Things are kind of crazy in a good way lately, as is what happens (apparently) when a person writes about sex a lot. According to the pros I have consulted (which is code for the people whose careers look exactly like my dream job), Twitter is a necessary next step.
Please know everything I believe about using Twitter to socialize still stands, and I wholeheartedly will commend you for it if instead of following me, you delete your account. (I like how you think I’m kidding.)
This is my “grad school equivalent of senioritis” face. (Or a picture I accidentally took with my phone the other day. Either way.)
The start of the spring semester last month marked the beginning of the end.
The end of grad school, assuming I pass comps so I can walk in May.
I walked into class on Jan. 8, naturally overcome by the deep-seated confidence that I would fail comps in March as a direct result of the existence of the Lifetime Movie Network.
(Don’t judge me.)
I’ve been tired for awhile. Dreaming of the time to read for leisure, and write a lot more than I write, and partake in communication not mediated by computers. So by the time the spring semester rolled up, I was – to quote what I am fairly certain I recently said to my adviser’s face – “OVER IT.”
But the grad school equivalent of senioritis plus a slightly-more-than-mild case of test anxiety does not equal graduation in May. It equals the Lifetime Movie Network (who knew?).
So as of late, I have had to force myself to resist the TV and grab grad school by the horns for the final time. In the process, I have concluded there are three ways I intend to not fail grad school. And they are these:
1. By gratefully accepting the grace of God. Because frankly, it is ultimately by His grace that a young woman for whom it comes far more naturally to procrastinate than not has not already flunked.
2. By buying people lunch if they agree to quiz me. Attention local friends: Expect an invitation. I’ll buy your food and I’ll bring the flash cards. Boom. (Bonus: It’ll be like grad school for you, but faster. And free. And there’s food.)
3. By using the Pomodoro Technique. I would like to take this opportunity to publicly thank my friend and fellow blogger Edmund Mitchell for casually mentioning the Pomodoro Technique via Google Talk chat last month, because it is changing my life. I’ll sum it up like this: Set a timer! Work for 25 minutes, break for 5. Badabing, badaboom.
And great news:
The grace of God plus flash cards plus the Pomodoro Technique does not equal the Lifetime Movie Network.
Humans, it seems, are prone to try to solve problems in every way except for from the root.
Tired? Coffee.
Out of shape? Fad diet (if not diet pill).
Not ready to parent a kid? Contraception.
No sex in your marriage? Erotica, or Viagra.
We are on a mission to live one way without experiencing the reasonable consequences of living that way. We like a certain lifestyle, but we dislike the results of the lifestyle, so we create ways to obliterate the results. We are enabled to refer to symptoms as problems, and to deny that the root of the problem is a problem at all.
Which totally disregards the purpose of symptoms.
A body doesn’t use symptoms to tell you to make the symptoms stop. It uses symptoms to say, “Stop treating me this way.”
A tired body doesn’t need coffee. It needs sleep.
An out of shape body doesn’t need a diet. It needs a lifestyle adjustment.
A person not ready for kids doesn’t need contraception. He or she needs abstinence (and perhaps only periodically).
A sexless marriage doesn’t need erotica (and according to a sex therapist professor of mine, it might not need Viagra, either.). It might just need communication.
In other words: Lack of coffee doesn’t result in tired. Not sleeping does. Lack of diet or diet pill doesn’t result in out of shapeness. An unhealthy lifestyle does. Lack of contraception doesn’t result in babies. Sex does. Lack of erotica doesn’t result in sexless marriage. Lots of circumstances do, including but not limited to absence of communication.
But avoiding the roots of problems doesn’t result in joy. It just stunts our growth.
The plane rolled up to the gate in Chicago, where I had a layover between Tampa and Moline. I grabbed my purse and smiled wide.
I love airports.
I hadn’t yet been to O’Hare.
Inside, I weaved in and out of the crowd of travelers who had congregated at the counter. I scanned a giant screen in search of my next gate. I found my flight.
And in big, red letters, the screen flashed “CANCELED.”
Awesome.**
I asked the man at the counter what my options are.
“You could drive,” he said.
I laughed. “Next option.”
“You could fly to Peoria,”
I shook my head. “I’d rather fly to Moline.”
“I can put you on standby for the next flight there…”
“Do it.”
“…which has already been oversold by two seats.”
Sigh. “I’ll take the risk,” I said.
