Etiquette, Elegance, Etcetera

My fancy manners only get dusted off and put on display for a few months each year. They're the months when Nameless Utah College and every other school in sight hold their fancy award dinners, their fancy recognition dinners, and their fancy just-because dinners.

Each year at this time Baby Sister's school takes kids in her grade to an expensive French restaurant. All the kids who go are required to attend after-school demonstration on proper formal dining etiquette. In this demonstration they learn the proper way to use a napkin, to choose the correct fork, to de-snail escargot. The whole thing lasts less than an hour, but the attendees are expected to remember all they learned not only the next week at the French restaurant but at every single formal event for the rest of their entire lives.

This is how I came by my fancy manners in the first place. I, too, went to the expensive French restaurant when I was Baby Sister's age. I also went with Little Sister as a chaperone when it was her turn for the shmanciness. I had responsibility over a group of students, and none of them died or was even injured. Since that clearly meant I was a natural at this whole chaperoning business, it seemed only natural that I should go in for a second round with Baby Sister and her peers.

We got to the French restaurant. We toured the grounds. Again, no one died or was injured. And even though I was very much impressed by how much the French resturant looked like a real piece of history-filled Europe, I managed to remember to be tasteful and not spend the whole time talking about it. Because even though I was pretty sure they never covered the situation in my long-ago manners demonstration, my good sense told me that to constantly talk about a continent my dinner companions had never even seen would be boorish.

Society points for me.

We finished the tour of the grounds, got to actual dinner, sat down, and ordered our food. The smiley waitress brought us our escargot.

Being the experienced formal-manners-woman that I am, I extracted my snail. I did this by clamping the snail-clamp-thing on the shell, held it firmly in place, and then easily removed the meaty part with my tiny snail-fork-thing. Then I placed it on the little slice of bread expressly for that purpose. All was well.

Except only for those few seconds. Because then Baby Sister said, "Uh... I can't get my snail out of its shell."

I didn't know what the fancy manner protocol for this situation would be, either. As a chaperone, though, I supposed that apart from keeping kids from dying or being injured, I should probably help them out. And as an older sister--

Well. I wanted to kick that snail's behind.

I politely reached over, politely took up Baby Sister's knife and her escargot plate. I clamped the shell down, jabbed the knife inside, and attacked that snail.

Immediately all the girls at our table began to exclaim that I was doing it wrong, that I was supposed to use the tiny snail-fork-thing. Probably they were trying to be kind and keep me from embarrassing myself like that--hacking at a snail's insides at the dinner table! Perhaps they even felt a certain pride because they knew better than to behave in such an undignified manner, even if the chaperone didn't.

"Guys," Baby Sister said, "she knows." Her friends shut up, but I could still feel their eyes on me. And by the way, if someone at your dinner table is ever trying to remove a snail in an incorrect manner with some sweat and some grunting and some clattering of china...feel free to look away. It's easier for everyone if you do.

In the end, the snail came free. Baby Sister placed her escargot on her bread. We went back to eating and delicately mentioned the incident no more, as befits well-mannered people.

The rest of the meal went more smoothly. I remembered to tear my roll up into little pieces before putting butter on it instead of buttering the whole thing and then tearing into it with my teeth (a faux pas I committed when I was at prom with my friend Runner Bean and which still sits mortifyingly fresh in my mind on account of how much I liked him at the time). I managed to eat my entire crepe without spilling chocolate sauce on anything or anyone. I even ate the capers that were on my chicken, because if there were a written job description for a well-mannered chaperone, eating capers would probably be, like, the fifth requirement on the list. It sets a good example for the younguns.

And when I tried to place a piece of roll in my mouth but it ended up on my cheek instead and I looked around furtively to discover that Baby Sister had totally seen and I gave her a look that said, "Not a word," she didn't say a word. Not one.

I'm so proud of her. She's almost as well-mannered as I am.

The Hobbits. They're Everywhere.

