I was thinking this morning about the day I was in my parents' room over some school break, talking to my mom about socks or something inconsequential when I looked over at my dad's bedside table and saw a book called "Naked Conversations." Thinking that it was an odd book title to begin with, and seemingly NOT the kind of book I cared to find in my parents' bedroom, I hesitantly flipped it over. It was about blogging. Phew. I never actually read the synopsis of the book, just glad to find out it wasn't about some new...erm, technique...but I found myself thinking about that title this morning as I crunched my way to class through the piles of leaves on Carmen. I guess it makes sense. Maybe that's why so many angry adolescents take to xanga or livejournal to whine their sorrows away--blogging does afford a certain amount of anonymity, or at least a healthy dose of saying what you want without the mortification of looking someone in the eye while you say it.
Shoot to earlier this evening, when I checked my email to find the following message: "Hey Cindy. I am in Senior Seminar with you. I just noticed that you have looked a little sad the past few classes. I was just wondering if everything is okay and if I can be praying for you. Let me know and have a good day. In Christ, Erin"
I stared at the message then spent the next half hour numbly surfing facebook, clicking from page to page, friend to "friend", not really paying attention to any of it.
She's probably the fifth person this quad to make that assertion; the second in the past week (the first was Boaz Johnson who stopped me outside of Caroline Hall, and to whom I adeptly responded "I can't find my shoes").
It's true, I couldn't find my favorite pair of shoes (and still can't, come to think of it...) the day that Boaz stopped me. It's also true that I've been tired the past couple classes during Senior Seminar, acrostics notwithstanding. It's also, however, true that I am that orange on the sidewalk by the Seminary from a few posts ago. Yeah, it was a cute analogy and maybe a titch too melodramatic at the end, but it was also autobiographical truth.
I have 902 pages to read for Joel Willitts in the next three weeks. I have an exegetical paper to write for my Senior Seminar, a Greek final, four World Religions papers, an orchestra concert, a cello jury, and a week of finals. And I'm still that orange on the sidewalk who refused to give up control and is now being told to take those 902 pages and those four papers and the partridge in the pear tree and throw it to the wayside in order to concentrate on the soul I've been pretty successfully ignoring for the past twenty years or so, although it's been dressed up in pretty clothes designed by the Biblical and Theological Studies Department. And yet I'm still freaking out over Kip's recent decision to take the lead on the guys' tuxes for the wedding, because I would really prefer them to have full-back vests and wear normal ties instead of bow-ties and cummerbunds cause I think they look funny and that way they can take off their jackets cause it'll probably be hot in August, but they'll still look polished.
Am I serious?
It's not that good things don't happen. I got 100% on my Greek quiz last week. I watched Brad Nassif flip our entire class a sideways peace sign and say "Baller". I found a really cute shirt for Thanksgiving at the Gap. It's just that when a person chooses to freak out about full-backed vests over not wanting to talk to the Creator of the universe....well, there's something inherently and seriously off-center there. And I'm not okay with that.
So there's my naked conversation.
Can I put my witty clothes back on now?