The last few weeks have been some of the craziest imaginable. Aside from finally scheduling my big dissertation proposal exam (this June! eep!!) and rewriting one of my articles from scratch for re-submission to a journal, I have finally registered with the school for medical wrist treatment so I can hopefully type with all of you again soon–write replies, comment on your blogs, and everything else I miss.
I’ll be back in the game again soon, so don’t lose hope in me!
Somehow, in the midst of all this craziness, I still have stories. There’s something about storytelling that makes a girl put on Ed Sheeran’s “Thinking Out Loud” and want to dance around the room singing into a stalk of celery. Loudly. And very badly.
Last night, a bunch of us in the swim club trekked out to the beach for a bonfire. The evening air was cool but mild: even in March, all we wore were light jackets over our tank tops (sorry, East Coast friends!) and flip-flops as we watched the sun set over the shimmering ocean horizon.
It was the quintessential college experience. By the time we arrived, all of the fire pits had been taken, so a group of us (and by “us,” I mean definitively not me) used our bare hands to dig out a 2-foot deep pit before jamming in firewood, lighter fluid, a lighter, and as many marshmallows-on-sticks as we could manage to flambe at once.
Empty pizza boxes to keep the fire from flying away.
Open bags of chips and salsa scattered across the sand, being picked through by oh-so-many dirt-packed fingers.
Rolled-up skinny jeans and late night ocean dashes.
Sand in everything.
My parents–for whom the closest we have ever got to rugged improvisation was reserving one of those tent-style camping cabins instead of the room in the lodge with indoor plumbing–would have been positively scandalized.… Read more