BLAST FROM THE PAST: Leg Hair Edition. 13 October, 2009

Just seeing that title, what would you think this post would be about?

If you guessed my first leg-shaving experience, then you’re wrong.

No, this experience is much, MUCH more recent than that one.

Let’s go back to the Summer of 2007, shall we?

This was my second summer as a day camp counselor at the delight that was Camp K. I’m not being completely sarcastic when I say it was a delight–some of the kids were downright hilarious (“I punched him on accident!”), I got along with most of the staff (ha ha, kind of. I definitely wasn’t the least despised person), and I got paid. Downsides? Where do I even start? I didn’t get paid enough for what I did (Seriously. Peanuts.), the kids had occasional freak-outs, I had occasional freak-outs (like when KG chucked her water bottle at me. That was awesome), and the hours were long and hot.

So what on earth does this have to do with leg hair?

I think it was Session Two of camp that summer (the summer was split into five two-week sessions). Miss A and I had Groups 5 & 6–AKA Group of Death. There was something about that age (8) that made the kids impossible to deal with. Our group happened to be a bit smaller that session, since it included Independence Day during the time frame (out of the 20 or so kids we were supposed to have, the most that ever showed up on a given day was 12. Awesome).

Back to the point of this post. Anyway, there was this one little girl who was in our group (I’ll call her MM, to protect the innocent and myself) who was . . . a different sort of girl. I can’t really describe her, other than to say that she had a vivid imagination and was kind of clingy. One fine July morning, we were hanging out in the pavilion during Opening, and MM was sitting next to me (I was standing, mind you. The cement was a little too cold for me). For those of you who don’t know me well (or who just don’t know this about me), I hate shaving my legs. Hate hate HATE it. Like, I just went a month without shaving my legs, and it started when it was still warm enough to wear shorts. I finally broke down this past Saturday since I had to go to church the next day and my legs were getting a little out of control. Argh, another tangent.

So anyway. It’s July. It had been a while since my last encounter with a razor (but not too long, mind). My legs were . . . a little stubbly. And MM is practically sitting on my feet. I’m spaced out, listening to Mr B (our camp director) ramble on and on and on about the bead system, when MM starts stroking my legs.

Um, excuse me, MM. Why the HECK are you doing that?!?

MM has a wistful smile on her face as she rubs her hands up and down my shins.

“You should grow your leg hair out, like Mr M.”

Thanks, you weird little girl.

From that day forward, I shaved my legs every single day that summer.

(NOTE: I started this post back in March and forgot to finish it. Now it’s done.)

Death. 7 March, 2009

My computer died tonight. It will no longer charge, and the problem lies inside the computer, not in the charger. I call my mom in a panic, saved all my stuff to my jumpdrive (now named John Galt), and sat and mourned the loss of dear Reginald, and also mourned that I couldn’t knock out my internship application this weekend.

And then I remembered that Laura left her old broken laptop here, and that I now owned a universal charger.

And this is how I’m writing this.

Um, Seriously? 20 February, 2009

A quote from the random get-together in the other room:

“Okay, now everyone find a funny object and dance with it!”

If anyone wants their sexual urges quashed, just come on over!

On Another Note. 16 February, 2009

If you are easily offended or might take offense about an irritated rant, please stop reading now. These are my thoughts on this topic, and you probably won’t say anything that makes me change my mind.

I don’t do small talk, unless it’s with someone I’m fairly close to/who actually cares about me.

People that I will engage in small talk:

• My family.
• The people I work with (Dr. S, Kat, Alicia, Sam, the other RAs).
• My professors who ask “How are you?” and actually want an honest answer.

Pretty much anyone else that isn’t on this list I will small talk with on a evaluative basis. Random friends from back home = yes. Random people on campus = no, for the most part.

This is my point: I don’t like it when my roommates try to engage me in pleasant conversation.

