There are these two stop lights on my way to work, that are timed just so. The first one turns green and just as you get to it, the second light turns green. You can safely accelerate from the first light and go through the second without so much as a tap on the brake. If you have nerves of steel, that is. For me, even though I have driven through those lights 100s of times, I still don’t believe that second light is going to turn in time. I brake, every time, and every time, it’s uneccesary. I’m not really sure what that says about me, that I need to learn to trust or that I’m overly cautious. Who knows.
Yesterday I received a manila folder yesterday in the mail that made me cry. Cori’s mom sent me three CDs that Cori and I had burned for one another during our semester as roommates. There are two from me, overburdened with smileys and nicknames, and one with just a date and our names in her childish scrawl. I only cried for a minute, and then laughed at every crazy selection, remembering the significance of songs listened to during dinners of Milano cookies, Milwaukee pickles and Coke, which when acquired from the basement vending machines was fondly referred to as “soda of the bad evening.” My favorite was Five For Fighting’s Superman, which Cori told me was like listening to self-pity on endless repeat.
Apparently I’m in an ADD reading phase. I need to finish Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini for a book club meeting on Thursday, City of Thieves by David Benioff (it’s not that long, I don’t know what’s taking me), and General Winston’s Daughter, by Sharon Shinn, which is just hard to swallow, since it’s more social commentary than novel and the characters are completely flat.
I did, however, completely finish The Edible Woman by Margaret Atwood. I feel a little Atwood-ed out. This was the first book of hers that I’m not sure I even enjoyed. It was a little over-done. Her message (a fairly common one for her, about consumption culture, especially as it relates to women) was not subtle. A woman whose engagement causes her to feel like she is getting eaten, culminating in a scene with a cake shaped like a woman, which is then eaten itself. Um. Yeah. I guess it is her first novel, so some forgiveness, and there were passages like this one halfway through that kept me going.
It’s like term papers, you produce all that stuff and nothing is ever done with it, you just get a grade for it and heave it in the trash, you know that some other poor comma-counter is going to come along the year after you and do the same thing over again, it’s a treadmill…
Which, oddly enough, is something I have definitely felt about academia.
Anywho. I’m going to go back to reading and drinking exhorbitant amounts of coffee. Maybe it will get sunny in a little bit and I can sit on the deck. Loves!