Lately, hobbits are my automatic response to everything. Like so:

MOM: What's in your shirt?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: A hobbit.

DAD: Who was on the phone?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: A hobbit was on the phone.

LITTLE SISTER: Do you have any plans for tonight?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Yes, I'm hanging out with some hobbits.

RADIO: ...and today, the Supreme Court will be sinking its teeth into-

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: A hobbit!

RADIO: -marriage equality.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: THAT TOO.

Monthiversary

Guess what I'm not doing right now?

If you guessed, "Not studying for your final tomorrow," you're right. If you guessed, "Not dancing with a penguin," or "Not having luncheon with a hobbit," you're technically also right, though those weren't the answers I was looking for.

What's that? You say that's not fair? Well, guess what else? I'm the one grading here, not you. So you have to accept whatever grade I give you, and there's nothing you can do about it. I refuse to give you so much as half a point more, not even if you need that half a point so you can keep your college scholarship and not fail at life and not cry.

...did I mention that I have a final tomorrow?

I promise I'm not being irresponsible by writing this blog post right now instead of studying. Here's my reasoning on that matter:

a) I've studied so much today, I understand the things I'm studying even less than I did when I started studying. That can't be good. So taking a little refresher before the last lap of studying can only help, not hurt.

a) part b) My studying sessions weren't doing much for me anyways, because I could only study for so long before I would start thinking about other things, like Older Sister's mission and good food and all the things I still need to do before finals week is over and everything I'm gonna do after.

Also, I thought about shiny things.

Clearly, if I'm not focusing on what I'm doing, then the studying isn't doing me much good, anyways. So, again, a break might be more beneficial than detrimental. Maybe I can get some of this stuff out of my system.

and, b) by not studying, I am accomplishing something crucial that I wouldn't otherwise be doing.

See, it's impossible to not procrastinate. If I am productive all the time and always do what I am supposed to, I'm only procrastinating my procrastination. Sometimes, I just have to be more responsible, and not procrastinate procrastination, which is very important to me and is a priority seriously undervalued by this nation and the world in general, even though it's a huge part of our daily lives.

Guess what else is a huge part of our daily lives?

Toast, probably. Also, in some instances, this blog.

See, today is actually the one-month-anniversary of Awkward Mormon Girl. Or, as I like to call it, our monthiversary. 'Cause an anniversary is all about years and blah blah blah etcetera technical English term you get it what was I saying anyways?

Oh yeah. Monthiversary. Well, I just wanted to say that I'm soooo happy I've had this blog in my life for a month! Seriously, it's changed my life. I don't know what I'd do without it. It's made me a better person, and it doesn't hurt that it's super attractive! Love you, sweetie! Bloggie! Hunny bear!

That's what my Facebook friends say about their monthiversaries. If you didn't throw up in your mouth a little, then I'm not doing it right.

Oh, and thanks for being here. I know you're here. Even though you never say anything, your views show up on my dash. And when they do, I like you just a little bit more than I did before. Which I guess isn't hard to do... because in all honesty... I'm not sure if I even liked you before at all. I mean, we probably don't know each other. And yet you're eagerly devouring my anonymous words and probably thinking how cool I am and how much you wish you really knew me. Which, now that I think about it, basically makes you a stalker.

...wow. This is awkward. Maybe it would be better for everyone if I finished studying now.

In Which I Cannot Eat an Entire Shake

Before I left for Europe that one time that I went to Europe, I became dreadfully ill. Throwing up, stomach problems, misery, all sorts of flu-related symptoms--you name it, I had it. It lasted for several days.

I was pretty nervous the day I left, worried that the sickness would come back and that I would experience the terrible experience of being sick on an airplane. At least, it sounded like a terrible experience. I hadn't actually had it so I didn't know for sure.

