I folded brochures at work today, lining crease up to crease and chatting with Sharon about dark chocolate versus milk.
I walked to Humanities, after, sat down in my professor’s office (although I would have preferred to stand), and gave my Beowulf recitation. It was the scene where Grendel comes up from the mist, and spots the wine hall where men are drunk and sleepy and cannot prevent an attack. Here’s the thing: I had to recite the passage in Old English. Ergo, this is what the text looked like. It sits forward in your mouth when you say it properly, rounded like a German umlaut.
I researched my first and last name for an onomastics paper due Monday. “Holly,” as I already knew, means “plant with red berries” (fascinating), but my last name means “valley dweller.” My persona, then, the very essence of my being, is a prickly Christmas plant growing at low altitude.
Flocks and flocks of geese were qnacking overhead as I walked home from campus. V’s overlapped against the sky, almost blocking out the sun. I considered putting my hat on in anticipation of free-falling feces, but instead plodded onward, bare-headed and bold-hearted.
There was an email in my inbox when I got home. Teach for America has selected me to participate in a final interview. Which means that they must have really liked my application, because usually, they require several interviews/activities before the final.
My gentleman caller and I had our second intramural badminton match, and were victorious. There was a moment when I dove for the birdie at the same time he did, and I thought all was lost. We were both on hands and knees and writhing in agony over floor-burned shins, but somehow, somehow, we kept up the volley and won the point. Even now, I can’t think of how we must have looked without laughing out loud.