Being a Lady

Last night, having finished making a (delicious, I’m sure) mango smoothie for a waiting customer, I handed it to her only to realize that my back hurt.  Suddenly.  And a lot.

Of course, being a lady, I did not complain.  I simply continued on with my work, only hunching slightly as I walked.

When I woke this morning, glazed with the stupor that often comes with 6:40 am wake ups, I hardly felt my back at all.  But in statistics I felt it.  Man, I felt it.  I would shift in my chair until I found a bearable position, only to have the pinching in my lower back reannounce itself within a few minutes.

I asked my neighbor if she had ibuprofen.  Nope.

I asked the girls in front of me, who gave me scandalized glares.  Nope.

Finally, unable to take it anymore (yeah, I’m tough), I bolted out of the classroom and down to the Science/Math Division Office, where I practically begged the receptionist for painkillers.  She was lovely about it, luckily, and even offered to give me some for later.

And now, at the pinnacle of the story, I am lying on my stomach, a half-empty bag of frozen veggies propped against my butt.

My roommate has already been in to take pictures of the scene, which will surely be appearing on Facebook shortly.

It’s all very dignified.

It’s Just a Flesh Wound

I am currently typing without my pinkie, as it is bleeding in protest of an unfortunate event that happened this morning.

Mainly, my finger was caught in the hinge of a collapsible hair dryer.

A blister immediately formed, which I had to nurse on the run so as to be on time for World History.

This afternoon I aggravated the injury further by spending an hour dusting the display cases in Imholte Hall.  The foul-smelling solution I used apparently doesn’t play well with flesh wounds.

And now, having written this rather gruesome post, I’m heading home for tea, Neosporin, and bed.

All is Right in the World

All is right in the world when you wake up at 6:30 a.m., sit through a committee meeting until 9, and then trudge straight back to bed for two hours.  And later, your writing class spends a half hour discussing how stories should be submitted; electronically or physically.  One girl couldn’t handle the stress and walked out.

Truth:  In all my years of schooling, I’ve only been in two classes that had walkouts: Creative writing in high school, and now advanced fiction writing.  Writers are touchy people.

Things continue to be wonderful when the awesome German teacher wins Jeopardy, and when you and your trivia-obsessed buddies decided to forgo leftovers in favor of a better dinner in the Student Center.  Then, at your work safety training meeting, you laugh until you’re wheezing on the floor after the trainer says the following:  “Too many people try to sneak free pump coffee refills.  Next time I see this happening, I’m going to be all: ‘I will cut you!'”

Volleyball doesn’t go so well.  One of your teammates is struck down by a charley horse, which you know hurts like the dickens because it happens to you decently often.  Your team loses to a team that you probably could have beaten, but you don’t feel too horrible because afterall 5-1 isn’t a bad record.  And because you knew the moment you were all lined up on the court that you were probably going to lose because your team just wasn’t playing like they usually do.

After the game, silently ashamed of being a living breathing cliché, you say you don’t care about the loss, but you regardless spend fifteen minutes in the snow talking about what exactly went wrong.  And then you skip off to the Convenience Store, where friends are buying ice cream and you’re just looking for an excuse to avoid reading your book of nature-heavy poetry.

And then you come home and read it anyway.