Thursday, November 17, 2011
So life with me. It's good. I've been spending the last year figuring out how to be a grown up, learning about things like 401(k)s, oil pressure, spring-form pans, and interest payments. It's been quite the education. I'm living about two blocks away from my parents, in a room I rent from a sister in our ward, and working downtown for the Church at peculiar hours. My job's getting progressively less fun, so the master plan is to hold onto it through May, then go back to my beloved French camp for the summer and start grad school in the fall. My application for grad school is ready to go. I've filled in all the blanks, taken the GRE (not as nice as I would have liked on the written--it was my lowest score--but the reading was nothing to sneeze at, so we should be okay, I think), and am ready to click 'Send' . . . now I just have to work up the nerve. Yeah, yeah, I know, I'm a wuss. A super wuss. I've heard 'The worst they can say is no,' but this isn't true. The worst they can say is 'No, because you're worthless and untalented and we don't want to have to associate with you for two years, and you smell funny, and your mother is an aardvark.' I suppose the odds that anyone would actually say this are slim to nil, but the possibility's there and it annoys me that people won't acknowledge it. So in the last little while I've figured out how to repair a busted oil pressure sensor, apply eyeshadow, goad results out of management, run a cub scout troop, walk in three-inch heels, hitchhike to Disneyland, cook fish, and belly dance some more. (Those darn taxims are still giving me trouble, though.) And that's the news from Lake Woebegone, where all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average.