The following are some excerpts from an essay I recently workshopped in a 201 non-fiction class. I took out some parts about Tucson. And put them here. Because this page needs some love and I don’t have time to write anything new… MOST DEDICATED BLOG OWNER EVER 2012!
ahem.
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You know what I love about Tucson? (Apologies if you know me in real life.) (Because you’ve probably heard this about 50 times more than you ever wanted to already.)
The SUNSETS. The sunsets, man. All these colors in the sky arranged in a way that you could only really imagine was done by some divine accident, if you’re into that kind of thing. The best part, the thing that matters, is that they’re consistent. It’s like a little tiny present spanning the length and width of the sky that comes to us every day out here in the desert. I hope I never get tired of them.
Tucson is like an arranged marriage: you get set up with something for logical reasons, such as money or location, and then you have to learn to love it. My first year was not so much loving as it was learning. These days, I know how to love Tucson. You’ve got to look in the right places, you’ve got to go further than two square blocks surrounding campus. (You have to leave that area just to get fresh air away from frat sweat, anyways.) Try it. Go to a mountain and look down on the city. Get out of the middle of things, find some stars. Fresh air. I keep hearing about that.
Sunshine is all it takes for me. My friends have taken to calling me Little Miss Sunshine, which is to say, I wish they would call me that in real life and not just that one time as a joke. (It’s just such a great nickname, you know?) Sunshine is like currency to me after pining away for it so many months of the year growing up. Life is better in the sun. It just is. I don’t have any science to back this up. And I don’t really care.
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This has been: excerpts from my backpack. Thank you.
Occasionally, I drive past the literal place I was born. I’m not talking like, city or area. I’m saying the actual building. (Well, hospital, to be clear. I was not born in a barn.)
Often it’s directly following a long day of work, after swinging by Costco to buy ungodly amounts of something I probably don’t really need.
Invariably it makes me feel a little guilty.
….why? I mean, I don’t have an emotional connection to the place. It’s just a hospital that I went to once. (By which I mean…I arrived at once. I know how to make an entrance, y’all.) It’s not like I remember birth, or the room I was in, or the nurses, or anything like that. The only reason I know that it is the actual place of my birth is because I’ve been told so and so far they haven’t hung a commemorative plaque.
But every time I drive past it, I slow down and look. It’s always eery.
Because the first time I was every anywhere at all happened inside there; it was there. And I’ve gone a lot of different places, been far away, and as things turned out I ended up coming back, but none of it matters because there I am in that moment, driving past it nineteen or so years later, in a funny green car, listening to weird music, and thinking about the bulk pack of floss in my trunk. Back to the beginning, square one.
And then I think about how there’s got to be lots of others. Thousands. It’s been around awhile, you know? I’m not that good at estimations, but there may be MILLIONS of ex-babies that all started right there, too. All these now-people that share this very vital thing with me. We have this specific starting point in common, but it’s invisible, so I let it be.(Also it is in bad taste to ask strangers where they were born.)
I’ve gotten in the habit of sort of nodding at it, like it can see me. I know it can’t. It stands silent, watching. Or so I imagine. Occasionally it’s getting a new coat of paint, sometimes it has an ambulance in front, blaring.
But it’s always there, waiting for me pass ‘GO.’
I’m working on it.
Today while I was working at my often mind-numbingly dull (as is the case with most jobs in the field) retail job, a woman came in looking for a swimsuit. I directed her to the wall where our only model hangs. It is, to be fair, underwhelming and yet somehow at the same time atrocious. It’s a Speedo one piece that would do the 90’s proud, offered in either bruise purple or the color of gum after its been stuck on a sidewalk for about a year, roughly speaking.
But most people really just need the suit for a class they’ll take and therefore suck it up, buy the thing, and wear a bag on their head during aerobics.
Not this woman.
I see my fair share of weird people at my job. It’s a resort for the super-rich and often fickle. But this woman. THIS woman told me that she just could not bear to buy one of our suits. That’s fine, they aren’t the most attactive, especially for someone used to high fashion, whatever that is. I did what is expected of me: demurely apologized for what was obviously my fault-the fact that she thought the suits were ugly-and suggested she try the other store on the property. She told me she’d already been there but they only had suits that would NOT work for her class, i.e. two pieces, also known as suits for normal humans.
The thing is, even to this point, she seemed alright to me. The conversation was light, and she was sort of laughing at the choices we had, which was refreshing. (They are truly offensive on the eyes.) But then she looks at me, bottom lip quivering, and matter of factly states,
“I’m about to cry.”
