For the last time, I present college quotes.
Disclaimer: These funny and/or insightful comments are from the lips of others. The ideas presented therein are not necessarily one with my personage or with my brain.
“This should be a static class now… We’re together, for better or worse. It’s like we’re married.”
“My mom and I, we have a grammatically challenged relationship.”
“I am a tangent.”
“Ryan Gosling. Is that body real?”
“Facebook is the best way to belittle anyone in the world.”
“I just sit in my office and watch Sesame Street clips for hours.”
“We’re Fame, we’re Friends, we’re Backstreet Boys.”
“This is the shortest chapters in the history of chapters.”
“Having nerd credentials is a positive thing.”
“One day I aspire to be head of a web spam team.”
“Oh my gosh, this class is divisible by three.”
“Might as well die hyper.”
Professor: “What is math?”
Student 1: “Everything.”
Student 2: “Numbers and symbols.”
Student 3: “Stupid.”
“Does anybody know what a gobo is?”
“A Fraggle.”
“They’re Honors students. They must read Kant in August just while sitting by the pool.”
“In our defense—and especially in [Other Professor]’s defense…you should blame me and not [Other Professor] because [Other Professor] is the one who did it.”
“What is happiness? Is the conception of ice cream happiness or not?”
“The second class and we’ve already gotten to Nazis and ice cream.”
“The worst thing is that I didn’t even want to do this.”
“He’s really old, but for his age, he still looks decent.”
“I’m having one of those days where things are out of my control.”
“It’s a Freudian thing, [Professor].”
“No, it’s a laptop thing.”
“Pi is not a failing grade.”
“That’s what happens when you’re not here: we make fun of you.”
“You can bear arms but not children in this country.”
“I feel like being published—I mean, being punished-”
“Same thing.”
“I wasn’t mad at you. I was mad at the world at that point.”
“There’s something in my hair… Oh, it’s a paper clip.”
“You are allowed to have an opinion.”
“I never make a huge decision without asking students.”
“I don’t hate men. I’ve married lots of them.”
“You cannot look at something and see everything.”
“Light creates [Student]. If you took away all the light, I couldn’t see anything.”
“Take two of your best friends and go to San Francisco at once. Even if you have to kidnap them.”
“I don’t know why I have to be facetious, but I do. It’s part of my nature.”
“And the spy went back to Romania and…grew potatoes.”
On Meryl Streep: “When she’s good, she’s very, very good. But the rest of the time she’s just doing weird things with her mouth.”
“It’s one of the ironies of being an English major: you learn about all these wonderful books and you never have time to read them.”
“How can the world go on when I’m hurting so much? But it does. Is it fair? No. But life isn’t fair.”
On symbolic elements in literature: “Maybe it’s just there, and it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Masculinity is much more fragile than femininity.”
“Deconstruction kind of deconstructed itself.”
“You can’t escape politics.”
“You’d think they would give out some kind of notice. Caution: llamas on campus.”
“It’s so easy to inflame violence among people.”
“Breaking out of the library is interesting.”
“I did see two people from Transylvania eating garlic. I thought maybe they’d die.”
“People in authority do all kinds of things that aren’t necessarily legal.”
“Sailors are always trouble.”
“I’m trying to make a joke.”
“Yeah, but I don’t get it.”
“Stand by for 2016. It’s gonna be a good time.”
“Apparently, illiteracy is genetically transferable.”
“J. Edgar Hoover sees Communism like people see normal colors.”
“Do you base all of your conference decisions on action movies?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Monday, June 30, 2014
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
Delirium and Packing
Adventure of the week: I'm going to the mythical land of Moab.
This is a thing of much joy. I was delirious with excitement about it until I started packing.
Packing is stressful because
1. I always put it off.
When I first see a packing list, I'm all, "Oh, that's easy. I can throw that together in less than an hour. I can just pack the morning of."
And then I start packing and I remember that I'm ADD and it takes me twenty minutes to pack one item because distractions.
Also, I remember how misleading the word "toiletries" is. It makes it sound like a super easy thing to pack. But NOPE. There are like three hundred different types of toiletries--teeth toiletries, face toiletries, hair toiletries, makeup toiletries, deodorant, chapstick, contact lens solution. I have to search far and wide to gather them all and sort them into assorted plastic baggies.
