Posts Tagged ‘*that* girl’

Sometimes I wish I could bring you all to class with me. Because I’m afraid that words won’t do it justice.

I’ve told you about history class with Professor Jason Statham and SmugJGU. And I was fairly confident that SmugJGU would be the entertainment for the semester. But, not only does my class have that guy, we also have that girl.

I noticed it on the first day of class when, in the course of introductions she told us that a) she was an Army brat, and therefore incapable of having a hometown (and was incredulous that PJS should even ask), b) she speaks several languages and, because of that, when it took her some time to answer a question she apologized, “I’m sorry, I don’t think in English,” and c) she’s an overachiever, a statement that was somehow meant to differentiate her from the rest of the class.

And I really, really wish you could hear her tone.

Maybe smarter isn't the right word. Maybe it should be nicer, or less pretentious, or less wrong.

In any case, the second week of class she was gone, and I thought that I’d gotten lucky, but it only was a tease. She’s been back in action the past few weeks and “better” than ever.

Very often, when she contributes to discussion, it’s so harsh a comment that no one knows how to follow it up, and the conversation just dies. Other times, she’s blatantly wrong, and I get an inordinate amount of pleasure listening to PJS correct her.

And yesterday, as we were talking in breakout groups about the Enola Gay, and everything that it represented – even more than being the plane that essentially ended World War II – she argued that she didn’t see what the big deal was. It was just a plane. And so PJS turned to our group and told her, “That’s kind of the whole point. We’re talking about things in history that have become symbols, and have taken on a greater meaning.

Apparently she embraced that, because later in the big group discussion on whether or not symbols can be taken away from you, she declared, “They can take my symbology from me when I’m dead!

I did a double take. All I could think of was Boondock Saints: “Symbology? I’m sure the word you were looking for was *symbolism.* What is the symbolism?

Unfortunately, no one else seemed to notice. Or they were just trying to avoid engaging her (no one responded), as it rarely ends well. But I giggled to myself, and vowed to keep better track of her comments for pure entertainment purposes.

I don’t know what we’re going to do when it’s her turn to actually lead discussion.

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I’ve spent the past two days immersed in orientation activities. I have chatted and networked and bonded and bitched and been overwhelmed all in a very short time, and there’s still plenty more to come. But I have noticed several things within the past 48 hours:

  • There will always be “that girl” who wants to go above and beyond everyone else who’s going above and beyond and who doesn’t realize (or care) just how obnoxious she’s being. And I don’t have to be friends with her – even if she is in my program.
  • There will also always be “that other girl” who, at the networking reception has one drink too many and proceeds to knock empties off the table, so that they shatter on the patio. And, because we’re all still high schoolers at heart, the rest of the class will say, “oooooooohh!”
  • I’m no longer either of those girls. (Or, at least, I wasn’t yesterday.)
  • There is a bigger difference between a 22-year-old and a 25-year-old than you might initially guess.
  • Riding a bike back home after the aforementioned reception probably wasn’t my best idea, but I learned that it is doable. For future reference.
  • And speaking of biking in the city, I think I’m ready to check off that whole “comfortable riding in the streets” thing. Because when I yell at drivers (mostly when they can’t hear me), I know I’ve started to bike like I drive. For better or worse.
  • First impressions are SO important, and will undoubtedly set the tone for whatever friendships follow.
  • If all professors had British accents, I’d pay much more attention in class.
  • Grad schools are apparently the new eharmony/match.com/chemistry/etc, considering nearly every administrator mentioned stories of students meeting their current spouses and having babies. That should be a perk, not your selling point.
  • And finally, judging from all the information I’ve gathered in the past couple days, I was right about having no life once classes start. I’m torn: I love being right (who doesn’t?), but I’ll miss my sanity. Or rather, what was left of it.

Anyway, I’ll be finishing all my back to school shopping this weekend, along with a healthy dose of softball tomorrow. So long, sweet summer.

Happy Friday!

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If I can help it (aka: can afford it), I always fly direct. I have this fear about missing my flight, should I have to change planes. Rationally, I know that there will always be another one, and that the worst thing that could happen is that I’d have to wait. But still.

If it weren’t for the drunk guy at JFK two Thursdays ago, that fear might have been realized.

Our plan was to fly from Reagan to JFK, then JFK to Buenos Aires. In theory, there was plenty of time between flights, but that was assuming that the flight from Reagan left on schedule. It did not. In reality, we landed at JFK at 10:15pm. Our flight to Argentina was scheduled to leave JFK…at 10:15pm.

She looks far more graceful than I did.

She looks far more graceful than I did.

Cla had the idea that I should sprint ahead to the gate, to see if we could get them to hold the plane for us. We knew that the flight to BA was a little bit delayed, but we had no idea how much. And so I sprinted. I was that girl. That crazy girl, running through the airport, bag over my shoulder, wheezing all the way. Because, did I mention?, I had come down with a cough, just before leaving on vacation.

Running through the airport is never an ideal scenario, but I’m pretty sure that we had the worst possible set up. You see, we flew into Gate 31. We had to get to Gate 4. Not so bad, you say? Take a look at this:


I swear it would have been faster to walk across the tarmac.

Only after Cla and I both arrived at the gate, gasping for air and thanking God that we could still get on the plane (the next one didn’t leave for another 12 hours), did we realize just who had saved us.

Evidently, one gentleman had imbibed a wee bit too much before boarding. (Or maybe while on the plane. Who’s to say?) In any case, he had to be escorted off, and was not allowed to fly. AND, luckily for us, nobody could find his luggage! *That’s* what had caused the delay! He was demanding his bags, alternating between speaking coherently and, well, not, but the crew just couldn’t find them! Thank God for small miracles.

Even after we made it on the plane, still wheezing, with everyone staring daggers looking at us like we were the cause of the delay, we ended up sitting for another 30 minutes, during which I can only assume someone was still searching for his luggage.

So, to the drunk guy trying to fly from JFK to Buenos Aires, I’m truly grateful. Without you and your alcohol consumption, I’d have spent the night in an airport, my sprint through the terminal would have been for naught, and vacation would have started out on a bit of a sour note.

Cheers, buddy. You’re the best.

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