A Break from the Norm

I feel exhausted. At the beginning of the year when I thought of blog posts, the expression "how cool!" came to mind. Now, as I sit down  to write another analysis on Invisible Man my soul begins to wilt a little. I would honestly rather talk about movies--and I stand by what I say, that movies can reflect intellectual movements just as effectively as books can. I have probably stated that French class is basically a rehash of existentialism, and I have to say that after re-watching some critical scenes in The Reader, I am much more excited to write an essay about how convoluted the nature of Anna Schmitz is than I am about writing on literature. And to think the only reason I have to write that essay is because I neglected to do any of my homework.

This past weekend was insane. First I went to work, where I was informed that I would, in fact, be working the midnight shift on the night of the Harry Potter premier. And I was honestly frightened when a person of ambiguous gender walked up to my register. A friend insists it was a man, I insist it was a woman, though she might have been correct in saying that the person looked exactly like Johnny Bravo, and therefore must have been a man. That night I stayed up until four. The next day would be a new kind of feat.

I threw a dinner concert for over 120 people. I had been arranging it since September, deciding how to cut costs and get the word out. 120 is twice as many as what I had anticipated, and if I am correct in saying, the largest number of people the concert has ever pulled in. This could not have happened without the help of my mother, who cooked for weeks in replacement of an expensive caterer and taught me the lesson of head counts and organization. Mr. Fisher, our orchestra director, provided me with no guidance and was not a lick of help in any of the arrangements. I would like to think I did it on my own, but really, it could not have happened without the help of my family and friends.

Right now my toes are numb because I decided to wear ridiculous heels on Saturday. I do regret this, but I cannot forget the feeling those heels gave me. That of a strong woman. Some would call me strong willed; when my mother cussed in front of a friend, my friend's look of surprise was genuinely amusing. Yes, we are liberal, yes my mother curses like a truck driver, and yes, I do too. But I guess cursing is like a good pair of heels because nothing can really make me feel so empowered.

I am trying to remember the last piece of creative writing I hammered out. It was A (man's) Guide to Eatin' Good Sammiches. Let's just say that it is something that could only be found funny if a woman wrote it. I've always thought I would go into medicine or some high-stress job, but now I am thinking if not a writer, a wedding planner.