And, as it happened, I didn't get to find out. I didn't get sick on the flight. In fact, as it went on I felt better and better. By the time we got to the layover in Chicago, I was feeling great. I was even feeling hungry. So immediately after unloading, I took myself and my carry-on to a Chinese restaurant, where I feasted on chicken, rice, and crab rangoon. It was the first thing I'd eaten in three days apart from the ice cream cake which, oddly enough, was all I could keep down while sick.

We waited at the terminal for five hours. Towards the end of this time I found I was hungry once more. Not knowing if we'd be fed on the flight, I said to myself, "I will buy a shake at Johnny Rocket's to ease my hunger!"

The only problem with this plan was that whole thing where I'd spent the last three days subsisting almost entirely on ice cream cake. Did I really need more ice cream?

"I'll buy a small," I decided. "It will be fine."

Johnny Rocket's was this retro place that boasts fries, shakes, and the "original" hamburger.

"I'll have a chocolate malt," I declared, seeing they only sold one size of shake. Still, I wasn't quite prepared for that size to be only two dollars less than my three-entree dinner.

"Oh well," I thought. Chocolate malts are, after all, delicious. Surely it would be worth it.

The counter lady handed me a receipt and a coaster.

"What an ingenious coaster!" I thought. Instead of being made of paper or some thin material, it was made of thick black plastic and had little red lights on it. After closer examination I discovered that it was, in fact, a beeper. I tell you though, its shape was very misleading.

My number came up. I received my shake. It was beautiful. It looked exactly like a chocolate malt, which was excellent because it was a chocolate malt. A joyful smile spread over my face as I noted the whipped cream on top and the straw and spoon I'd been given. That same joyful smile quickly evaporated when I noticed something else:

IT WAS HUGE.

Suddenly something dreadful occurred to me. I had never before vanquished an entire shake in one sitting!

Numerous times I've gone to battle with shakes, frosties, and blizzards only to be defeated, forced to put the leftovers in either the freezer or the trash. And those shakes, sadly, were usually small. Never had I tried to eat a monster such as this, one bigger than even the largest shake size at Arctic Circle.

I eyed the whipped cream, which suddenly seemed mocking. What was I to do? How could I, who had only wanted a little ice cream to tide my belly over until the next meal, devour this, this thing?

I took a deep breath and, bravely brandishing the spoon, took a bite--the first of many on my walk back to the terminal.

"Shake," I whispered. "I will end you. Before I board my plane in one hour we will know who is the master here, you or me!"

Anyways, it wasn't me.

Younger Siblings That Talk Back

Sometimes, I just start craving Indian food.

Or Chinese food. Or Thai food. Or Japanese food. Even though I come from a racial background that's European-Jewish-Slavic aka ethnic white (and yes that is a thing and no I'm not making it up), sometimes I feel, deep down, that I'm actually an Asian. Especially when I start craving all sorts of Asian-y food. Like Indian food.

So the other day, I decided to take a break from homework and to go to an Indian restaurant for a little while, maybe an hour or so. At first I was just going to go by myself, but then The Neediness overcame me.

The Neediness is a sensation of acute loneliness. Acute loneliness meaning not the kind of loneliness you feel when you want someone to hang out with, but more of a feeling that if you don't find someone to hang out with, you're going to be alone forever. So you surround yourself with people as often as possible and have psychologically scarring dreams about going alone to the grocery store.

You know what's almost as bad as going to the grocery store when you have The Neediness? Going to an Indian restaurant.

Even though my sisters and I have the same parents, for some reason they don't feel the whole Asian thing, just the European-Jewish-Slav thing. To my sisters, going to an Indian restaurant seems both like a terrible waste of money and downright repellant. Therefore, to stave off The Neediness's effects on my homework-weary soul, I had to exert all my persuasive capabilities to convince Little Sister and Baby Sister to accompany me to lunch.

"The lunch special is only ten dollars," I wheedled, "and to save money you guys can just have water, and maybe some naan bread. You'll like naan bread, it's really-"

At which point my sisters burst out into fits of hysterical laughter.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: What? What did I say?

