I am so very restless. And not like the Restless Leg Syndrome. I think I could handle that. They've got drugs for it, therapy and all that.
No, your modern Jo March has Wanderlust Syndrome.
I was born and raised in the same house, on the same street, in the same city, in the same state for EIGHTEEN YEARS. I'm ready to move out and be done and see different things.
Good thing I'm going to college, huh? Get out and experience some new stuff. Yeah. In Provo. Hoo hoo. Living large.
Hold on; let me make myself very clear. I do not regret my decision (for my decision it was indeed) to attend Brigham Young University. I know there's a reason for me to be there. And yes, I do get bitter and slightly resentful at times, but I know I'm supposed to be there.
It's just that we live on such a big earth with such rich history and such beautiful landscapes. And the cultures! Why on earth would someone want stay in one place for a long period of time?
Yes, I understand that money is an issue. Money is always an issue. Money will always be an issue. But I didn't wonder why people don't. I wonder why they don't even want to.
It's a good thing I've been biking to work(s) lately, or else I'd go mad with all this pent-up energy. Even now at 11:3o at night, I feel like pacing back and forth in the backyard. (That's not a bad idea, actually.)
I want to go. I want to experience. I want to explore. I want to meet people. I want to taste different food. I want to handle foreign money. I want to wake up everyday and face the day filled with spontaneity and adventure.
Reading can only get you so far. I've read at least four books since school got out and I'm sick to the teeth of reading. Dickens only made me hungrier for foreign climes, London in particular.
I know I'll probably be teased mercilessly for posting these thoughts, my siblings always do, but whatever. I needed an outlet and this sort-of-not-really helped.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Welcome to summer 2010. Yeah, I'm a couple weeks behind the times. But at least I'm not years behind, right?
If I was, the word "pal" would still be banned in my home.
A few years ago (gosh, probably five or so), my sister Brooke came home from college for the summer with the word "pal" littering her sentences. It was "pal" this and "pal" that. She'd be watching a TV show and if someone was doing something she didn't agree with she'd say, "Pal, we need to talk." Enter Brooke into a room: "Hey, pal, whacha doin?" Brooke on the phone: "Pal! We need to hang out!"
After a day or so of being exposed to this poisonous influence, all the younger kids picked up on it. It was like the Black Plague, only instead of having our limbs swell up and explode, we just said "pal" a whole lot.
It wasn't a big deal. Or so we thought. Apparently, it drove my dad insane. During one dinner, he finally put his foot down.
"No one is allowed to say 'pal' anymore!" he thundered.
I'm not entirely sure what the punishment was, but apparently we took the threat to heart. The word "pal" became a swearword.
Which made it extra funny the next Sunday when all the Primary kids sang "My Daddy is my Favorite Pal" in front of the congregation for Father's Day.
Random anecdote? Check.