Hate that.
2. I always forget something.
Which makes packing that much more stressful. The whole time, I'm thinking, "Which thing will I forget this time?"
In Europe, it was my sunglasses. That wasn't too bad. But once at EFY, I forget to bring pajamas...
...and underwear.
It was a very interesting week.
This is a thing of much joy. I was delirious with excitement about it until I started packing.
Packing is stressful because
1. I always put it off.
When I first see a packing list, I'm all, "Oh, that's easy. I can throw that together in less than an hour. I can just pack the morning of."
And then I start packing and I remember that I'm ADD and it takes me twenty minutes to pack one item because distractions.
Also, I remember how misleading the word "toiletries" is. It makes it sound like a super easy thing to pack. But NOPE. There are like three hundred different types of toiletries--teeth toiletries, face toiletries, hair toiletries, makeup toiletries, deodorant, chapstick, contact lens solution. I have to search far and wide to gather them all and sort them into assorted plastic baggies.
Hate that.
2. I always forget something.
Which makes packing that much more stressful. The whole time, I'm thinking, "Which thing will I forget this time?"
In Europe, it was my sunglasses. That wasn't too bad. But once at EFY, I forget to bring pajamas...
...and underwear.
It was a very interesting week.
Monday, June 23, 2014
A Hard Day's Night
Little Sister embarked on a half-week trip and returned with a back injury from a game of Wipe Out.
All during Funtime Friday (homemade fudge and The Great Mouse Detective), Little Sister was pretty much either complaining about being in pain or sleeping.
Because complaining about being in pain and sleeping are completely normal activities for Little Sister (ballet takes a toll on her body), we all ignored her.
Then Mom came home and her mother-and-RN superpowers kicked in.
MOM: Little Sister. Let me see your back. (touches Little Sister's back)
LITTLE SISTER: That makes me dizzy and also want to throw up.
MOM: Great googly moogly!
That is more or less what she said.
MOM: We'd better get you to the hospital. I've seen injuries like this before. Your back could be broken.
Within the hour, Little Sister had received a priesthood blessing, was wearing a brace, and was en route to the emergency room.
At this point, it was after eleven o'clock at night. The whole thing seemed a bit surreal. Also, it was more or less terrifying.
Baby Brother was supposed to be in bed, but actually he was lying awake crying. And when I say he was supposed to be in bed, I mean he ought to have been in bed. At least, that's what he kept saying, even though he is in elementary school and no normal elementary school kid uses that word.
"I ought to be in bed," he sniffled, "but I just have a lot on my mind."
I took him outside to look at the moon and sing to him, which is what we used to do to get him to sleep when he was a baby. Except he isn't a baby anymore. And Little Sister used to be a baby. They placed her in my arms and told me I was a big sister. I got a sticker that said "Big Sister" on it and everything. But no one even told me it was a lifetime commitment. No one told me it meant staying up nights worried sick and having to comfort rather than be comforted.
I soothed Baby Brother. We said a prayer together. I tried to say things that would make him smile. Since none of us were going to sleep anytime soon, I took him and Little Brother to McDonald's. We kept vigil and ate chicken sandwiches and chocolate chip cookies and fries.
We got home at a very indecent time. I told the boys to go to bed and went to the bathroom to shower.
There was a knock on the bathroom door.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Who is it?
BABY BROTHER: It's Baby Brother.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: What did you need, sweetheart?
BABY BROTHER: I just wanted to say goodnight. (pause) Goodnight!
A lifetime commitment indeed. But totally worth it.
Moral of the story: Little Sister is fine. Nothing was broken.
And when I went to a singles' ward activity and learned we would be playing Wipe Out, I decided to sit it out.
All during Funtime Friday (homemade fudge and The Great Mouse Detective), Little Sister was pretty much either complaining about being in pain or sleeping.
Because complaining about being in pain and sleeping are completely normal activities for Little Sister (ballet takes a toll on her body), we all ignored her.
Then Mom came home and her mother-and-RN superpowers kicked in.
MOM: Little Sister. Let me see your back. (touches Little Sister's back)
LITTLE SISTER: That makes me dizzy and also want to throw up.
