The Old College Try

The longest separation in the history of all college friendships is about to come to an end.

My "bestie," Blair, the woman who shared a college townhouse with me for three-plus years, has arrived in Charleston, S.C., and she is ready for some good old Southern, military-base-style fun!

I haven't seen her since Christmas. We have been apart for eight whole months.

Do you know what that's like for girls who used to coordinate showering so as to minimize the time we'd be apart?

Heck, there were times that we college roomies stripped down, climbed in the shower, and hollered out the door "All clear! Come on in!" so the other two girls could bust into the bathroom and clamber up onto sinks and down on tile floors, chatting away with our showering co-ed, barely missing a beat.

I guess you could say we were big fans of each other. And pretty much all the time.

We grocery shopped together; we ate together; we studied together; we exercised together; we traveled together.

Once, one early January morning on our way to class, we even applied hot wash clothes to our frozen car windows together.

Which, as you can imagine, didn't work out so well.

But that just let us drive down the road with our heads out our driver's side windows together, caravaning away with even more ice on our windshield then we'd had before, plus matching sets of frozen cheeks and eyelids.

That's what happens to us Florida girls. We don't know how handle below-freezing temperatures.

And we don't know how to exist without each other.

Too bad I married a military man. And my "bestie" Blair up and moved to New York City for graduate school, where she met a nice man and got a nice job as an elementary teacher.

Darn her.

And don't even get me started on our other college roomie, who decided she'd move to Missouri, and then Arizona, to pursue a law degree.

The nerve.

We've come a long way from the days of dancing around our dorm room in pajamas to "Don't Stop Believin'."

Which is why, this week, I'm busting out the University of Florida sweatshirts, blaring some Journey, and brewing my strongest coffee.

Because Blair is here, and we are about to live it up in a big way.

And by "live it up," I totally mean make daily trips to Target, lounge on the beach, eat copious amounts of sushi, and go to the movies.

To each his own.

But for us, these days, that's pretty wild.

And pretty darn fun, too.

So, in order to maximize my time with my roomie, I'm taking a bit of a blogging break. I'll be gone for the rest of the week. But I'll be back bright and early Monday, sad Blair has left but with plenty of stories to tell, hopefully none of which involve frozen windshields and risky driving behavior.

But I'm not making any promises.

And, if you need us before then, check the bathroom.

I'll be in the shower. She'll be sitting in the sink.

Just like the good old days.

***

P.S. Thanks to last week and the family funeral, I'm woefully behind on reading blogs. I promise, though, I have not forgotten you all, and I'm sorry if I've been absent in your comments. I'll play catch-up this weekend. I pinky-swear. Thanks for your patience!

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

I Remember That

I wore heels to work yesterday.

Granted, they were actually more of a low, sandal-ed wedge. But still, they were spunky. They made my legs look longer and leaner - always one of my more shameful, aesthetic goals.

And, I'll admit, it felt a little sassy.

***

The night before, I read a book until I finished it. At 2:42 a.m. I got so wrapped up in it that I couldn't put it down.

My weariness was gone as I followed climbers on a terrifying real-life journey up and down Mt. Everest in the memoir Into Thin Air.

I finally feel asleep knowing I'd regret my literary choice the next day as I went through a full day of work on 3.5 hours of sleep.

Still, I'll admit, I didn't really care.

***

Less than two weeks ago, I got a pedicure. Instead of my normal shade of pink, I picked a orange-y coral. And on top, I added white polka dots.

It was a little silly; a little girly.

Yet, I'll admit, my own feet cheer me up now on a regular basis.

***

Perhaps you think I'm corny. You might even think I'm shallow a little.

But the funny thing is, even though I'm over-tired, with overly decorated, yet pinched, feet, I'm oddly exhilarated. I'm oddly, even, more alive.

More alive than when I get a full eight hours rest.

More alive than when I wear sensible flats.

More alive than when I let my tootsies run around bare and unpainted, au natural.

It's a weird phenomenon, really. Because I've spent the last three years of my life settling down into a 50-hour work-week, a marriage, a cup-a-day coffee habit, a life filled with sedate colors, practical footwear and a strict 10:30 p.m. bedtime.

And, I'll admit, I loved it. It worked for me; heck, it still works for me. I was able to put one orthopedically clad foot in front of the other and walk through my life as a professional and a wife.

