On Happy Moments

My happiest moment of 2011

was at the mustache party

when I was somehow put in charge

of disorienting everyone

in the game of pin-the-mustache-on-casimir-pulaski

and you politely asked me,

whilst blindfolded,

to spin you,

so I took hold of your shoulders

and, spinning spinning,

I joyously turned you

in circle after circle

until you wandered away

with confused and infectious laughter.

That Emerson is just a bowl full of fortune cookies

Today, in aphorism:

Pass or do not pass. There is no stepping-on-my-heels for three blocks straight, mister.

How do I love thee? Let me count the number of BYU basketball games you take me to.

I heard a fly buzz when I dried my pyre of laundry.

Good and bad are but names that I assign to people who ring doorbells vs. just walk right in.

Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today I ate a polish dog for lunch. That is why it is called the present.

CAPPED OFF

I am now officially, and curiously, what you might call "capped off."

As unbelievable as it sounds, I have been thinking in all caps for the past month. The once-gentle voice I use when I am thinking to myself somehow upgraded to booming I-told-you-it-was-better-at-the-IMAX surround sound. In other words, I thought in ALL CAPS.

Allow me to recap these loud conversations with myself:

When I brush my teeth in the morning with my extra soft brush toothbrush I think, GOSH, I HOPE MY GUMS DON'T RECEDE ANY FURTHER.

As I hurry up to campus in my navy pencil skirt with gray tights, I think, SORRY FEET-- THESE NEW SHOES ARE TOO PRETTY NOT TO WEAR TODAY.

While my mentor talks about taking his daughters to the Justin Bieber movie this weekend, I think, I KIND OF REALLY WANT TO SEE THAT MOVIE WHEN IT COMES TO THE DOLLAR THEATER. IF I'M BORED.

But some magic happened over the weekend:

I ate a pork taco at Los Hermanos,

saw a Cougarette concert,

had a massively girly sleepover,

flipped three fluffy pancakes,

engineered an enviable blanket fort,

cheered as Jimmer put up some shots,

played mini croquet,

bought shirts and jeans in Park City,

watched 4 episodes of The Office,

danced at a President's Day party,

gave a spiritual thought,

read a novella,

AND STOPPED THINKING IN CAPS!

That's right; I did all these things in a normal indoor thinking voice. Caps off to me!

Cupid, I think you missed one

Flower man: "Do you know [girl] in #4?"

Me: "Yeah. I mean, sort of. She's my neighbor."

Flower man: "Do you think you could sign for her flowers and keep them in your apartment until she comes home?"

Me: "Oh, um, sure."

Me (signing clipboard and joking): "Wow, there's nothing as depressing as signing for another woman's flowers."

Flower man (handing over flowers and being serious): "Try being the deliverer of other people's love."

Did he just--? Snarky flower man!

Rooting for the home team

A few days ago, a friend on facebook posted a status that asked,

"Why is it that we are so afraid of making mistakes?"

And for the first time ever, I had an optimistic answer to this question. Normally I chalk it up to the psychological nagging that we each have to be perfect or to fulfill self-made or societal expectations. But this time I thought,

"because we like ourselves. Deep down, we are rooting for the person we have known first and forever, and that we think is a pretty alright person. We are rooting for our success because we sympathize with ourselves."

A fairly frequent conversation

Kyle: "Have you been eating lately?"

Me: "What do you mean? Yeah, I'm eating."

Kyle: "Did you eat lunch today?"

Me: "Yeah! I ate a whole box of Macaroni and Cheese by myself. Why?"

Kyle: "I am just checking. A healthy Rebecca is a happy Rebecca. And a happy Rebecca is a happy Kyle."

Pub-lick Spee-king

Something horrible is going on in the world.

It’s called public speaking.

When I had to give a talk a couple weeks ago, I spent hours stressing over what I would say and how I would say it. When I had to teach class on Monday to 42 sophomores about Coleridge’s poems “Kubla Khan” and “Pantisocracy,” I barely slept the night before.

Since when has this been the case?

Did those years of vocal performance, acting, and giving school presentations have absolutely no payoff? What about last semester when I taught a class of college freshmen, or my Sunday school class from the book of Isaiah? What about that speech and debate festival I went to in high school where I dramatically read Sylvia Plath poems to a panel of judges? No? Nothing?!

In place of the smooth confidence I donned in a previous life, I have this nervous imagination. The night or even the hour before I have to speak in public, I fantasize about running away. I throw my notes on the ground, get in the car, and simply drive away. Whoever is depending on me will just have to scramble around because I am on my way out of the state with no luggage and no guilt for leaving. Only an open can of coke in the cup holder. I look ahead to a new destination where nobody asks me about the meter of cryptic English poetry. Usually it’s Disneyland.

But what really happens is this:

I stand up with my notes in hand and just start talking, eying the clock.