SISTERS: Naan bread. Non-bread! Bwahaha!

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Naan bread. N-A-A-N. It's Indian. Not non-bread-

SISTERS: BAHAHA!

We ended up going for Italian.

A few days later, when I got home from a grueling day at school, I saw that as part of her redecoration project my mother had placed a mirror just inside the front door.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Oh no!

BABY SISTER: What?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: This mirror. My face is the last thing I want to look at right when I get home.

BABY SISTER: Then look at your face last.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

These are just two brief incidents in a recent outbreak of younger sibling insubordination.

I don't know if it's that Older Sister has been gone for so long or what, but the younger siblings seem to have forgotten their place in the sibling hierarchy. I mean, okay. If I was going to give my family a fake last name for this blog I would give them the fake last name of Obnoxious. And aside from having a reputation of bursting out into song and being able to reference obscure Jim Henson productions, part of being an Obnoxious is being, well, obnoxious.

However. My younger siblings are getting to be too much, even for Obnoxiouses. They seem to have forgotten that you never, ever talk back to your older siblings. Talking back to parents, teachers, church leaders--that's not such a big deal. But older siblings, particularly your awesome older sister? Unacceptable.

Hopefully when Older Sister gets back from her mission, she can whip these little rebels into shape. Otherwise, they're just going to get further and further from the unspoken rules of society, until they end up as high school dropouts who live under a bridge and eat newspapers for breakfast.

Either way, I predict Baby Brother will prove unsalvageable. His level of sauciness far outweighs his number of years.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Baby Brother. Don't put so much butter on your roll. You're going to get a heart attack and die.

BABY BROTHER: But everybody dies.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: *involuntary facial twitch*

BABY BROTHER: Well they do.

I hope Baby Brother doesn't turn out to have the Asian strain in his blood. There's precious little Indian food under a bridge.

Say Wind

One of my nonGospel rules of life: Don't pay too much attention to the weatherman. Or weather websites. Or the weather app on your iPod. Or a weathervane. Or a psychic. Or anything else that tries to tell you what the weather of the future is going to be like.

Because guess what? It's probably going to be wrong.

So the other day, we were supposed to have an intense windstorm where I live. Mom ran around the house, unplugging things to avoid electric surges if the power went out. She handed out emergency flashlights and advised me to set my phone alarm for the next morning instead of relying on my obnoxious, electricity-using clock. I took her advice, but skeptically, oh so skeptically, because I knew just how tricky these weather types can be.

And sure enough, when the next morning came, was there an intense windstorm raging throughout the town?

Nope. Just a moderate wind, a light snowfall, and a bit of a chill in the air.

I didn't say "I told you so," but that was more because everybody else was asleep than because I'm a nice person. I guess, however, that if I really wasn't a nice person, I would have woken them up for the express purpose of I-told-you-soing. So I suppose the jury's still out on that one.

I got ready for school, grabbed my puffy winter coat, and headed out for Nameless Utah College.

However. As soon as I pulled out of the driveway, the expected intense wind started up. Clouds of snow swirled in the air and brushed the sides of my vehicle.

Well, I thought this is annoying. And it was annoying. It was so annoying that I started to feel, well, annoyed.

BUT. It got WORSE. At the bus stop, the wind was blowing from the north. Guess what? My bus comes from the north. So instead of peering into the distance to look for the bus, I had to turn my back on the expected bus or else my face probably would have been blown off in the wind. And while that would have been pretty uncomfortable, standing backwards in the wind was not much funner. 'Cause I still got wind on me, just... on my back. Also I had to worry about whether or not a tree or a small house might blow into my car, which was parked across the street.

Finally, the bus came and took me away to College City, where I was in for a big shock.

See, one of my other nonGospel rules of life is this: Whatever the weather is where I live, in College City it's always going to be about ten times worse. If it's snowing at my house, it's snowing ten times harder by the college. If it's a little warm by my house, it's a veritable oven at the college. And so on and so forth.

