jump Around and scream and shout and cheer and put my arms around my friends while we sing Hark. I also do not need at all to dry my eyes right now.
All I'm saying is that I have some pent-up energy that is usually reserved for active following of athletics and I'm unsure of how to address that issue. Ugh. Maybe I'll take up baking or something.
Monday, November 2, 2015
Adventures in Shaving
When I was maybe a sophomore in college, I went out with a bunch of my SAI sisters to Cold Stone after a meeting and one of the sisters starts telling this story about how she had just shaved her legs and needed someone else to feel how smooth they are and ended up calling an ex-boyfriend of hers and... you know how that is. This story was then followed by a complete reenactment of her dance audition to be a cast member on a Disney cruise, in the middle of the Cold Stone lobby. I tell you this so that you have context for the story to follow as I take my place in the proud tradition of sisters sharing more information than is maybe necessary, but just as much information as is pertinent to the amusement of others. With that in mind, let me tell you that I shaved my legs this weekend, for the first time since I left.
Yeah. I know. Let me tell you about it.
There are several reasons why I hadn’t shaved, which I shall enumerate below.
- You may remember the packing list fiasco way back when. Razors were on the list of items that I could “more than likely buy when I get there”.
- When I got here, I reserved all pre-bank account spending for the essentials. I pulled out £200 from an ATM using my American debit card and I figured I’d go on a big cosmetics run once my Scottish bank account opened in a week or so.
- I had to wait until I had my BRP (basically, my permanent visa for the year, not just my entry clearance) until I could put in the paperwork for a bank account. I couldn’t get that until September 20th.
- I went to the RBS branch nearest campus, which was swarmed with students. It took them three and a half weeks to open my account.
- It took a full week after my account was open for my financial aid check to clear.
- All of this meant that my big cosmetics run didn’t take place until the last day in October.
I’m not sure why I stuck to this “wait until you have money” plan- I’ve charged maybe an extra £100 on my credit card than I had planned on in the first place, and I could have just as easily spent some of that money on proper shampoo, conditioner, soap, and razors. I certainly feel more settled now that I have cosmetics that smell more like me as opposed to the stop-gap shampoo and conditioner I bought upon getting off the plane, desperate to no longer smell like I'd been on a plane. But for whatever reason, I waited until now and man, did that have some interesting results.
At first, I was actually pretty excited to be living somewhere where jeans would be the norm and where I would have next to no occasion to show my legs to the world. Not that I’m Victorian about it, just that my legs are nothing to write home about and I'm always ready to cull unnecessary parts of my beauty regimen. Plus, my new bathroom doesn’t exactly offer ample space to work with when shaving and, as I am fond of saying, with complete innocence, there’s a lot of real estate down there. I felt like I was dodging a bullet.
But then I realized that it’s not as frigid here as I expected it to be and that I could have been wearing the one dress or one of the two skirts I brought with me if I wanted. And while yes, I wore them with tights, the tights weren’t exactly necessary for warmth. They were necessary, however, if I wanted to preserve any semblance of my femininity.
See, my German genes come out primarily in how much hair my body produces. While it’s a benefit when we’re talking about the Disney princess-esque locks that flow from my scalp, it’s less fun when we’re taking about underarm hair or leg hair, both of which I’m fairly certain I could have braided as of Saturday morning. I could feel the hair on my legs move in the breeze when I was wearing shorts in my room, which was not an unpleasant feeling, but also not a feeling that you can openly discuss. Unless you’re a dude. Which, dudes. I get it. I now have an appreciation for why you could prefer shorts even in winter.
Also, I have weird bald patches on my legs and I’m not sure if I should be concerned about them or thankful for them.
So, having gone shopping with my newly-recovered cash, I returned ready to take a shower and get down to business (she again said completely innocently). For reference, this is the size of my bathroom:
 |
| Itty-bitty living space |
 |
| It's like I never left the plane. |
Clearly, shaving in the shower was not an option. Slightly better was the idea of shaving in the sink, so this is what I endeavored to do. What ensued is what I imagine happens when a teenager finally goes to shave a struggling beard. I had to rinse the razor after each swipe. Pretty soon there were clumps of hair in the sink. I started to worry that I should have invested in a pair of clippers for the first pass. I didn’t think the razor would make it through even one leg.
I like to think that all my life was preparing me for this moment. Those thirteen years of ballet were not wasted as I balanced on one leg and stretched and twisted and turned to reach opposite sides of my ankles and to get the best possible view of my kneecap, a repeat offender for harboring escapees from the razor. And there was a fair amount of dedication and tenacity required because you haven’t shaved your legs until you’ve waited fifty-two days to get around to that. And I’m going to hazard that there was some physics in there as well, maybe some calculating of the coefficient of static friction of bare feet on a water-soaked bathroom floor. Also some praying. But in the end, I prevailed. I walked out of there with the smoothest legs I’ve had in months and not a drop of blood on the floor. Boo-freaking-yah.
Now, I’m not one to submit to the patriarchy. I’m a whisky drinking, football watching, action movie loving, change-my-own-tire kind of person and if I wanted to wear my skirts with hairy legs, ain’t no power in the ‘verse that could stop me. But damn, it feels nice to have smooth legs again and toes that don’t look like they could stand in for hobbit feet. It’s a matter of taking control over my appearance.
I was talking to one of my friends in Sunday School a couple of years ago, shortly after she, her husband, and her preschool son had moved into a new house and she said, “The trick is to unpack the kitchen first. You do that and you can tackle basically everything else.” And I cringed a little internally because a woman, saying that you need to get your kitchen in order? How much more stereotypical can you get? But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. As the Night Vale novel put it, if you know a place, if it is or has been your home, you’re going to know where the silverware drawer is. It’s a way of getting settled, of knowing where you are, of returning your circumstances to some kind of normalcy.
I can generally be about some kind of normalcy.
So, my friends, when you move to a new country and you’re trying to “settle in”, take all the help you can get. Even if that comes in the form of pink razors and bathroom gymnastics.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)