MOM: Great googly moogly!
That is more or less what she said.
MOM: We'd better get you to the hospital. I've seen injuries like this before. Your back could be broken.
Within the hour, Little Sister had received a priesthood blessing, was wearing a brace, and was en route to the emergency room.
At this point, it was after eleven o'clock at night. The whole thing seemed a bit surreal. Also, it was more or less terrifying.
Baby Brother was supposed to be in bed, but actually he was lying awake crying. And when I say he was supposed to be in bed, I mean he ought to have been in bed. At least, that's what he kept saying, even though he is in elementary school and no normal elementary school kid uses that word.
"I ought to be in bed," he sniffled, "but I just have a lot on my mind."
I took him outside to look at the moon and sing to him, which is what we used to do to get him to sleep when he was a baby. Except he isn't a baby anymore. And Little Sister used to be a baby. They placed her in my arms and told me I was a big sister. I got a sticker that said "Big Sister" on it and everything. But no one even told me it was a lifetime commitment. No one told me it meant staying up nights worried sick and having to comfort rather than be comforted.
I soothed Baby Brother. We said a prayer together. I tried to say things that would make him smile. Since none of us were going to sleep anytime soon, I took him and Little Brother to McDonald's. We kept vigil and ate chicken sandwiches and chocolate chip cookies and fries.
We got home at a very indecent time. I told the boys to go to bed and went to the bathroom to shower.
There was a knock on the bathroom door.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Who is it?
BABY BROTHER: It's Baby Brother.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: What did you need, sweetheart?
BABY BROTHER: I just wanted to say goodnight. (pause) Goodnight!
A lifetime commitment indeed. But totally worth it.
Moral of the story: Little Sister is fine. Nothing was broken.
And when I went to a singles' ward activity and learned we would be playing Wipe Out, I decided to sit it out.
Thursday, June 19, 2014
In Which I Am Right
Hello. How are you?
I'm doing pretty well myself, thanks.
I think there's one thing we need to make clear here: I am not athletic.
Many people have of late been deceived by my constant exercising and athletic-looking build and the fact that I ran track in junior high. They figure, "Hey, Awkward Mormon Girl must be athletic."
Well, those people are wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. WRONG.
Why?
Because being athletic necessarily requires being good at sports, and I am terrible at them.
Don't get me wrong. I enjoy playing sports well enough (except for volleyball which is the devil's sport). I particularly like to run and also to play basketball. But I possess absolutely no sports skillz whatsoever. Also, I'm uncoordinated.
Allow me to share a rough approximation of a recent experience that proves just how right I am.
I went to stake sports night . You may ask why an unathletic person such as myself would go to stake sports night. The answer is because I have zero self-preservation skillz which means that I am attracted to rather than repelled by situations in which I'm definitely going to make a fool out of myself.
And then (again, this is a rough approximation) I had this conversation:
OTHER PEOPLE: You should play some sports.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I don't know...
OTHER PEOPLE: You could go play Frisbee.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Maybe.
OTHER PEOPLE: Volleyball?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: If we were the kind of religion that believed in holy water, I would cleanse myself with some right now.
OTHER PEOPLE: Soccer?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Okay. Here's the thing. Whenever I play sports, I get hit by the ball. Often in the face. But other places too.
OTHER PEOPLE: Really?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Yes. I have been hit in the face by basketballs. Soccer balls. Tetherballs. And the devil's own, volleyballs.
OTHER PEOPLE: You should play soccer anyways.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: ...you do realize I'm just going to get hit, right?
But again, I have no self-preservation skillz. And so I joined the soccer game.
The soccer game was intense. Quite intense. I did my best to, like, run and kick and stuff. Whatever it is you do in soccer. Because actually, I'm not sure I know the rules.
Things were going well. Too well. I was leery of the ball, wincing each time it zoomed past my face.
"Well, I've gotten this far," I said to myself, "and I haven't been hit, so maybe I don't have to worr-"
WHUMP.
The ball and my skull connected. And not because I was heading the ball.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I TOLD Y'ALL THIS WOULD HAPPEN.
Plot twist! The person who kicked the ball into my head was none other than Best Friend Boy. After the game, he approached me.