I got to College City expecting ten times as much wind and snow. Instead I got there to find, like, six and a half times less. It was utterly bruising to my ego, because my ego thinks it and I have the best rules of life ever.

"Don't worry," I said to my ego. "We're probably still right. The wind must have died down back home too, that's all."

With that happy thought, I went through the rest of my day. When I got on the bus to get home, the wind was very mild, so I of course expected to find it at least fairly mild when I got off the bus.

Well, it wasn't. In fact, that wind was freakishly strong.

To get to my car, I had to walk into the wind. Which meant that I was going at the approximate pace of a crippled turtle. Which just wouldn't do, because I had things to do and places to be and no time to make like a handicapped reptile. So I started running into the wind.

Imagine, if you will, a turquoise marshmallow that actually is a human in a puffy turquoise coat. Now imagine that marshmallow human running into a very strong wind, pumping its arms with all its might like a thing possessed. Now also imagine that this marshmallow only gets twenty minutes of exercise a day and because of that is somewhat out of shape and because of that is huffing and puffing like a chain smoker using an inhaler.

That's basically what I looked like.

Finally I made it to my car, completely out of breath but very pleased with myself. I unlocked my car and climbed in. Then I happened to notice a kid sitting in the next car. He was watching me, and, I highly suspected, had been since I started running. If he could say something to me in that moment, I figured he would say, "You're a loser."

And then I would say, "Au contraire, mon ami." And then I would hope that he didn't speak legit French. Because if he did he might say something in French back to me. And the only other thing in French I could thing of was "Mon petit chou." Which I'm pretty sure means, "My little cabbage." Which really doesn't add much to a conversation.

Then I drove home. On the way home I realized that the steering wheel was shaking. And I was like, "Why is the steering wheel shaking?" Then I thought that the brake was making a weird noise. And that the entire car was trembling.

First I thought my car was broken. Then I realized that it wasn't broken. The shaking and the weird noises came from the buffeting of the wind. It was so strong it was rattling my poor car right to the bones!

That was pretty disconcerting, but the last straw was when I got home. When I got home, the mailbox was wide open.

Now, this sent me into a bit of a panic. I love to get mail. Because I am a college student with friends who are all either a) married, b) living in a different city, c) just as busy and unavailable as I am, or d) all of the above, my soul often feels lonely. Getting mail makes my soul less lonely. Letters are the best, particularly from Best Friend Boy or other missionary friends, but I also enjoy getting newsletters, thank-you cards for wedding gifts, and even bills. Well, no. Not bills. My soul isn't quite that lonely.

The thought of not getting my mail was more than I could bear, so I dashed up and down the curb of my yard and the neighbor's, still looking like a turquoise marshmallow, still panting ridiculously, and pinwheeling my arms in a most spastic manner.

I was thinking that the wind had blown open the mailbox and stolen my mail, but I didn't find a single piece of correspondence lying about. Finally, I was forced to conclude that either the wind had blown my mail into lands unreachable and unknown, or that we simply hadn't gotten any mail that day at all.

I don't know which of those scenarios would be worse.

Anyways, this experience taught me three important things:

1) From now on, I should listen more to the weatherman and his ilk. This will save me a world of confusion and possibly some ego-bruising.

2) To avoid the trauma of not getting mail, I should write a postcard and send it to myself every single day. It will be like Fraggle Rock. Except without Fraggles. And without the rock. Unless I can find a postcard that has Fraggles on it. Or a rock.

3) I should invent an ingenious new system for the door of the mailbox, in order to avoid its being blown open and the mail possible being scattered to lands unreachable and unknown.

I'm thinking something with magnets.

How I Chose My Institution of Higher Learning

My college is basically like High School Musical, except without the singing. Or the dancing. Or the Disney. Or the happiness.

We do, however, have a basketball court.

Almost the only reason I attend this school because they're giving me a full-ride scholarship. Also, churros.

