I am a naturally superstitious person.
I hold my breath both in tunnels and when I pass a cemetery, and I don’t think there’s a single human (aside from maybe my great-grandmother) who crosses themselves while driving as much as I do.
My worst superstition, though, is invisible. Essentially, it boils down to the idea that if I think anything good will happen, only bad will.
I believe that being a woman is an art.
I believe womanhood requires complex thought, balance, strength, perseverance, kindness and thousands of other talents and traits.
What you don’t realize, now that everyone has stopped clapping and we have a chance to speak, is that I’m just as nervous as you are. I really shouldn’t be. I’ve spent a week being trained in how to do this. I know I should lead the conversation in an interesting direction, but still bring it home to us. I should listen more than I speak, but somehow still convince you that Chi Omega is right for you.
I wish I had the time to tell you about every late night I’ve spent laughing until my sides hurt. When my little came through, our recruitment was informal — I got to talk to her for 45 minutes straight and glare at anyone that tried to pull her attention from me.
I wish I had the time to do that with you. If I did, I’d tell you that there’s one thing of which I’m certain: Chi Omega has taught me how to be a woman.
Continue reading “What I Wish I Could Tell You During Recruitment”
I try really hard all the time.
I imagine that’s still not cool to admit. In the weird subculture of the retirement town I grew up in, few insults were more jarring than the ones about “putting on a show.” While it terrifies me to publish my Kryptonite on the internet, it’s true that appearing disingenuous is one of my biggest fears.
December 29 was a very good day.
I was driving in Orlando at 5 p.m. and there was absolutely no traffic. This, combined with the fact that I was about to pick up my best friend for a spontaneous adventure to a record store, led to me being in an exceptionally good mood. I always try to recognize when I feel really, abundantly happy; I think it’s important to catalog these moments for the inevitable days that suck.
I have a “writing voice” in my head.
Most days, she is stifled. Her interest is random and unpredictable. Sometimes, she’ll pop up in paragraph three, awakened from a slumber of monotonous copy by the idea that if I only said it just like this, it might sound a little like the ocean.
I’ve always lived with an extraordinary need for advice.
It stems, I think, from a combination of my two most dominant characteristics — extroverted and over-romantic. Something about the blend of these traits always winds up with me in a bar bathroom telling a strange, nice girl all of my secrets. And with that kind of constant honesty comes the inevitable train of solicited, yet still unwelcome, advice.
Writing is an addictively vulnerable hobby. I grapple constantly with wanting to express myself and hesitating to let anyone get to know me without earning it. I imagine bloggers to be a lot like the person making a phone call on the bus — people will listen, but they’ll never really care, and they’ll probably tweet something about how annoying you are. It’s those thoughts, from a place of pure cynicism, that have held me off blogging in the past.
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