I ate a well-balanced diet. I exercised regularly. I didn't imbibe toxic substances. I read astute literature on serious matters. I never showed up to a party under-dressed. I roused myself from a dead stupor to get to work, church, the grocery, and the doctor's office on time.

I'd grown up. Or, rather, embraced the old soul inside me that I'd always really been.

But, once and a while, I'd get an itch. An urge. A temptation.

I'd grow nostalgic for my old life. Or, rather, my "young adult" life.

The life I lived when I went to college, where I lived in an apartment with two of my best friends and ate an apple, a wedge of cheese, and popcorn for dinner.

The life where staying up past midnight was the norm.

The life where functioning on four hours of sleep was the average.

The life where you wore sweatpants, socks and clogs to class because you had no time to get dressed because you were running way late already and gosh darn it there was no way you'd be able to survive Professor Brown's two-hour droning lecture if you didn't have at least a jumbo-sized cup of coffee and an Everything Bagel with Reduced-Fat Schmear to tide you over until you made it the library's smoothie bar that afternoon before you headed over to that community service meeting about the homeless where you all were hopefully painting T-shirts assuming Clare remembered to bring all the supplies including the puffy paint which she forgot last time and almost ruined the whole thing for all of you.

I remember that.

I remember slogging around town in pajama pants one day, only to put on the most uncomfortable, itchy ensemble known to man the next day because you didn't want to lose face in front of your uber-perfect-looking lab partner.

I remember teaching seven hours worth of fitness classes on two hours of sleep because I'd been so intent on reading an entire novel one night that I actually drank a pot of coffee while doing so just so I could assure I'd stay awake.

I remember putting in hour after hour at the gym, worried about every inch of my physique, never realizing that at 21, I was in the best shape of my life, unaware that I'd never look that good again, but built with the stamina to run mile after mile and actually enjoy it.

I remember starting a women's community service organization with my best friend. Just because we could. Just because we got jazzed about the idea of holding weekly meetings where we could chat up the issues with our friends and eat cookies. And I remember running Habitat for Humanity trips with those same friends at 7 a.m., after we'd all stayed up the night before talking about guys, clothes, and world peace, like it was no big deal. Like we could save the world and have fun, too. On little to no sleep.

I remember wearing bright purple; I remember cutting the necks off my T-shirts so they slouched over my shoulder just so; I remember not buying groceries one week so I could pay for a manicure.

I remember that.

I'll admit, I don't really dwell there anymore, though.

At least not most of the time.

But occasionally, I'll get a blast from the past: An e-mail from the women's group we started, where I no longer know any of the members; a pair of gym shorts, buried at the bottom of my dresser drawer, with "Florida Gators" splashed across the rear; a picture, where I look amazingly happy and amazingly thin, dancing with my friends in pajamas in our apartment.

And I always smile.

Always.

Because I remember that.

I remember being that girl.

That fabulous, hysterical, overly concerned and unabashedly loud girl.

I remember her.

And sometimes, I miss her.

She never wore sensible flats; she never went to bed on time; she never considered rose-colored toe-nail polish.

She was sassy, and careless, and cheerful almost always.

She was wonderful.

And, once in a while, I realize she's not totally gone.

Because once in a while, she still stays up late to read a book.

Once in a while, she goes wild during a pedicure.

And, once in a while, she even forgoes her traditionally long skirt and flats to wear a knee-length number with heels.

She misses her free reign, it seems. She misses the haphazard living of life that so characterized that girl before she was a teacher, a wife, and a responsible, upstanding, tax-paying citizen.

But at least she's remembered. And fondly.

Because I remember her. I remember our life together.

Which is why, though I can never go back to being her, I try and let her peek out once in a great while.

So she can let me be spunky and care-free once more.

So once more, she can bury her head in a book about nothing and sing along to songs on the radio at the top of her lungs.

So once more, she can call up a friend and talk for 35 minutes straight about the latest gossip without stopping to catch her breath.

So once more, she can pretend to give up groceries this week to buy the low, sandal-ed wedges that make her legs look longer and leaner.

Because that girl was special. She did special things at special times in her own special way and apologized to no one about them.

Because I loved that girl.

And because I have to remember that.