Talk about awkward. What do you say to that? She went on to tell me that her own ‘cute’ (which, may I point out, is a highly relative term) bathing suit was STOLEN, yes STOLEN out of the locker room. The horror. The tragedy. The hysterics. The germs. And now, to top it all off, she couldn’t even buy a replacement. (Though she could probably afford to buy me. Like, my life. The whole thing.) The world is just so unfair.
I didn’t know what to say. I went from being casually engaged as part of my job to disgusted. I’m not sure what it was about her, exactly. We get stupid complaints all the time. But as I stood there and watched her fishing for a shoulder to cry on (which, I am proud to report, she did not get from me), I wanted to tell her to suck it up and stop complaining becuse for the love of God, my ears hurt from listening and you suck.
It’s a swimsuit.
You aren’t in great shape, so nothing is going to look super fabulous.
And your old one was probably ugly, too.
Sorrry I’m not sorry.
…but I didn’t. I just did that really forced grimace/nod thing that I’m sure anyone who has ever worked in retail has perfected and let her play herself out before moping out the front door.
The point is that sometimes it’s about perspective, and at the same time, keeping your mouth shut in interest of not making a scene/maintaining your employment.
Having your job still the next day is nice, but it also, like, builds character or something.
They should list “confirmation that you are sane through consistent interactions with people of questionable sanity” as a benefit of the job. Really.
And I guess we should probably get some new swimsuits.
I had my first class meetings for all my new second semester classes this past week. And though I am finally getting into my major and taking relevant courses, it was still the first day of class. They went as well as could be expected, which is to say that they were lackluster and tedious. I don’t care how much you love school or learning or college, Asher Roth.
Reasons the first day of class always sucks:
- The professor will undoubtedly make a lame attempt to justify reading the entire syllabus word for word - “I know this isn’t the most exciting stuff, but…”
- It’s really difficult to find a good person to sit by after only a few seconds of observation. I usually fail. (Sidebar: honest to blog sat next to a guy with a shirt on that said: “Freshman Girls. Date ‘em while they’re still skinny,” along with a stick figure girl who was labeled “Freshman 15” and holding a slice of pizza. I can’t make this stuff up.) (Editors note: I’ll be moving seats next class.)
- Presumably ten percent of the kids in there will drop, but many instructors find it quaint and somehow necessary to go around and introduce ourselves. One by one. By one. But it’s ok, they do that so they can forget our names faster.
- “The due dates listed on the syllabus will most likely change. Be flexible.”
- In the smaller classes, sometimes we are subjected to ‘ice-breakers’. My most recent encounter involved everyone telling the class their most embarrassing moment. Because that really helps boost morale in a workshop class.
- You suddenly realize that ten(10) of the books you ordered are for this one course. And consequently realize that, once again, you are about to have no social life for the entirety of the semester.
Word to the wise: that list is dripping in sarcasm. I don’t really loathe them to such extremes, but really, there’s got to be SNL skit gold in there somewhere. And, to be fair….
Things that are good about first days of classes:
- The end of them.
- Getting new books.
- Exploring new classrooms on campus!!!1!1
- Meeting new, weirder, more suspect people!!!!
- LEARNINGGGGGgGGGg!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(Also another list dripping in sarcasm.) (In fact, just regard everything on this post as a cynical, yet hilarious jab.) (Winky face.)
Things I wish I could order on Amazon along with my 20 textbooks:
- 400 hour weeks in which I could accomplish all of my reading assignments. Because 20 textbooks wasn’t an exaggeration. I counted them. Twice. And that’s not even taking into account the glossary of essays posted online….
Which brings me to the plan, or syllabus if you will, for this blog. Expect to not expect a huge amount of content posted here for the duration of the school year. But before you get mad at me, you should really try to understand that it is due to higher education. And therefore you should write angry letters to the Dean of Students/President of my college. Thanks in advance. (Winky face, again.) I am planning on being swamped for four solid months. I’ll try to update this site, and probably will find myself spending time here rather than on literary poopanalysis papers, but even though posts will be sporadic, you’ll be in my heart. Yes, you’ll be in my heart.
Don’t cry for me.
Anyways, for all of us in this academic ship that seems to be three or four fat ladies over its weight limit; let’s hope it gets better.
And by that I mean I had better learn to speed read.
Same thing.
And the thing about Tucson is that it’s weird and full of characters and annoying that there are ONLY surface streets to drive on and the weather is occasionally questionable, but you can always count on it to roll out these gorgeous days of 75 and sunny with a slight breeze in the dead of winter that make you want to marry the whole city all at once in a giant ceremony with every flavor of cake, ever.
Today is one of those days.
Cheers to the weather as well as the longest run on sentence I’ve ever written. (The internet never forgets….)
Oh, and happy New Year, everybody! Expect a return to normal posts when I return to normal life. (i.e. when school starts, and I decide to put off real work on Tumblr.) (I’m a role model.)
