Friday In Fragments

On Friday you wake up groggy and wanting to lay in bed for another hour - at least - because a phone call made at one in the morning turned into an almost two hour conversation that left you respecting and appreciating your friend Matt more than you already did. You reach over and hit the Snooze button for the third time and notice the back of your hand - a name and a phone number scrawled messily in red pen by a drunk boy last night. You remember the converstaion with Craig over a basket of fries so hot that you burned your tongue and loud screaming from drunken girls. You are still amazed when people tell you they read your blog. You remember that green beer is not your thing and that you still think St. Paddy's Day is silly.

Friday mornings in your house are not usually hectic, but this morning with three girls running on very similar schedules and just one bathroom, it caused a bit of rushing and a lot of "Are you done yet?" and the occasional "Fuckfuckfuck". It hits you as you get dressed that after living together for more than six months has caused your monthly cycles to sync up and that this morning was a classic example of a lot (if not too much) estrogen in one house.

You run out of the house five minutes off schedule, having not had breakfast and with your hair uncombed and sopping wet. You thank the powers that be for a gorgeous day that warrants the taking off of your yellow knit scarf and for conditioner. You run around for a bit, doing errands and then head to a class during which you learn about passive constructions and proceed to get really nervous about academic essay writing despite the fact that others have told you your writing is good, that the blog is 'like a book' and that you are a Writer, even though you still don't consider yourself to be one.

You leave class hungry and wondering what the day will bring. And though they did not notice how you stood there and smiled at them from behind, you see Tudor and Laura holding each other on a bench outside, snuggling in the sun. He holds her close, she whispers something, he kisses her forehead and she buries her face in the groove of his neck. You feel a bit voyeuristic and you want to tell them that this is not the 'groping' they speak of so often. This is sweet and soft and intimate and though it makes you ache for something just like that, something more than what you have right now, you walk away with a genuine smile, happy for them, happy that moments like that exist, happy that although it's taken a beating, your idealism has not died.

But when you cringe at the sound of cheering during the University's Open House, you wonder about being cynical and jaded. After a very dry roasted chicken with mango chutney panini and an hour sitting in an armchair with the daily Jumble and your journal, a woman comes up to you. You remove the earphones and hear Vietnamese being spoken at you.

Sorry?
You are not Vietnamese?
You smile. You get that a lot. No. Well, my father is half Vietnamese, but my mother is Chinese so I'm a bit of a mix. You smile.
You are very beautiful, very pretty face.
You smile again. You laugh a little. Well, thank you, thank you very much.

You are reminded of the boy last night (whose phone number you have scrawled on the back of your hand, the ink so dark that it didn't wash off in the shower this morning) and how he kept saying that you were beautiful, so beautiful, and how he embarrassed you by telling all his friends.

On Friday you meet with Chris and you look hard into his eyes in an attempt to debunk anything, everything. You frown and pout a little, he jokes and laughs. He speaks of being jaded, being hurt and hurting others, being emotionally unavailable. Your brow wrinkles in an attempt to understand his frustrating crypticness. You give up, exasperated, and laugh with him. Boys. At least you like his taste in music.

You notice the couple next to you who are doing the crossword together. You eat two brownies and remember that you really like coconut. You get a ride home in an Audi with leather interior from Ashley and lie on the couch feeling antsy. You want to go out, but not to a bar or a club. You want to lounge with people, in a comfy room, doing nothing in particular but having a good time nonetheless. This feeling stays with you through several MSN conversations with a messed up keyboard until you head over to Jill's for a movie night in PJs.

You realize that you really like the lyric I can feel so unsexy for someone so beautiful. You like run on sentences and terribly long blog entries.

And then you realize that there is something to be said for transience because it is always the temporary, fleeting moments that matter. Always the random people and little details that you notice, like how the back of your hands get veiny when they're cold and how he scratches a lot. You have an appreciation for the little things because you know that it is always the temporary that can brighten, ruin or inspire your days.
9:41 pm