***

Do you remember who you used to be? Do you miss her? I forget sometimes how much I do. Because I love my life now, but I loved my life then, too. And while I was never a wild-child, I was different when I was younger and independent. And sometimes, I miss that. Do you?

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

She's my bestie

I remember moving away from my last college roommate, Blair.

It was, and really is, the only time we truly had a fight.

We were walking through the grocery store, trying to buy dinner, when she started to get weepy about accepting a job with Teach for America in the Northeast. She explained that she was overwhelmed, nervous, and uncertain about how she'd do without the comfort of our three-bedroom townhouse, where we'd lived - with another best friend of ours - for close to three years.

And me, being me, and attempting to do what I always wish I could - i.e., problem-solve - uttered the least-sensitive words you can to a friend in need: "Well, what do you want me to do about that?"

Blair just looked at me like I'd slapped her.

I stared back and then said, "What, Blair, what? What can I do for you?" (Again, me. With the sensitivity.)

Blair and I didn't talk for the entire 20-minutes it took for us to check out and get home.

It was the longest silence of my life.

About an hour later, back at our half-packed apartment, Blair came storming into my bed-room, proffering two blouses.

"Here. OK. Do you really think you'd wear these? Because you can just have them. I don't want them anymore," she said, accusingly, throwing the tops on my bed.

And with that, she'd also thrown down the best-friend gauntlet.

Despite her "I'm still not totally thrilled with you" tone, she'd offered me clothes off her own back.

And we were back in the game.

We both collapsed in tears, explaining what we were feeling, apologizing, uttering phrases only women understand, like, "I know you're scared, and I'm scared, too, and I just wish I could help you feel better, but I can't, and why did we all have to go and grow up already? How are we going to survive without each other?"

But we did.

She did move away. She also moved back, and then moved away again. This time to New York City.

And we've managed to weather all that it takes to have one friend live in the Big City while you slowly move around in the Deep South.

She flew down to be the maid of honor in my wedding. I road-tripped up to see her in her new Big-Apple digs.

I've woken her up with tearful phone calls.

She's called me and left me worried messages, like last week, when she expressed, "I'm not sure what your blog is doing for our friendship. One the one hand, I always know what's going on in your life. On the other, I get worried sick. Because right now, your blog says you're sick. I hope you're not dying down there. Love you. Call me back, lady."

With both of us working as teachers, we lament the natural ills that befall the education system together. Both being in relationships, we discuss men. Both being a little stressed out, we discuss that, too.

I laugh every time I get an e-mail from a women's community-service organization Blair and I started together as college undergraduates. I'm amazed we created something that lasted. I'm also amazed that we've grown so far away from our old college selves that the women who run the organization now don't even know who we are.

I occasionally find photos of us from our younger days. We look like babies.

Me, with the crazy-long hair, which on the first night I met Blair, I got stuck in an oscillating fan in my non-air-conditioned dorm room. Blair, with her teeny tiny legs, which she was infamous for sticking in her impressive collection of teeny tiny shorts.

We were never identical, but we were pretty hard to separate at times.

Still are, even though we live on different ends of the East Coast.

And yesterday, Blair grew a year older. It was her birthday. My Blair-y had a birthday!

Yes, I gracelessly plundered Facebook for this photo. Because this, my friends, is the Blair I know and love.

So happy birthday, my dear friend! Welcome to our "scary" age. I love you so much! You're the "bestie" that every girl deserves. I was just lucky enough to get you!

Happy Birthday, Blair!

***

Hope you all had a wonderful weekend! Happy Monday everyone!

It's the most in-human time of the year

Do you remember college?

Remember the semester rolling around - a paper here, a project there, some reading, some homework, some studying to be done over a period of a few months?

Then, do you remember December in college?

The mad rush to study for eight different final exams, finish four different term papers and wrap-up two different cumulative projects all within a week's time, all while also Christmas-gift-shopping and attending every holiday celebration in town, because Hello! It's not like you can miss one party! You're in college for goodness sake!

When I was in college, there was a literally two weeks in December where I didn't sleep.

For two weeks, I walked around studying and drinking espresso and writing and drinking double-shots of espresso and working and drinking triple shots of espresso and shopping and drinking as much espresso as my limited college budget could afford.

