The first boxes are packed.
A new adventure is beginning.
I’ve maintained my anonymity for a long time.
Sure, many of my loyalest (most loyal?) followers are people who know me in real life. They see me daily or annually, depending on where they are geographically in relation to Anytown.
I have never posted a picture of myself on this blog. I am the paranoid type who wears tinfoil hats occasionally. The internet is not entitled to the face of The Risible Rambler, and I’ve wanted to keep it that way.
Now, my curious friends, I will reveal to you my true identity. The first picture of myself ever to appear in full color, real as life, on this blog.
Here it is:
There. The secret’s out.
(That’s me and AB. We got our engagement pictures done and they’re adorable.)
(I’m the one on the right.)
Yes. Every day for the past nine months, actually. Looking at pictures of me a year ago is rather depressing. Because I looked, you know, not zombie-like last year.
Sleep has been a rare commodity for the last four years, normally because something like this happens every single night:
The following scene tends to happen multiple times during the day:
And then people feel like they need to walk on eggshells whenever they’re around me. Really, they don’t. I’m doing better than others…
Honestly, just about anything that’s the matter in my life on any given day could be fixed by someone coming along and saying,
Well, actually, sleep. Sleep would do the trick even better. But when people tell me I should just go to bed early, I tell them that the following will happen:
…so why even bother?
Today, I’m not going to even try being coherent. It won’t work. I would be embarrassed to tell you how many times I’ve had to backspace writing this one meager little post. Today I just went to my board of funny stuff on Pinterest, found the things that seemed to apply to today (and every other day this week) and strung them into a story.
…and hopefully you did, too.
Tonight we lose an hour.
Yes. It is that time of year. Daylight Savings Time. We had the Fall Back portion of it last year. Falling back is fun. Falling back means you get to do midnight twice, and you get a much-needed extra hour of sleep. Unfortunately, a Fall Back needs to be followed by a Spring Forward. And that’s tonight. One less hour of sleep tonight.
Benjamin Franklin cooked up this hair-brained scheme hundreds of years ago. Not sure why he thought an extra hour of daylight would help anyone. I suppose the theory was that an extra hour of daylight made an extra hour of profitable work. This from the man who would push an empty wheelbarrow around just so his neighbors would think he was industrious. Pah.
Thankfully, tonight I have the chance to go to bed early. My father jumped the gun and reset all the clocks today instead of tomorrow. Right now it’s almost 11, not almost 10, in our house. Others are not so fortunate to have such a over-punctual father, however, and will probably forget. I know I did, until I came home to find my house in a different time zone.
So this post is half post and half a friendly reminder to wind your clock back an hour. It’s torturous, I know. Just hang on until fall when we get that lost hour back.
The showers in the girl’s dorms at UU are acoustically interesting. There are two huge bathrooms on every hall, each with ten shower stalls. The rooms are of blue tile and are shaped like massive rectangles. They are as wide as two dorm rooms put together, or maybe one and a half (I’ve never measured).
For whatever reason, on Thursday nights everyone decides to take their showers at the same time. Something about the way the showers are constructed ensures that you can hear almost nothing around you in other stalls. Add the sound of running water, and you’re pretty much deaf to the world when you’re taking a shower.
Naturally, everyone starts singing in the shower. At once. Ten different tunes. Loudly. It’s extremely comical. Everyone is deaf to the world, and since they can’t hear anyone else, they figure no one can hear them either.
Trust me, ladies. I can.
Please tell me someone’s done a study on the correlation between stress and daydreams. Surely there’s some survey out there somewhere that shows that the more stressed out people get, the more elaborate and escapist their daydreams become. Someone please tell me I’m not alone in this.
Because I know that if my major were “Professional Daydreaming,” I’d be set for life. It’s as if my life has resorted to a kind of reverse osmosis where the less time I have to do things, the more my mind forces itself to dream things. I get easily distracted. Hey, look, a squirrel.
I praise the Lord that this semester isn’t nearly as stressful as others have been in the past. My course load is just as heavy, and I’m working just as many hours, and I’m involved in way more than I used to be, but other stresses have been trimmed away so that now my soul has room to breathe. God is allowing me to do the things I love—all of them. At once.
Yet every night I look forward to letting my head hit the pillow, so I can let my mind fly over the mountains of deadlines to a green land where I rest in a hammock surrounded by friends, even friends I haven’t met yet, land laughing the afternoon away. I reassure myself that God knows what He’s doing, even when life is confusing, and that one day “the term will be over” and the holidays will begin. I dream of dances and of music fit for angels, and I dream of all of the things that could be, or might be, or should have been, and I drift off to sleep knowing, for a moment at least, what heaven must be like.
Perhaps it is these moments of quiet, but bright possibility that make the rest of harsh reality just that much more bearable.
The great irony of the week is that even though I have spent most of it flexing ever creative muscle I have, I still find myself sitting down to write the daily blog post completely empty of ideas.
