Okay, I have to type for at least sixteen minutes.  Let's see how long the naproxen, 1/2 glass of cabernet, and one flexirel tablet hold out...

I did something today that no self-respecting woman should do when she's on a tight schedule and she's not feeling good: I went shopping for a pair of jeans.  Nothing fancy, just something that fits and wouldn't cost an arm or a leg.  I'm down to one decent pair that I can wear to school and even I can't stand the crime of fashion I'm perpetrating.    So, off to stuff-mart I went (remember, cheap and utilitarian?).  Anyway, I tried on ten, count 'em, TEN pairs of jeans.  They were all nice jeans.  They were all reasonably priced and they weren't totally hideous.  It's just that none of them fit right.  They were too long.  Or too short.  Or too tight.  Or too droopy.  This made me pretty convinced that men design jeans.  No woman could be that cruel to her own sex.  Well, eventually I found a pair.  It was a dark wash, boot cut little affair.  It wasn't a great fit, I wasn't completely satisfied, but it fit the bill in other respects, so I made my purchase and headed off to school.

Don't ever let anyone tell you that there's no dress code or uniforms on a college campus.  They're either on drugs or completely inattentive.  Of the 150 or so students that I passed to and from my class today, only about half-a-dozen of them were wearing something other than jeans.  No, really.  I'm serious.  I suppose I was just paying more attention today because I had just spent thirty minutes torturing myself in a stuff-mart dressing room.  There were all sorts of jeans on all sorts of body sizes and shapes.  Age or gender did not appear to be a factor.  Of course, there was the girl who was wearing the most dizzying pair of zebra-striped stretch pants ever to come off a runway (or street corner).  And there was the guy who wore his plaid jammie pants.  But at least he completed the look with his fuzzy slippers.  Yeah, really.  There were a couple of guys wearing shorts and a girl or two wearing skirts--but they were denim skirts.  I'm not counting faculty here.  My teacher was looking as sharp as ever in a pair of sage-colored microfiber trousers.  And some humanities prof was reprising his role as Johnny Cash--missing only a guitar as an accessory.    I left the campus feeling somewhat jaded and put off.  I didn't want to dress like a lemming, and yet, here was everyone (nearly so) dressed in my pant of choice-- jeans!  And what was I wearing?  Jeans, of course.  And just so you know, I returned that little dark-washed, boot cut number on my way home from school today.  I suppose I will give in and purchase some jeans after all.  Eventually.  But if I'm going to do it, then by George, those jeans better fit.

(18 min)

Isn't it funny how completely random things intersect in our lives?  A few hours after I posted yesterday, I sat down to do my lit homework.  This week: Hemingway and Faulkner.  I enjoy both of these writers; I find them thought-provoking and evocatively crisp.  I never really thought I would enjoy modernist literature, but I'm surprising myself every day.  But that really isn't the point of this post. 

One of my readings is The Snows of Kilimanjaro.  If you've never read it, I recommend it as a snapshot of this period of literature and as a sampling of Hemingway's work.  Without giving away the story completely, let me just say this story hit me right between the eyes.  Mostly because I've been contemplating my lack as a writer lately.  Anyway, in Hemingway's short story,  a has-been writer (who is a "has-been" because he's sold himself out to the slavery of comfort, deceit, and mediocrity, not because he's lost his talent) contemplates all of the stories he wished to tell and no longer will be able to because he (or so he believes) is dying of gangrene in the African bush.  Of course, I started to think about all of the stories I want to tell, or at least images I hope to capture one day in words.  One day, it will be too late, and if I do nothing, these images, these stories will die with me.  I'm not sure that it's so vitally important that I tell these stories, or even if these stories be told.  But I suppose there is a sort of dark significance in having been given the desire to write--to tell the truth about something-- and never having the guts to actually get the words on paper.  You writers know what I mean, I think.  There is a risk every time a writer sits down to write.  A risk of failure.  A risk of not telling the story exactly as one imagines it.  A risk of criticism, from within and without.   Harry, Hemingway's protagonist, felt that the risk was too great.  He would risk ease and security; he would risk having his true self revealed (as a lying jerk, mostly) to the whole world.  But in the end, he regrets not taking the risk.  One failure, or two, or three--one criticism, or two, or three-- doesn't mean the risk isn't worth the taking.  And so, we write.

(12 min.)