Indecisive Peach

I had a non-helpful, sleepy morning yesterday. I flopped into my chair, clicked down the switch to start the motors of my engine and debated what exactly I would have would have for breakfast. After a sparse couple of days, we now had milk. But I could go for something, my mouth smacking, more starchy; I could go for something fruity too.

I’ll have a banana with peanut butter.

Meandering into the kitchen, I grabbed a knife, a banana and the jar of barely used peanut butter. Back in my room and in front of my computer, I flopped back down, peeling my banana, and started up the feed reader, the email accounts, the online class accounts.

A voice from the depths of my mind, the one who sometimes has to lay low on her hypochondriac urges, whispered a gentle, “What ever happened about that peanut butter recall?” Without a thought, I opened up to Google, I type ‘peanut butter recall’.

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Reading the school’s newspaper last week, I ran across a blurb about the local scuba diving club which was having an event at the school’s natatorium. I wrote the info down to remind J whose greatest passion, besides music and videogames, is anything related to water. He even tends to write aquatic-sounding music. So I knew, just knew, this would be his sort of thing. He had snorkeled before, but never had been able to have a chance to scuba dive.

So that was yesterday night, and I, the hydrophobic one, decided to take a stab at it as well. It was fantastic.
 
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So the will is strong, but if you don’t know what you’re doing…

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Yesterday morning, about the time the second rounds of shots rang out on a campus nearly two thousand miles away two days ago, I had to go to our engineering building to hand out some surveys. I had locked my car and headed down the length of our campus, looking at everyone else that looked like me, with the backpacks and hurried walking; everyone that carried that singular air of Student.

I walked along a recreation of a rounded rectangular patch of grass that is shown on the graphics of the news stations. It took me a similar ten minutes to cross our campus as it would have taken a student at Virginia Tech. It was an area that someone else took two hours to cross in our few minutes.
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“You should learn to play the guitar.”

“Oh no, no, no. That way madness lies.”

“Come on. It would be great!”

“I’m not nearly coordinated for that sort of thing. The strumming, the plucking. Two hands doing different things at once. Crazy talk.”

“You get used to it after a while. You just – ”

“I pretty much had a brain collapse after attempting the piano. You have entirely too much faith in me.”

“It’s just prac – ”

“Okay, me sitting here with shoes on the right foot?”

*sigh*

“No, seriously, that is a major feat for me.”

*silence*

Choked out during one-sided peels of laughter, “I kill me though.”

I’m not channeling an oracle this time, but I know exactly what you’re thinking, “Oh noes! Indecisive Peach has been slacking off for a couple of days. I simply cannot survive.”

I hear your telepathic pleas. Let’s use my old trick of bullet notes to figure out why we’re not getting any high-quality blog posting and what instead I have been up to.

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In exactly one month it will be the last day of the semester and I could not be happier about it. This semester has been nothing but dealing with intellectual studies that have no application to some of the real life actualities that have left my life potent with anxiety.

Musing on how rhetorical influences speech patterns, thinking about the publish or perish environment I may find myself crawling toward, or even just scrambling for some hermeneutical process to flow over me so that I can jumpstart some sort of abstract project has left me drained and burned out.

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I call up J as I drive home, hoping that he can take out the fish that I forgot to take out and magically it will be thawed in the ten minutes it takes for me to get home. I hear the wheels click into action over the phone. “I will get everything ready for you!” he says and I hear a cascade of crashes.

“Okay, the mac and cheese is in a purple box,” I say.
“That is beef stroganoff,” he laments.
“Keep looking.”
“Keep seeing beef stroganoff.”
“Darker purple, rectangular – ”
“Stroganoff. Oooh, pasta salad.”
“Purple box with the – ”
“Oh, there it is!”

I clutch the steering wheel in frustration. In said frustration, I turn to the matriarchal stereotype of yore: a man is in my kitchen and up to no good.

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