I mean, yes, I prayed about where I should go to college and stuff, but I didn't overwhelmingly feel that I needed to go anywhere in particular. One day, my mom said, "Hey. Nameless Utah College is having an accepted students day. Let's check it out."

And we went. And Nameless Utah College wasn't any worse than any of the other colleges I'd checked out. In some ways it was better, and seeing that my first choice college wasn't really an option, and neither was my second choice, or my third, Nameless Utah College was as good a consideration as any.

So we were at this accepted students thing, I really had no idea where I was going to go, and then they served us lunch and there were churros.

I told you there were churros involved. Like, three paragraphs ago. You probably thought I was kidding. Well, I wasn't. Churros were a major factor in this decision.

But not just any churros. These were really good churros, as many as I wanted, with plenty of cinnamon and sugar and whipped cream. And I was all, "Hey. I like churros. If I go here and they give me churros, I could live with that."

I mean, I was joking, but I was also partly serious. When I didn't feel particularly compelled by any other schools, and when I realized I could live with my family and commute and not have to be homesick, and that I would hardly have to pay a cent for my education, the churros were only the icing on the cake that was Nameless Utah College.

Then I actually got here. At that point I realized how much the school and I are not suited for each other. In almost the same instant, however, for the first time I knew in my soul it was where my God wanted me to be. Anti-intuitive, I know, but that's how it went down.

So here I am, and here the school is, and though we mostly make each other miserable, in another way we really feel blessed to have one another. At least, the school likes to tell me in its happy-schlappy newletters that it thinks I'm a special snowflake. For my own part, despite my complaints I realize how good I have it--especially when the college gives me free food.

Even though I let churros influence one of my major life decisions, it has all worked out. It's a happy ending. Like the ending of a Disney movie. Maybe even High School Musical. In fact, definitely High School Musical, because both of the stories end with graduation. I mean, theoretically. I haven't actually finished college yet, and now that I think about it I'm not even sure that they graduate at the end of High School Musical 3. Even though my friend Porch was an extra in it and apparently has quite a bit of screen time, I've never seen High School Musical 3. And you know what? I'm fine with that.

Here's a picture of some churros:

Mmm. Churros.

P.S. If I ever announce that I'm marrying someone and that it's because he gives me churros, virtually slap me, all right? It's okay to let churros dictate which college you go to, but letting churros dictate who you marry is just ridiculous.

Everythings

My new alarm clock starts off soft and sweet, with a gentle beeping noise, but within a matter of seconds it crescendoes into a series of angry blasts.

It's like it's screaming, "OH, YOU WANNA SLEEP IN? WELL, TOO BAD!" in a Gilbert Gottfried-as-a-drill-sergeant voice. "WAKE UP! GET OUT OF BED! YOU'RE A DISGRACE TO YOUR COUNTRY, YOUR FAMILY, AND YOUR RELIGION! THE ONLY WAY TO REDEEM YOURSELF IS TO GET OUT OF BED AND DO STUFF!"

So I get out of bed and do stuff. But boy, do I have a lot of stuff to do.

A friend of mine recently wrote a blog post about what she calls "The Law of Everythings." Basically, the theory of the Law of Everythings is that life is cyclical. There will be periods of time when it seems like nothing happens, followed by booms of all the things.

And I have all the things. I'm swamped with everythings right now. School, homework, work, theatrical commitments, church callings, and integrals like eating, sleeping, exercising, reading my scriptures, writing in my journal, and interacting with friends and family.

There are literally not enough hours in my day, in my week, to allow me to complete everything I need to do. Free time is nonexistent. On my nights and on my weekends, I devolve into a panic over how behind I am and wonder why I haven't spontaneously combusted by now, what with all the pressure.

I just want it to stop I think. Something's gotta give.

Well, things have given. Or, rather, I've put in a request for less time at work until the semester's over. I finished up one of my theatre commitments this week, so that helps. But everything else simply can't give. All of it has to be done, and it has to be done now.