For two weeks, I remained pretty much constantly nauseous, tired, broke and stressed out.

Also, just a little bit giddy.

Because just like every year, it was holiday/exam time, and I. Had. So. Much. Too. Do.

And just like every year, I survived it; I beat off the nausea, the caffeine sweats, the exhaustion-induced senility.

I'd make it back home to my parent's house for Christmas and promptly crash for three days straight.

I was tired; I was half-brain-dead; I was also a little overjoyed.

I'd done it! I'd conquered the semester! I'd beat all odds, worked around the clock and successfully completed a seemingly impossible to-do list in less than a week! I was the champion!

And in that moment, I single-handedly washed away every bit of stress I'd accumulated the week before, when I'd set out to do that seemingly impossible to-do list. I'd squashed that fear; that fear that comes with every almost-impossible deadline; that hard-to-state feeling that simply overwhelms you with a "How on God's green Earth am I ever going to do all that and not jump off a bridge in the process?"

It's terrifying; it grips your heart like a vice.

I remember physically starting to break down during those times, living in my college townhouse with two of my best friends; one of whom conquered College Exam Week by logging long, steadfast hours at our neighborhood Starbucks, and the other by taking her desk light, positioning it and all her books on our kitchen table, and shining the light directly in her face, as if she was taking part in a self-interrogation. ("Where were you the night of Dec. 2, 2003 when you were supposed to be studying for your women's studies mid-term?")

Sanity - and a restful night's sleep - were not a top priority in those days.

Still, once I finished graduate school, I thought I'd left those dog days of college behind me. I thought that the stress and the craziness and the jam-packed holiday-exam stew would melt away.

And then I became a teacher.

And I figured out that, like so many important things in life...

I WAS DEAD WRONG.

Because the nausea has returned. The lack of sleep has returned. The espresso-addiction has returned (as noted by the fact that I was bundled up, outside Starbucks this morning, waiting for them to open the doors and get. out. of. my. way, as they were obvious barriers to my drug, er, morning cup of joe.)

I even feel a little giddy.

I am seriously wondering how on God's green Earth I'm going to survive this week.

I'm wondering how I'm going to grade 100+ exams before Friday at midnight; how I'm going to submit 97 pages of the school yearbook before next Monday; how I'm going to wrap the bags full of Christmas gifts I haven't touched since purchasing them; how I'm going to mail packages to everyone out of town; how I'm going to drive two hours one way on Saturday to meet friends for a holiday party; how I'm going to clean my embarrassingly messy house; how I'm going to eat; how I'm going to sleep; how I'm going to blog; how I'm going to answer e-mail; how I'm going to mail Christmas cards, finish shopping, teach five more fitness classes, find replacements for two classes I'm "supposed" to teach the day after Christmas, pack the car, and leave town in six days.

I actually find myself holding "it" when I had to go to the bathroom - urgently - because I literally kept telling myself "I don't have time to get up and go."

Dear God, help me.

I mean, I know I've been here before. I know I've survived it; I know I lived to tell the tale.

I just don't remember how I did it.

So, I'm sorry if my blog-commenting has been a little sparse. I'm really sorry if I haven't answered all my e-mails yet, and I'm really, really sorry that I haven't called all the wonderful friends and family back who left me birthday messages. I promise, give me till next week, and I will get back to you all.

Assuming I don't lose my mind (and all bladder control) before then.

Wish me luck!

***

Happy Thursday!

A house divided (and a puppy update)

I'm sad to report that, one week away from our first anniversary, marital bliss has flown right out the window.

Right now, my husband is my worst enemy.

Because he's wearing red.

And white.

And far too much memorabilia bearing a charging, uglier-than-sin pig.

We are a house divided.

For this weekend at least.

Because at 3:30 p.m., this Saturday, at Eastern Standard Time, my alma mater plays his alma mater.

Or, to put it bluntly:

My alma mater kicks his alma mater's red-and-white piggy butts!

Yes, that's right. I'm a University of Florida Gator. He's a University of Arkansas Razorback. This is probably what most couples mean when they file for "irreconcilable differences" on their divorce papers, don't you think?

So, seeing as the hubs and I are officially not on speaking terms for the rest of the weekend, I thought I'd leave him a little love note, a little token of my affection, until Sunday rolls around (and he returns to his senses.)

