Monday, November 7, 2011

It's a Trap!

Monday 1:30; 5-8 page persuasive essay due on Wednesday. I can do this. I've got like, at least three hours to work on it. That's an incredibly large amount of time.
I foolishly think this to myself as I sit down in front of a computer in the Merrill-Cazier Library. As usual I open my gmail account to create a document that I can edit at home or otherwise. Uh-oh, I have three new emails. One is from my boss asking me to fill out a back ground sheet for the new website they're making for the ropes course. I create my profile for the "Meet our Facilitators" page and I'm sure to include my Degree of Special Distinction in the National Forensics League. (Totally inapplicable, but dang it if I'm not going milk those shiny stickers for all they're worth.) With that done I feel ready to buckle down and get a writin'. Huh, thirty minutes have past, better get going.
I open my research I've done for the paper to decide what i'm going to use and what i'm going to ignore. As I read, I find a quote that I think will warrant my claim nicel-Holy cow, it is gorgeous out side. The sun reflects so nicely off that building, and my my, that tree has flaming red leaves. Hey, that girl has a back pack just like Rachelle used to have. Boy, I miss Rachelle. I should send her an email. click. Dear Rachelle, Here I am, writing a paper in the library...Wait, Paper.
My eye darts to the tiny clock in the corner of the screen. 2:30! Okay, Stephanie its time to get writing. 5-8 pages. click. Experiential learning is the most effective method for adults because adults learn differently from children and adolescents. The difference derives from...I am interrupted by my vibrating phone, indicating I just received a text message. Greatful for a break from my homework I snatch it from my pocket. Darn, its just from Facebook. Hum, Brittney Anderson just added me as a friend. Who is that? click,
Its safe to assume what happened after this. Its now 4:37, exactly one and a half sentences have been written for my paper, and I am writing a blog. It is interesting to see the progression of my procrastination. I've tried to come up with all these excuses as to why I didn't get anything accomplished. My head is just not in it today. I've got writers block. (I actually don't believe in writers block, I think it is just a universal excuse to procrastinate) I am so burned out. Its Monday for crying out loud. There was an earthquake, a fire, A TERRIBLE FLOOD! But the reason is the simply that I get distracted easily when I'm doing something I don't want to do. Heck, lets be real. I just don't want to do it.
I have actually been doing quite well in the procrastination department up to this point. But we all slip into our old habits sometimes. I am no exception.

Sunday, October 23, 2011

Date Night

Date night

The door bell rang and I shook off the vacant expression on my face. I got out of my chair and tried to compose myself before I answered the door.

My bother and I were just in a heated discussion about country music. Lately, he has fallen victim to the brass guitar and deep drawl "charm". He has taken it upon himself to convert us 'music haters' to the likes of Tim McGraw and Carrie Underwood. With in a fifteen minute conversation I was referred to as close-minded, prejudiced, disrespectful, anti-patriotic, a hypocrite, ignorant, and stubborn.

It isn't as if I can't appreciate country music as a legitimate music genre. Country artists can be great musicians, many can sing well, many can play multiple instruments. The lyrics can be adorable and promote values like patriotism, family, hard work, and true grit. I can appreciate that. But there is, just like any genre, poopy songs with skanky lyrics that would make a grown man blush. I feel just fine with preferring not to listen to that particular music. John, I will stick to my music, you can keep the country.

Flustered over the heated exchanges with my brother, I fluff my hair, pinch my cheeks and carefully place a smile on my face.

"Hi, Carlos!" My smile freezes as I bring my voice down to a more convincing decibel.

"Hi. Your house is amazing." states Carlos.

I sigh and quickly usher him in give him a quick tour and usher him out. All the while John was in the kitchen snickering because he knew the state of my emotions better than Carlos.

He opens the car door for me (I actually waited for him to yell 'contact!' [insert explanation here]) we pull out of the drive way and the conversation flows nicely.

I interrupt this this blog post for breaking news:
My step grandpa just tired to set me up with his grandson. "He needs a wife just like you." I told him I don't think any one could handle being married to me. "why? Are you too high maintainence?" chuckles grandpa. I said, No, I'm just really self-centered. He coughs, "Oh, well I guess you still have a few years."

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog post.

Carlos tells me that we are going to be meeting up with Richard and Tracy and going to the batting cages. I played softball for the young women's team when I was twelve. I was mediocre at best, I haven't played since. This last summer I went to a singles ward softball tournament, had my friend Allyson teach me how to throw again. I held my own pretty good outfield, but then I went up to bat. I hit only one ball all night and it ricocheted off the bat and clocked me in the chin. A softball to the face can really do a number on your self esteem.

As we pulled in, I recounted my experience, or lack thereof, with batting. He brushes me off and tells me I'll do fine. He hands me the shortest bat there and takes me to the cage labeled 'slow pitch softball'. I grit my teeth and stuff my head into the moth-eaten foam lining of the helmet and enter the cage.

I let the first pitch past me, to get a feel for the speed. By the fourth, I feel like I was ready climb down from the chain link and take a swing. First swing, nothing. Second swing, WACK! Heavens to Betsy, I hit one! I squeek with glee and square up for the next pitch. POP! Two in a row? This is too good. By the end of the outing I had out hit my date.

I didn't know I had it in me. I was like some batting prodigy. What if I had started out young? I could have been hitting the big time (pun intended). This could have been my destiny! ...Nah...I don't think I would have liked it as much. I don't think I would change my experiences for anything. Even for the chance at the big time.