He printed my ticket and I took it to the gate, where I sat near a couple older guys, with whom I struck up a conversation. We shared from where we had come, and shared to where we were headed (and they were headed to Asheville). After awhile, we introduced ourselves.
“I’m Arleen,” I said.
“I’m Jay,” said the tall one. “Billy,” said the one carrying a bass guitar in a case.
“So are you, like, in a band or something?”
“Yeah,” one of them said. “Jay and the Americans.”***
“Hm,” I said. “Haven’t heard of ya.”
Jay smiled. A flight attendant invited passengers for Asheville to board. The guys and I exchanged business cards, shook hands, and said goodbye.
I sat at the gate, awaiting the arrival of the plane that would take me to Moline, hopeful I’d get a seat despite the odds.
Until the woman behind the podium made an announcement.
“Flight 243* to Moline has been canceled. Please see a customer service representative.”
Awesome.**
Some guy and I heard a rumor that a customer service desk few gates down had a far shorter line. He and I made a mad dash to it to beat the rush. While we waited on that line (which was, in fact, shorter), a young guy in jeans, a striped dress shirt, a navy blazer, and a red baseball cap came up behind us. Reflexively, and mildly wired by my aforementioned mad dash, I said, “Hi!”
“Hi!” he said. “I’m Rob.” And then he shook my hand.
Rob had charisma.
But the airline had no flights.
So Rob and I had dinner.
Before we ate, I booked a new flight for the morning. My brother – from back home in Tampa – booked me a room at a Hampton Inn. (How awesome is he?) He suggested I swing by the desk at a gate to ask for free stuff, like a t-shirt and some toiletries, since all but the clothes on my back and my purse had been checked.
When I reached the counter, with my ticket for the morning in hand, I said, “My flight to Moline was canceled this afternoon, and—“
The rep, whose name was Peggy, interrupted: “Let me see your ticket,”
She scanned it, typed a little, and said this: “You’re confirmed for the 9:40 flight to Moline tonight.” She handed me back my ticket.
“Are you serious?” I asked. And then I copped a ‘tude. “Why did the last rep say I wasn’t flying out until tomorrow?”
“Things constantly change,” she said.
“…but my brother just booked me a non-refundable room.” I shook my head. “This is unbelievable.”
Peggy raised her voice. “You better mean unbelievable in a good way!”
I shook my head in silence, grabbed my ticket, and stormed off.
Peggy yelled after me. “I can take you right back off that flight!”
I stopped short, turned around slowly, and I may or may not have snarled.
“DON’T.
YOU.
DARE.”
Which is when Peggy loudly explained our miscommunication (I thought Peggy scanned my ticket and discovered my flight was for 9:40. Peggy in fact had changed my flight to 9:40, as a seat on it had since opened up.). Then she excused me from her gate.
I called my brother, to encourage him to ask the hotel to refund what he paid for the non-refundable room. (And they did.)
Rob and I finally ate. (Johnny Rockets, and Dutch. And I’d be lying if I said I had no crush.) After dinner, we exchanged phone numbers, he left for concourse F, and I for concourse B.
On the way to my gate, I heard a “Hello!”
A familiar voice.
The voice of a friend from church, with whom I, smack dab in the middle of O’Hare, now stood face to face.
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?”
We cracked up, talked for a sec, and headed for our flights.
I didn’t believe I’d finally fly out until I was on the plane. And at 9:40, we were in the air.
Twenty-five minutes later (yep), we landed in Moline, where my aunt and uncle met me at the terminal. We hugged, and laughed about my late arrival, and walked to the baggage claim.
Where we waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Until we got the news.
“Yeah,” said the guy who scanned my baggage claim tag. “Your luggage is still in Chicago.”
Awesome.**
Rob emailed me the next day. The airline delivered my suitcase the day after that. The trip itself was a blast.
When I got home, it had been days since I’d heard from Rob. The journalist in me was curious. So, I Googled him.
I got nothin’.
“That has to be a mistake.”
Just in case, I Googled his phone number.
Which is how I found his real name.
As well as his wife.
Awesome.**
– – – – –
True story. Late July, 2010.
*Fake flight number, can’t remember the real one.
**By awesome, I mean not awesome.
***1. I’m not sure the Jay I met is not the original Jay, so much as the Jay who now owns the rights to the band’s name, 2. I HAD NO IDEA THEY WERE FAMOUS ONCE (Awkward!), and 3. This song of theirs could sarcastically sum up so many moments that day:
This post is part of a series of true stories, called “True Story.” Click here to read all the posts in the series.