BEST FRIEND BOY: Sorry about your head.
AWKWARD MPORMON GIRL: It's okay. Now we're even.
I'm doing pretty well myself, thanks.
I think there's one thing we need to make clear here: I am not athletic.
Many people have of late been deceived by my constant exercising and athletic-looking build and the fact that I ran track in junior high. They figure, "Hey, Awkward Mormon Girl must be athletic."
Well, those people are wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. WRONG.
Why?
Because being athletic necessarily requires being good at sports, and I am terrible at them.
Don't get me wrong. I enjoy playing sports well enough (except for volleyball which is the devil's sport). I particularly like to run and also to play basketball. But I possess absolutely no sports skillz whatsoever. Also, I'm uncoordinated.
Allow me to share a rough approximation of a recent experience that proves just how right I am.
I went to stake sports night . You may ask why an unathletic person such as myself would go to stake sports night. The answer is because I have zero self-preservation skillz which means that I am attracted to rather than repelled by situations in which I'm definitely going to make a fool out of myself.
And then (again, this is a rough approximation) I had this conversation:
OTHER PEOPLE: You should play some sports.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I don't know...
OTHER PEOPLE: You could go play Frisbee.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Maybe.
OTHER PEOPLE: Volleyball?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: If we were the kind of religion that believed in holy water, I would cleanse myself with some right now.
OTHER PEOPLE: Soccer?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Okay. Here's the thing. Whenever I play sports, I get hit by the ball. Often in the face. But other places too.
OTHER PEOPLE: Really?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Yes. I have been hit in the face by basketballs. Soccer balls. Tetherballs. And the devil's own, volleyballs.
OTHER PEOPLE: You should play soccer anyways.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: ...you do realize I'm just going to get hit, right?
But again, I have no self-preservation skillz. And so I joined the soccer game.
The soccer game was intense. Quite intense. I did my best to, like, run and kick and stuff. Whatever it is you do in soccer. Because actually, I'm not sure I know the rules.
Things were going well. Too well. I was leery of the ball, wincing each time it zoomed past my face.
"Well, I've gotten this far," I said to myself, "and I haven't been hit, so maybe I don't have to worr-"
WHUMP.
The ball and my skull connected. And not because I was heading the ball.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I TOLD Y'ALL THIS WOULD HAPPEN.
Plot twist! The person who kicked the ball into my head was none other than Best Friend Boy. After the game, he approached me.
BEST FRIEND BOY: Sorry about your head.
AWKWARD MPORMON GIRL: It's okay. Now we're even.
Saturday, June 14, 2014
Never Say Die
"There's a family here that just came from their mother's funeral," said a troupe member.
Apparently, the deceased woman had loved improv comedy, so her family thought attending our show would honor her memory.
We decided to approach the situation in a sensitive way. No playing Mumbling Murder Movie Mystery or Replay at Bernie's. No scenes that ended in death. No death, period. We wouldn't so much as make a the-world-would-be-better-if-Justin-Bieber-died joke.
In a rhyming game, one troupe member chose to get eliminated rather than rhyme "Fred" with the only thing he could think of: "dead."
And when I was assigned the character of Bambi in a guessing game, I quoted Thumper a lot instead of giving hints about the traumatic death of my mother by hunters.
And when we got the suggestion of a mortician, all the troupe members kind of skirted around it to focus on other material.
All in all, we were pretty careful. We would have been successful were it not for one thing.
The MC that night was one of those performers who really gets into his craft. Once he's onstage, he tends to block out everything--including pre-show warnings about censoring death from the performance.
"All right, everyone," he said to the audience, "this next game is an elimination game. When one of the players messes up and gets eliminated, I want you to point at them and yell, 'DIE!'"
Apparently, the deceased woman had loved improv comedy, so her family thought attending our show would honor her memory.
We decided to approach the situation in a sensitive way. No playing Mumbling Murder Movie Mystery or Replay at Bernie's. No scenes that ended in death. No death, period. We wouldn't so much as make a the-world-would-be-better-if-Justin-Bieber-died joke.
In a rhyming game, one troupe member chose to get eliminated rather than rhyme "Fred" with the only thing he could think of: "dead."
