I had two out of four classes cancelled today. They were the middle two classes. So on top of the lunch break, I was scheduled to have a four hour gap between my classes. (And did I mention I stayed up until 3AM last night (I know, 3am and still didn’t even think about blogging)?) Then when I show up for my first class, all she has us do is sign in and leave. So being the good student that I am, I came home to do homework before I went back to class.
And did I do that?
No! Of course not!
Instead I slept for four hours and then decided against showing up to my last class. My first skip of the spring semester season. Aplausos.
Was it magnificent? Yes, yes it was.
To recap on my week (as it seems I haven’t written in years)….well, okay, let’s be honest, there really is no need for a recap. Seriously. I’ve done homework everyday of this week. For hours. And just as well, it led to the finale of no school for me today. So it’s work tomorrow, but essentially, my weekend has begun. Let’s first say how badly we need to develop a waterproof case for laptops (because let’s face it, writing in the bath…can you say super freaking productive?(and relaxing, we can’t forget relaxing)), and then we can go ahead and thank the universe that I got today handed to me. I definitely needed to sleep for too many hours.
Probably the only eventful thing (besides being inadvertently told that I had the best essay in the class, finishing what has probably become my favorite novel (The Adults, Alison Espach, give it a read), arguing with the boy who broke up with me over the fact that I’ve already gotten over him but he wants to try again, and discovering how to make my own cold-mocha-in-a-bottle Starbucks-style) to happen to me this week was that I got told that I looked like a writer. And this will probably be the best compliment I will ever get in my life (aside from the time my tenth grade English teacher told me I should be an author).
It seems like a silly compliment. Most girls want to be told they’re pretty, or oh, wow, you’ve lost so much weight since I last saw you!, or even hot, but not me (though those would be nice of course). I was told I looked like a writer and I struggled so badly to contain my smile.
Picture a writer.
What do you see?
Definitely someone that looks über cool, likely wearing cool boots bought off Amazon and a long sleeve t-shirt from Goodwill and her favorite pair of leggings, plus some pretty awesome glasses (my contacts irritated my eyes at the beginning of the week (allergic to cats, another story) and with messy hair that’s definitely messy in all the right places that day. (…me, essentially.)
So I’m sitting at Starbucks, at the bar, alone (how writery, write? (oh, she’s punny too)), on my laptop and i’m rounding up in to my fifth hour of homework. And then my friend’s friend walks in and takes a seat next to me. Turns out he’s a computer engineering major, what’s mine?
English. I like to write.
“Yeah you definitely look like a writer.” (I am not trying to flirt because I am not attracted to said boy, but I give him my look of surprise that I always hope is cuter than my actual face, but you know how that goes.) “You can tell, you know, like when you walk around the humanities building, which people belong there and which people are there for the vending machines. You definitely look like the artsy type.” Pause. “It’s the sleeves I think.”
Even without being attracted to him, I would have married him right there had he asked (and had he not been nearly my height, because this girl wants to wear high heels on her wedding day, I’m not superficial…but come on). It was the compliment of a lifetime.
And he didn’t give the weird face everyone else makes when they ask you what you want to do. You know the deal, the whole, “Oh…okay…well…that’s great…”/when can I walk away?/oh dear, this poor child wants to be a writer face. It’s painful, and it’s annoying. And it’s why we tell everyone that we are either undecided about our life plans (which gets a look of it’s own) or we give them a standard answer: teacher, doctor, lawyer (and then we deflect the questions about what grade and what medical school and which law school).
But recently, after griping to my mom about how badly I wanted to be a writer, she got frustrated (in the way that is not upset-frustration but more like exasperation) and raised her voice at me. “Then do it!”
“But have you seen the way people look at people who say they want to be writers? They pity you.”
“And who cares!” (my mom’s favorite little catch line) “You’re going to be a writer, so you say that you’re a writer and you go and you do it!”
So, yes, old high school counselor, I am going to be a writer. And yes, extremely rich and smart uncle, I am going to be a writer. And yes, old college advisor! I am going to be a writer.
Say it. Say it out loud, you’ll feel so much better.