I think of a thousand things during the day. Funny things, caustic things, introspective things, philosophical things, frustrated things—all kinds of interesting things to write about, and none of them live long enough to make it to the blog at the end of the day.
My brain is working against me.
I mean, I could talk about my feelings of intense nostalgia when I saw the Anytown Academy busses drive by on their way back from a week-long trip to a camp in the mountains. I could talk about how good it felt to drive a car today, in a rolling bubble with The Lion King soundtrack blaring merrily through the speakers. I could talk about hipsters, or seeing pictures of the 10-year reunion of The Lord of the Rings cast. I could talk about the inability to fall asleep and the equally powerful inability to wake up in the morning. I could talk about how weird it is to see my friends from elementary school getting engaged, then married. I could talk about all of these things…but they’re all things you’ve heard me talk about before, at length, and with more rambling than perhaps you wanted to hear. More blathering about post-adolescent angst, and there’s enough going on in the blogosphere about that already.
So once again, I have settled on blogging about how I have nothing to blog about, simply for the sake of maintaining my promise to post every day.
Thanks for bearing with me.
There comes a point in the semester where everything sort of hits you all at once. And I’m not talking “hit” as in a stray Ping-Pong ball or paper airplane. I’m talking a big, honkin’ freight train.
Everything hit this week. It hit everyone. Everyone is coughing like their immune systems are damaged by lack of sleep. Everyone’s a got a thermos loaded with all things caffeinated. Most everyone’s looking at their planners with the glazed stare of a prisoner before an execution. Some are gritting their teeth and squaring their shoulders for the task ahead. Others are melting into quivering masses of stress and tears.
Honestly, I’m somewhere in between. Is it possible to have your jaw set and shoulders squared while feeling like a quivering mass inside?
I know I’ve been through scarier semesters than this. Try 18 credits hours, 15 hours of work, two research-oriented classes, one of which involved writing the big scary paper the whole university has to write at some point. Not as scary as charging into a lion’s den, I know, but for a freshman that’s pretty scary.
My point is that all of us are facing that first third of the semester where we’re all wondering if we’ve bitten off more than we can chew. It’s times like these that I remind myself that, thank heavens, college only happens once. Live while you can, do what you can while you can, and tick off the days until you’re done.
Any fangirl will tell you that they are more likely to have a crush on a fictional character than on an actual human being. This is probably because fictional characters are safe, predictable, and always ideal—unlike most of the options offered us in cold cruel Reality. In fact, if you ask just about any girl to describe her ideal man, she will inevitably give you a list of her favorite book or movie characters who, combined, would equal their perfect prince charming.
In honor of Hobbit Day (or the anniversary of Bilbo Baggins’ birthday) I would like to mention an overlooked hero in film and literature who, like the best of heroes, is often unsung.
A lot of people labor under the delusion that the hero of The Lord of the Rings is Frodo, Aragorn, or, according to polls of the royally misinformed, Orlando Bloom. I have nothing against any of those characters and/or actual people; they all had their part to play in the events of the story. There would be no story without the ringbearer or the returning King of Gondor. But, in the words of the ringbearer himself, “Frodo wouldn’t have got anywhere without Sam.”
In my mind, Sam has always been the hero simply because he is so unassuming. His ambition is not to save the world, but to keep an excellent garden. He does not set out to do great things, but instead rises to the occasion when he is called upon. He is the most loyal of friends from any genre or any period of literature. He conquers his own fears for the sake of his friends, he doesn’t put himself in the spotlight nor does he ask for one, and is not afraid to stick up for what he believes in. He is a poet, is fond of good food and good music, has a childish sense of wonder about the magical world he lives in, and is content with very little, asking for nothing more in life than a warm home and good tilled earth.
In short, Rosie Cotton is one lucky lady.
And in the end, it was his determination and stick-to-it-iveness that got that ring chucked into Mount Doom.
A hero is not the man who aspires to be one, but the man who becomes one in spite of himself. A hero puts himself last, asks for no praise but deserves it simply because his character is so sound and his convictions so sure. He doesn’t have to be handsome. He doesn’t have to be athletic or funny or even charming. A hero is someone who knows and lives out the definition of love.
So keep your Edwards and Jacobs. Keep your Wesleys and Weasleys. You can have your Raouls and Erics and Bruce Waynes and Peter Parkers and Captain Americas. You can even keep your Will Turners and Gilbert Blythes and Fitzwilliam Darcys and James Bonds and Sir Lancelots and all of your thousands of cardboard-cutout Prince Charmings. I’ll take a Samwise Gamgee. I’ll take a Samwise any day.
This happens occasionally.
So tired from all the going and doing that once you’ve gone and done it, your brain cells hold a collective revolt, holding little picket signs that say “GO TO BED NOW.”
As a result, your blog post is short and painfully unfunny.
Yeah. That happens.
The picture is there so you can laugh at something. There are better things in store tomorrow, I (and my brain cells) promise.