And when I was assigned the character of Bambi in a guessing game, I quoted Thumper a lot instead of giving hints about the traumatic death of my mother by hunters.
And when we got the suggestion of a mortician, all the troupe members kind of skirted around it to focus on other material.
All in all, we were pretty careful. We would have been successful were it not for one thing.
The MC that night was one of those performers who really gets into his craft. Once he's onstage, he tends to block out everything--including pre-show warnings about censoring death from the performance.
"All right, everyone," he said to the audience, "this next game is an elimination game. When one of the players messes up and gets eliminated, I want you to point at them and yell, 'DIE!'"
Friday, June 13, 2014
Friday the 13th
Friday the thirteenths actually tend to be better-than-average days for me.
I don't know why that is. Maybe I was switched at birth with devil spawn.
By which I mean that my parents gave birth to a normal human baby that wasn't me. And that I'm the devil spawn.
Assuming that devils can even have spawn. Which is debatable.
Now I'm getting this mental picture of frogs with horns and tails laying eggs on lily pads. I think it is a sign that I should go to bed.
I don't know why that is. Maybe I was switched at birth with devil spawn.
By which I mean that my parents gave birth to a normal human baby that wasn't me. And that I'm the devil spawn.
Assuming that devils can even have spawn. Which is debatable.
Now I'm getting this mental picture of frogs with horns and tails laying eggs on lily pads. I think it is a sign that I should go to bed.
Saturday, June 7, 2014
Scrumps
In order to avoid completely wasting summer, I have decreed that we (the younger siblings and I) will plan one special activity every Friday.
Said I, "We can call them Phineas and Ferb Fridays!"
Baby Brother wanted to know why.
"Because" pause for dramatic buildup "we know what we're going to do those days!"
I swear that this statement was greeted with the chirruping of crickets, even though we were at Chik-Fil-A, an establishment not known for cricket infestations.
But I digress.
"We could also call them Funtime Fridays," I said, giving up. This name was much more satisfying to the general populace, if the return of normal conversation was any indication.
As part of our first Funtime Friday, we went to see Maleficent.
Why Maleficent? Well, Little Brother has a tendency to get obsessed with things. So many, many things. One thing that he is a little bit more obsessed with than others is Disney, and he's even a little bit more obsessed with Disney villains.
Little Brother was itching to see the movie, and Baby Brother wanted to see it because his big brother did. I had no desire to see it, but I got caught up in the excitement and ended up going anyways.
I walked into the movie theater feeling highly skeptical. The too-dramatic voiceover narration and bizarre background story that had nothing to do with Sleeping Beauty did nothing to appease said skepticism. However, after the baby was born and cursed, things took a turn for the better. I came out feeling suitably impressed.
I was quite disappointed, though, that this remake left out one of the best parts of Sleeping Beauty: the scrumps scene.
For those of you not familiar with Disney movies (did you even have a childhood?), the scrumps scene is where Aurora's dad King Stephan gets together with his old buddy King Hubert aka the father of Aurora's fiancé Phillip. These two kings are excited about their children's impending marriage, so to celebrate they drink a lot of wine and sing the scrumps song.
The scrumps song is played on a lute by a mute minstrel who is also drinking, and it goes like this:
Scrumps
Scrumps
Scruuuumps
And that's pretty much the whole song.
The two kings sing it over and over, getting drunker every time. First they're happy drunk and then they get mad drunk and then they're happy drunk again.
Even though I don't drink and I think we'd all be better off if nobody else drank either, I love the wackiness of this scene. Particularly because of the minstrel, who sneaks a glass or two between each chorus. He ends up getting so tipsy he fills his lute with wine and falls asleep the table, never to be seen in the movie again.
In twenty or so years when Disney decides to remake Sleeping Beauty once again from the viewpoint of a different character, I'm going to write and send them a screenplay about the tragic backstory of this guy from the scrumps scene and how he's completely misunderstood.
I think I'll call it Minstrel.
Said I, "We can call them Phineas and Ferb Fridays!"
Baby Brother wanted to know why.
"Because" pause for dramatic buildup "we know what we're going to do those days!"