Today when the alarm clock went off on its tirade, I wanted to get up even less than usual, because I'd stayed up til midnight writing my history paper that was due today. And I had to write it the day before it was due because I couldn't write it the day before or the day before that or the day before that because I was doing other homework, which I could not do earlier because I was doing other homework, which I could not do earlier because I was doing other homework.

Side note: I have way too much homework.

So I stayed up late to I write and write and write that paper, even though I started it before work and didn't even watch my favorite TV show with Baby Sister. Even so, I completed it around midnight. Needless I was dead tired this morning, so I hit the snooze button three times before Gilbert Clockfried made me feel guilty enough to actually hop out of bed. I dressed, ate breakfast (sort of), did my hair (sort of), and headed off to Nameless Utah College.

When my bus arrived, I had to hustle into the library and finish the homework I didn't do last night because I used that time to write the paper. It's a vicious cycle.

Before class I also checked my email. Along with the emails about all the school events I have to go to in the next three weeks, I had correspondence about my new comedy troupe.

For three years all I wanted was to do a musical, do a musical, do a musical, because I haven't done any since before graduation and it's a gaping hole in my soul. Well, no musicals came up, but due to a surprising chain of events I was invited to join this comedy troupe, which is very successful and oh by the way, I've basically idolized them for the past five years. Being able to be one of them is a dream come true. But scary. But a dream come true. Unfortunately, I don't have the time to focus on the troupe the way I'd like to. Right now I can barely even find time to think about them, and when I do I quickly stop because I'm overwhelmed.

The email, however, reminded me that I had to think about them, because I needed to check the schedule and call about any conflicts and though the email didn't mention it I remembered I still had to write a bio for the website. However, I had to go to class just then, so that couldn't be helped. Off I rushed.

That was the beginning of my action-packed day. And throughout it all my professors were nothing but, "Remember to come to all the events for all your academic programs! Remember your papers are due in a few weeks! And finals! And you need to finish your thesis that you decided for no apparent reason to write a year earlier than required, and edit it, and think about an internship, and make sure you're on track to graduate, and edit everybody else's artistic statement work, and, oh, here's some extra homework for you! Because it's not like you don't already have more than you can physically do!"

And all day my conscience was nothing but, "Why haven't you seen your friends for weeks? Why don't you call them more? Why don't you text them? Why don't you spend more time with them? And your family? What about them?"

And then I was like, "I literally don't have time right now."

And my conscience took a line out of the alarm clock's book and said, "You're a disgrace." Except I wasn't paying attention because I was too busy snarfing down lunch before I went to institute and then finished all the artistic statement editing for my night class, but I felt justified in paying more attention to my lunch than my conscience because I knew I was going to have to stay late at school to attend a diversity event for Spanish credit, and I had no idea when I'd be able to stop for dinner.

I get exhausted just writing about it. This is a typical day in the current life of Awkward Mormon Girl. The Law of Everythings is in full force.

Having so much to do isn't easy. The other day I was complaining, both internally and vocally, about how much I have to do, how tired I feel, how I can never give each aspect of my life the attention it deserves.

"Well," something said inside me, "would you prefer to go without? Would you give up all the things you're doing for a little peace, a little quiet, a little time?"

It hit me that no, I wouldn't give it up, because in spite of all the stress and the mess and the lack of time and the worries about spontaneously combusting, I'm also getting tremendous good out of what I'm doing. I have more than my fair share of blessings, even though in some ways they have taken the guise of trials.

That Law of Everythings? Like I said, it goes in cycles. Right now I have all the blessings and all the opportunities and all the problems that come with them. Soon I may not have as many, and all the everythings will fall into somebody else's lap. Yeah, then the hard parts will be gone, but so will the good parts.

I'm going to do the best I can with my Right Now. It's not easy, but if I rely on God to help me, I know I can not only survive all the things, I will learn to enjoy them even though they stress me out. I'll be grateful for what I've been given. I'll love my everythings while they last.