When I walk in and they are lying about on the couches, the most I expect or even want is a leisurely “S’up?”. Instead, I get a “Hi Katie. How are you?”. Okay, I just saw you like an hour ago. I’m doing about the same as I was then, thank you very much indeed. Except now I’m slightly annoyed, since you just wasted a valuable slice of my life by asking me a question that wasted your breath, since you already knew the answer.

And why would I even give you an honest answer? We’ve known each other for what, five months at the most? Even if my life started sucking big time in the past 53 minutes, you would probably freak out if I laid all of my problems on you. So you will get a “Peachy” from me, if I even deem you worthy of a response.

This also goes with “How was your day?”.

It’s a holiday.

I did nothing.

Therefore, my “day”, for all intents and purposes, did not exist. I don’t ask you how your day was when I know all you did was sit around, because that’s just stupid.

Now, on the other hand, if you were to engage me in small talk through an opener such as “Slay any fearsome dragons today?” I might snort in derision, then give you kudos for creativity. I will also think up a creative answer that describes how my day went, just in respect for your awesomeness.

Lest you think that I’m a complete anti-social moron (especially following my V-day post), I actually do enjoy pleasant conversation. Just make it natural.

I’m not angry really. Confused, bewildered, and totally weirded out describe it better.

Valentine’s Day is Approaching. 12 February, 2009

Valentine’s Day is a great thing. All of the pink and red and heart-shaped candy goes on sale for way cheap, lurve is in the air (in other words, professors might be more generous with extending deadlines. Please?), and my mommy has finally gotten the hint and sends me a wondrous V-day package filled with sour-gummy treats (and delicious chocolate covered pretzels).

Why do I despise Valentine’s Day, then?

It’s not my chronic singleness. I am quite happy with not having some random boy toy to spend my day with, and not having blow enormous sums of money on him when there is a high probability that the relationship won’t last. In high school, I was always amazed and astounded at how elaborate the plans of my friends were for V-day, and often commented (only to myself or others who shared my view) about the ridiculousness of the situation.

It’s also not me trying to “buck the norm” and hate it for reasons that I know not. Because that’s stupid.

My deep, dark, vile hatred of the blasted day comes from those who, instead of celebrating Valentine’s Day like a normal freak (since we’re all freaks at heart), decide to “celebrate their single-tude” and call February 14 “Singles Awareness Day.”

Um, when you’re not in a relationship EVERY SINGLE DAY is Singles Awareness Day. Duh.

I find that this new holiday is only an epidemic among single women. Do guys celebrate SAD? I wouldn’t think so (but please tell me if I’m wrong), because their personal identity is not defined by their relationships to other people (for the most part).

Girls go on “Girl Dates” with a group of girls out to fancy restaurants (or maybe just Wendy’s–she’s single too because guys don’t like it when girls smell like hamburger all the time)! Girls have ice cream parties (no boys allowed!)! Girls have giant sleepovers! Girls throw movie nights for lots of other girls with nothing to do, since WE MUST CELEBRATE OUR SINGLENESS AND SITTING AT HOME ALONE ON VALENTINE’S DAY MEANS YOU’RE A LOSER SO PAAAARRRRTY WITH YOUR FRIENDS!!!

Excuse me while I go vomit.

Okay, I’m better now.

But seriously? What about those of us who just don’t give a flying toss about the whole thing? What are we to do when our roommates decide to throw these disgusting parties in our apartments without telling us? Where do we go?

These so-called “singles’ celebrations” are only harsh reminders of the fact that you are a dateless freak. I’m okay with being a dateless freak. I hate the drama involved in breaking the freakiness, so I choose to remain a freak. I sometimes refer to myself as “Katie, the Dateless Wonder! Watch her turn down boys in style! Observe her unconscious flirtatiousness that sends boys reeling! See her all alone on a Friday/Saturday night, with no company but her textbooks and her laptop!” It’s a joke. And one that I don’t mind telling.

It sounds like I’m bitter. I’m not. February 14 is just the halfway point of the month. St. Valentine didn’t even exist in the form that we believe him to be.

However, if you happen to be in Provo Saturday night and are looking for a rip-roaring good time, you can find me in the library.