I swear that this statement was greeted with the chirruping of crickets, even though we were at Chik-Fil-A, an establishment not known for cricket infestations.
But I digress.
"We could also call them Funtime Fridays," I said, giving up. This name was much more satisfying to the general populace, if the return of normal conversation was any indication.
As part of our first Funtime Friday, we went to see Maleficent.
Why Maleficent? Well, Little Brother has a tendency to get obsessed with things. So many, many things. One thing that he is a little bit more obsessed with than others is Disney, and he's even a little bit more obsessed with Disney villains.
Little Brother was itching to see the movie, and Baby Brother wanted to see it because his big brother did. I had no desire to see it, but I got caught up in the excitement and ended up going anyways.
I walked into the movie theater feeling highly skeptical. The too-dramatic voiceover narration and bizarre background story that had nothing to do with Sleeping Beauty did nothing to appease said skepticism. However, after the baby was born and cursed, things took a turn for the better. I came out feeling suitably impressed.
I was quite disappointed, though, that this remake left out one of the best parts of Sleeping Beauty: the scrumps scene.
For those of you not familiar with Disney movies (did you even have a childhood?), the scrumps scene is where Aurora's dad King Stephan gets together with his old buddy King Hubert aka the father of Aurora's fiancé Phillip. These two kings are excited about their children's impending marriage, so to celebrate they drink a lot of wine and sing the scrumps song.
The scrumps song is played on a lute by a mute minstrel who is also drinking, and it goes like this:
Scrumps
Scruuuumps
And that's pretty much the whole song.
The two kings sing it over and over, getting drunker every time. First they're happy drunk and then they get mad drunk and then they're happy drunk again.
Even though I don't drink and I think we'd all be better off if nobody else drank either, I love the wackiness of this scene. Particularly because of the minstrel, who sneaks a glass or two between each chorus. He ends up getting so tipsy he fills his lute with wine and falls asleep the table, never to be seen in the movie again.
In twenty or so years when Disney decides to remake Sleeping Beauty once again from the viewpoint of a different character, I'm going to write and send them a screenplay about the tragic backstory of this guy from the scrumps scene and how he's completely misunderstood.
I think I'll call it Minstrel.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
I Could Care Less
I gave the Chess Master his epithet because he liked to play games.
Some days he would say hi to me and engage me in conversation. Some days he would smile at me but not talk. Some days he would flirt with other girls in front of my face.
The guy was about as consistent as Little Sister is normal.
Which is why even though the Chess Master made a special effort to keep in touch with me when he went to a different high school, and even though he asked me on my first date (prom, no less), and even though his mother as good as told me that he was madly in love with me, I was never sure because everything he did was so ding-dang confusing.
Had someone honestly asked the Chess Master the reason for his behavior, then his honest answer may have taken the shape of, "To show that I could care less about Awkward Mormon Girl."
"I could care less." If you ever say that phrase in my presence, you may look over and see that my fingers are twitching in a valiant effort not to slap you.
Being a person rather concerned with words, I dislike it when people say, "I could care less," because they are misquoting the phrase, "I couldn't care less."
"I could care less," literally means "It would be possible for me to care less about this," aka you do care, when what you're trying to convey is "It isn't possible for me to care less about this than I already do," aka you don't care one whit, jot, or tittle. To properly convey that you don't care, you need to say, "I couldn't care less."
Got that? Okay, here comes the confusing part. Usually when people say, "I could care less," but they're trying to say, "I couldn't care less," they still really mean "I could care less."
Take the Chess Master. He seemingly behaved in an inconsistent manner because he was trying to inform me, "No, I don't actually have a crush on you. I could care less about you."
Of course we know the phrase he meant was couldn't care less, because he didn't care. He didn't care so much that he went out of his way to show me that he didn't care because HE JUST DIDN'T CARE, OKAY? GOSH!
In other words, when someone gets riled up about something enough to declare, "I could care less!" we can forgive them their grammar errors for, however unintentionally, they are probably speaking the truth.
They probably actually do care. Why else do they try so hard to show that they don't?
Now, the days of the Chess Master are the days of yore aka junior high. In junior high, if you liked someone, you had to play it cool. You had to work hard to show the frosty degree of your extreme apathy. For if the person you liked found out that you liked them, you'd die.
