June 11 After only six sessions, my class is half over. After ten days, any Spanish currently being crammed into my head will undoubtedly recede into the catacombs housing details from eighth grade Physical Science and Mrs. DelPopalo's Local Government class. Still, familiarity with the language will not be injurious. Many professions offer higher salaries to speakers of other languages. Although I must add it was not my articulate Pig Latin that foisted me up from minimum wage at Dairy Queen.
4:21 pm
Were I still working, I would be failing. A background in French, however patchy, has helped me grasp concepts I'd otherwise be hopelessly confused by. Nobody ever promised learning Spanish in three weeks would be easy.
Studying this pervasive language has claimed much of my time and otherwise boundless energy. Swirling around in my brain are the verbs, prepositions, and names for household objects and weather conditions usually accumulated after a month and a half. That makes sense, since every three and a half hour class would equate one week during the semester.
After forcing possessive prepositions into my nearly spent memory bank, I searched through the attic for some papers for a story I am attempting to write. Instead I unearthed folders full of dolorous poetry about backstabbing friends and eleven year old malaise, essays gibing John Steinbeck's The Pearl (Ay Coyotito! Que mala suerte!), and attempts at macabre. The latter included the story of a dead girl haunting the Louvre, and an unfinished nine-pager about girl named Valerie who goes crazy and embarks on a killing spree. I also found "Lorena Bobbit: What Really Happened," written when I was ten. My theory was Lorena's shrink put her on Lithium and she reacted negatively the side effects. Shucks.
Most of what I found was created during fifth and eighth grade. The photo album containing yearbook pictures of enemies superimposed on uncomplimentary bodies was rediscovered as well. Think my brother as a cover girl model, Mike Timms in a bikini, and so on. It's quite a funny montage; my neighbor Beth and I made it in sixth grade with the help of my Mom's Xerox machine.
Within the past week, there have been two different articles on anorexia my father has suggested I read. Its possible genetic origins were revealed in US News & World Report. Today's Science Times had a piece about new treatment options. The subtlety is appreciated, as are inflections of concern. I have gratitude for any signs of others giving a damn about me and what they surmise I may be doing to myself. That said, I am annoyed by the suggestion. As psychologists, my parents are familiar with eating disorders. I was throughout middle school. Many an article, textbook, and heath class have evinced the risks as much as they have glamorized the gritty reality of starving to death. Exercising and drinking a gallon of water are things I do almost daily, and it's not uncommon for me to go to bed without dinner every once in a while. Why can my parents not conclude I am just one of innumerable shallow teenagers fearing a fate similar to the majority of our fat nation?
The drugs I take to sustain sanity extinguish my appetite. Being sane and easily satiated is better than tired, hungry and crazy, no?
One p.m. Saturday afternoon, I left the house for Six Flags. At twelve-thirty I stumbled in the door, reminded again of why I usually remain contained within four familiar walls. It was just one conundrum after another. We drove forty minutes past the exit. Like last time, a ride were on line for broke. Hannah, who is going back to Poland on Thursday, wanted to see the Sugar Ray concert on her last Saturday in our great country. Not one to argue, I joined them in the arena at 6:30 for the 7:00 show. It began at eight. We did not know about the opening act, and I estimated twenty minutes after his set before Sugar Ray came on. After hearing that, Hannah and her friend jetted to ride Batman & Robin and the Viper, while we shivered and held their seats. We expected to stay for a song or two when they came back, and leave before the show ended. I had almost forgotten what emo was until B-Rock or D-Sock or E-poch came out with an acoustic guitar and lonely face. He wore a sideways hat, track pants, and his heart on the sleeve of his wifebeater, squashing it somewhere under his armpit. From SoCal, he was. Shoot me if I ever write "SoCal" again. Z-Frock missed home. After songs called "Runaway" and "Statistical Guy," he sang a little ditty called, "I Wanna Go Home." Then he forgot the words because he was drunk. We were making him nervous, he said. Our booing couldn't have palliated that. Sugar Ray was all one could expect of a pretty, polished L.A. bunch with a gorgeous lead singer and... four other guys behind sunglasses. It was a bawdy contrivance fabricated as art, but it beat waiting on line for an hour. It was as amusing to watch as anything else, taken with the notion they must have been genuine once. I clapped, admit to knowing some of the words, but saw no reason to rise from my seat. My teeth were chattering to the squeaky clean hooks, and more than Mark McGrath's flawless body, I wanted his jacket. The girls came back during the next to last song, because the lines were still long. Apparently, the whole world had not congregated in the arena, and some of them still wanted to ride roller coasters. With no choice but to stay for the whole show, we caught glimpses of the fireworks display before chaos ensued in the parking lot. It took us a half hour to get back on the turnpike. We walked from one side of the park to another and back again, and only got to ride two roller coasters. Amusement is countered by seemingly interminable waiting games.
I have a quiz on Thursday, a test on Monday, and am sitting here thinking its Wednesday.
