in medias res

Parable of the Perpetually Prodigal Friend

Make sure you’re sitting down when I tell you this – I am not good under prolonged stress. Under momentary stress, I can juggle, skate, and duck. Now I’ve made the “stressed-out dance” – jazz hands to the sides and a couple of kick-ball-changes – my response to every question. I feel awful. I blame part of my consuming guilt on He’s Just Not That Into You, the ex-must-read answer to every “why is he doing this to me?” question. One part of the book explains that if he says that he has been too busy, that’s code for *sshole. Every time I explain why I forgot to call, write, lunch, or movie, I follow it up with a silent “and because I’m an *sshole.” But my earnest efforts at reigniting the friendship flames with some of these lovely folk has the strength of PlayDo on my end. I apologize, I make an effort, I get busy, I am inconsistent…shower, rinse, repeat.

This past Thursday, for example. I was up until 3am working on my Personal Statement and Critical Writing Sample. I woke up at 6:45 to get ready for school – a process that takes much longer as of the past two weeks. I came home from Memphis and had a 20 hour turnaround time before I left for the wedding in Tampa. I came back from Tampa and spent the next five days working on my application documents, work, school, and classes. I have yet to unpack or wash anything. The clean clothes are mingling with the dirty clothes and my shoes refuse to come anywhere near each other.

I worked, showered, packed my computer, my bookbag, and my gym bag (I have good intentions), and I was out the door. Then I ran back in for something I forgot. I was in a great mood. I had on a pink sweater, clean pants, and cute underwear. I left the house with twenty minutes to go to Staples to make eight copies of a chapter from Strunk & White and fax my transcript request forms and buy dry-erase markers, swing through Chic-Fil-A for a morning chicken biscuit and gynormous Diet Coke, and run into school in time to meet my student for a conference. I talked with my student about story details and having a “thesis”, and ran into the room to teach the three of the eight students that actually showed up. We discussed the phrase “the elephant in the room.” I explained that it’s when there’s something in the room that most people know about but no one wants to say, and my 285 pound football player asked if it was like when there is a roach on the wall and no one wants to tell everyone else that it’s there. Is it bad to laugh at your students? :)

After class, I got my books together and ran over to the DOE and my cubicle for work. I spent the day rewriting memos, hunting down rebellious verbs, and tweaking my personal statement. My semi-boss was trying to feel out if I was coming back after my class, but I wasn’t sure if she was saying, “Don’t worry about coming back, we really don’t need you” or “It would be nice if you actually came to work all the time.” Then, something happened. I got upset about where my personal statement was going, I didn’t feel like I could remove myself from it enough to get an objective opinion, and I just kind of broke down. Midnight was my deadline. I had class at 2 and I was crying as I ran out of The DOE. I called the Boy and he couldn’t tell if I was laughing or crying at first. No one is used to hearing me cry. It wouldn’t stop. Poor guy, he tried desperately to console me. I walked into class late and sat against the wall with the other sick girl. (My office/classmates knew that I was pink, bubbly, and perfectly healthy that morning, and they weren’t fooled.) My face was so wet, I couldn’t tell the new tears from the old. Finally, my teacher turned on “Heavy Metal Parking Lot” (popular culture studies class), and I distracted myself long enough to dry up.

After class, I went to my office and tried to work. I worked until my conference with my teacher at 5, then until my class at 6:45, and then until 12:30 when I submitted my online application and, finally, went home. My roommate has law school exams right now, so neither of us are home enough to clean. I moved some dishes in the sink and almost gagged. I loaded the dishwasher, went to my room, changed into some sweats, threw my sweater in with the mess, and passed out by 2am. At 6am on Friday, I was up again.

And then, last night was the English Department party, and I don’t even feel like I went. It’s the one time when we can shed our jeans and flip-flops for our dressiest dress, drink free wine and eat what book-nerds cook, and relax. It’s when you don’t have to talk shop with your professors and catch up with everyone else who has been hiding out. I was too tired and cold to wear my red dress, so I settled on a gold mesh sweater, black pants, and strappy gold heels. I had to drive with my kahlua and pecan brie in one hand so it wouldn’t dump all over my seat (again). I bought batteries for my camera but forgot to take any pictures - even for the annual production where one of our professors ignores the protests, clears out one room, and dances for the whole department. With a minimum of three wardrobe changes. This year, she brought a whole dance troupe and we were creeped out when she tangoed with a fifteen year old boy.

I was there talking with a few people, but I felt like I was really sitting in a corner and watching everything happen. Such is life. But as I sat and watched everyone laugh and drink, I realized how far I had drifted away – how little I knew about any of them anymore. I have been going through the motions and not taking any time to play and I was miserable. I wanted to go up to each one and look at them earnestly and say “I’m sorry!” and beg for that familiarity to be back. But I realize that they’ve seen that show before. I don’t know if I can expect them to be that forgiving.

So here I am, the prodigal friend, in desperate need of the gym and some friend time and three completed twelve page papers and for things to become more manageable. And a really, really good nap.

posted by tara @ 1:14 PM