Teenagers are patently stupid, so you'd think they would be the only persons engaging in this kind of contradictory behavior.
You'd think, but adults do it too. Just as much. Maybe more. Every day in many ways, we show that we don't care about the things and ideas and especially people that we care about so much that we feel the need to act like we don't care.
Am I the only person who finds this incredibly stupid and dishonest?
There have been times in my life when I really, truly cared about someone, but I didn't know if they cared about me back. And instead of being proactive and recognizing that it was better to be genuine in my feelings than not, I got caught up in the common trap of being reactive. I had to receive something if I was going to give it. And since I wasn't receiving it, I wasn't gonna give it. So I took a page from the Chess Master's book and very much went out of my way to ignore and pull away from the same person I cared so much about.
It goes without saying that nothing good ever comes from this.
Whenever I've gone the opposite route and chosen to show that I care, I haven't always had that regard reciprocated. I have, however, found a great deal of freedom and peace in allowing myself to be earnest.
Now if you'll excuse me, there are some people I need to go show that I care.
Because really, truly--I could care less.
Some days he would say hi to me and engage me in conversation. Some days he would smile at me but not talk. Some days he would flirt with other girls in front of my face.
The guy was about as consistent as Little Sister is normal.
Which is why even though the Chess Master made a special effort to keep in touch with me when he went to a different high school, and even though he asked me on my first date (prom, no less), and even though his mother as good as told me that he was madly in love with me, I was never sure because everything he did was so ding-dang confusing.
Had someone honestly asked the Chess Master the reason for his behavior, then his honest answer may have taken the shape of, "To show that I could care less about Awkward Mormon Girl."
"I could care less." If you ever say that phrase in my presence, you may look over and see that my fingers are twitching in a valiant effort not to slap you.
Being a person rather concerned with words, I dislike it when people say, "I could care less," because they are misquoting the phrase, "I couldn't care less."
"I could care less," literally means "It would be possible for me to care less about this," aka you do care, when what you're trying to convey is "It isn't possible for me to care less about this than I already do," aka you don't care one whit, jot, or tittle. To properly convey that you don't care, you need to say, "I couldn't care less."
Got that? Okay, here comes the confusing part. Usually when people say, "I could care less," but they're trying to say, "I couldn't care less," they still really mean "I could care less."
Take the Chess Master. He seemingly behaved in an inconsistent manner because he was trying to inform me, "No, I don't actually have a crush on you. I could care less about you."
Of course we know the phrase he meant was couldn't care less, because he didn't care. He didn't care so much that he went out of his way to show me that he didn't care because HE JUST DIDN'T CARE, OKAY? GOSH!
In other words, when someone gets riled up about something enough to declare, "I could care less!" we can forgive them their grammar errors for, however unintentionally, they are probably speaking the truth.
They probably actually do care. Why else do they try so hard to show that they don't?
Now, the days of the Chess Master are the days of yore aka junior high. In junior high, if you liked someone, you had to play it cool. You had to work hard to show the frosty degree of your extreme apathy. For if the person you liked found out that you liked them, you'd die.
Teenagers are patently stupid, so you'd think they would be the only persons engaging in this kind of contradictory behavior.
You'd think, but adults do it too. Just as much. Maybe more. Every day in many ways, we show that we don't care about the things and ideas and especially people that we care about so much that we feel the need to act like we don't care.
Am I the only person who finds this incredibly stupid and dishonest?
There have been times in my life when I really, truly cared about someone, but I didn't know if they cared about me back. And instead of being proactive and recognizing that it was better to be genuine in my feelings than not, I got caught up in the common trap of being reactive. I had to receive something if I was going to give it. And since I wasn't receiving it, I wasn't gonna give it. So I took a page from the Chess Master's book and very much went out of my way to ignore and pull away from the same person I cared so much about.
It goes without saying that nothing good ever comes from this.
Whenever I've gone the opposite route and chosen to show that I care, I haven't always had that regard reciprocated. I have, however, found a great deal of freedom and peace in allowing myself to be earnest.
Now if you'll excuse me, there are some people I need to go show that I care.
Because really, truly--I could care less.
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