Dear Hubs,

I don't want you to be terribly worried about this weekend.

I know we don't see eye to eye on this matter (simply because I know how to pick a winner and you're too busy making hog calls around the house to make a rational decision.)

Still, I love you, my dear (my poor, messed-up-in-the-head dear,) and I would never let a little game of pigskin come between us.

So, I'm calling a bit of a truce (because there is no need for pranks when it's obvious my team's already going to win. )

Honey, fear not. I will be the bigger person, and I will not dye your Saturday morning eggs a spirited shade of orange and blue this year. (I am, however, wearing my "Beat Arkansas" button. To bed.)

I will not throw orange and blue streamers all over our house this year. (But I will write "ARKANSAS SUCKS" on the steamed-up bathroom mirror tonight.)

And I will not insist on singing "We Are the Boys Of Old Florida" at the top of my lungs every hour on the hour this weekend. (But I will change my cell phone ring to the Gator Fight Song. As well as yours, too. See how that goes over in your Arkansas-only skybox!)

So, baby, don't worry about us; we'll get through this and be closer than ever, I just know it.

And no, you don't have to thank me.

I mean, yeah, sure, it's not easy loving a man who loves a substandard SEC college football team, but I manage.

And yeah, it's not easy having my house defiled by a guy who has spent the last week yelling "Soooieee!" - which has to be the least civilized pig-themed football cheer ever, by the way - but I'll be OK.

Because I love you.

Because I'm your wife.

Because in the end, when it's all over, the best team will win.

And if that best team isn't mine, you will be sleeping on the couch.

Love,
Your Gator-lovin' wife

***

I want to thank all of you who weighed in and offered help and support for Ruby the Ear-less Stray. It's so good to know that there are other dog lovers out there fighting with us.

That being said, we've notified Animal Services.

Funny thing, actually. My husband works in restaurants, and in a weird answer to prayer, a group of Animal Control employees ventured in for lunch yesterday. Patrick said he took it as a sign and told them all about it. They said they'd make a visit, at the very least.

Many of you were right. She is a pit mix, and most likely, she and the other two pups they still have were being trained to be fight dogs. This is a nasty hobby that far too many North Floridians participate in. It's part of the reason our area is so over-run with pit bull mixes. They've taken to calling them "Florida breeds," they're so common. Most mutts have pit bull in them, according to the Humane Societies around here. Luckily, there are advocates for these dogs. Several organizations rally and support just pit bull strays and their adoptive parents in the North Florida/South Georgia area.

But because of their aggressive tendencies, pit bulls are harder to find adoptive families for, no matter how sweet they are. So, if you live close, and are interested in adopting Ruby, please e-mail me at britr@ufl.edu. I want to make sure she finds a good home.

And please, say a prayer for our safety, too. I didn't really emphasize it in yesterday's post, but I promise I'm not being over-dramatic or just plain chicken. I know the residents of the house are bad news (read: violent and armed. With guns.) I think we'll fine, but just in case...

And as for the children, don't ask how I know this, but they already have a file at our local family services office. (Goes to show you how stretched thin and substandard our government services are, considering how the children are still living there.) Turns out, multiple neighbors have contacted authorities about this issue already, so I'll keep you all posted on what becomes of it all.

***

So, that's it around here, for this week at least! Happy Friday, everyone! Have a wonderful weekend!

Happy Birthday Krystle!

It's time to say Happy Birthday to my dear friend Krystle, Katie, K-sters, Kasola...she has a lot of nicknames.

Anywho, Happy Birthday, Krystle!

Krystle was one of my randomly assigned dorm roommates my freshmen year of college. Although there was definitely more at work than a random selecter here, because she quickly became one of best friends.

We lived together throughout our entire undergraduate years, eventually moving into a townhouse off campus, spending too many hours hanging out in our home, laughing, eating popcorn, surviving several Florida hurricanes, and putting off the journalism work we had to do (we also shared the same major.)

I have never understood how people survived bad roomie experiences in college. I ended up living with my best friends, and it was a huge blessing in my life!

Krystle now works in the Midwest for a student ministry, and I miss her every day. (I'm secretly hoping that my husband and I can move back to his hometown one day so we can be closer to K-sters:)

I love you very much, dear friend. Happy Birthday!