Neck Sensitivity
I just laughed harder than I’ve laughed in a long time. It’s a classic Myers family move to laugh ourselves to tears, which often means five adults in the kitchen doubled over laughing and crying our eyes out.
Tonight I went over to Katie and Matt’s house for dinner/study nest. We (Katie) made a Katie and Matt classic for dinner: avocado enchiladas. They were delightful—“flavor country” in fact—and then we all lined up on the couch, Macs on our laps, and got some work done. When Emily came home, she was disturbed by the sight of our laptop line up, but I’m thinking that she would have been more disturbed if we’d gone full-on nest.
Study nest was Katie’s idea and it definitely goes in my top ten, maybe top five, things that I love about her. If I’m remembering correctly, the first nest dates back to the 2nd St. house, almost five years ago. Katie invited me over and we dragged as many blankets as we could into the extra bedroom, piling and bunching them into two small nests (perhaps with mini nests for the dogs). We surrounded ourselves with our books, snugged into our nests, and got to work. It’s a manifestation of Katie’s comfort in books, another being the extra bag that she brings on trips full of nothing but books—just in case she needs them, like friends.
It’s difficult—maybe impossible—to describe what got us laughing so hard tonight. Emily used the word “psychotic” more than once. Turns out, both Katie and I have extreme neck sensitivity. I know for a fact that my sister is familiar with my neck issues, particularly the weird hissing sound that I spontaneously make whenever someone’s finger comes near my throat. Our psychotic fit involved trying to touch each other’s necks, hissing, twitching, and laughing ourselves to tears. It was weird. And perfect, in a Myers family laughing in the kitchen kind of way.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Thursday, February 14, 2008
52.
Stanford
For many this is not a new story, but I’m going to tell it again because I am nowhere near tired of it.
I was an unimpressive student in high school, average to the point of academically invisible. I focused my energy much more intently on sports, though I was also a very unimpressive athlete. When it came time to apply to colleges, I had big dreams—dreams that far surpassed the numbers on my transcripts and standardized test scores. I wanted badly, and secretly, to go to Stanford. My parents were the only ones who knew that I was applying for a school so outrageously out of my league. Knowing that my academic record was going to put me into the laughable pile, I put everything I had into my personal essay with the hope that they would sense the presence of a woman on the verge of great things. I don’t remember anything about the overall content or organization of the essay, but I remember the conclusion in very vivid detail.
I decided to tell Stanford a joke. If nothing else, I would give the Stanford folks a good laugh. I honestly believed that I was being clever. And, even worse, I think I believed that there was a chance that they would consider the joke girl because she was so clever. The joke I told is an oldy but goody and it cracks me up every time I tell it. I’m guessing, however, that Stanford wasn’t laughing with me.
At the end of the essay, I wrote something to the effect of:
“Well, if all that was not enough to persuade you, let me win you over with my favorite joke…”
And then I told it. I actually told it.
“So this rope walks into a bar, pulls up a chair, and orders a drink. The bartender takes a long look at the rope, shakes his head disapprovingly, and points to the sign behind him: “We don’t serve ropes.” Dejected but determined, the rope goes around the corner, ties himself into a ball, frays the top of his head, and returns to the bar. The bartender charges over to him and asks, “Hey, aren’t you that same rope?” And the rope says,
(Wait for it)
“Nope, I’m a-frayed knot!”
It’s a bad joke; I know that it is a bad joke. And chances are, the Stanford committee (if they even got to my essay) tossed my file into the “no” pile with a jaunty little, “Nope, Miss Myers, I’m a-frayed knot!” If so, I’m glad that I was able to provide that snarky little moment snooty fun. Mostly because I’m having my own snarky little moment right now.
They don’t realize it, but they finally let the joke girl in. Twelve years and significantly better grades later, I’m heading to Stanford for a post-doc. When I accepted the offer, there was a part of me that wanted to work in an “a-frayed SO,” but I resisted the temptation. For now.
For many this is not a new story, but I’m going to tell it again because I am nowhere near tired of it.
I was an unimpressive student in high school, average to the point of academically invisible. I focused my energy much more intently on sports, though I was also a very unimpressive athlete. When it came time to apply to colleges, I had big dreams—dreams that far surpassed the numbers on my transcripts and standardized test scores. I wanted badly, and secretly, to go to Stanford. My parents were the only ones who knew that I was applying for a school so outrageously out of my league. Knowing that my academic record was going to put me into the laughable pile, I put everything I had into my personal essay with the hope that they would sense the presence of a woman on the verge of great things. I don’t remember anything about the overall content or organization of the essay, but I remember the conclusion in very vivid detail.
I decided to tell Stanford a joke. If nothing else, I would give the Stanford folks a good laugh. I honestly believed that I was being clever. And, even worse, I think I believed that there was a chance that they would consider the joke girl because she was so clever. The joke I told is an oldy but goody and it cracks me up every time I tell it. I’m guessing, however, that Stanford wasn’t laughing with me.
At the end of the essay, I wrote something to the effect of:
“Well, if all that was not enough to persuade you, let me win you over with my favorite joke…”
And then I told it. I actually told it.
“So this rope walks into a bar, pulls up a chair, and orders a drink. The bartender takes a long look at the rope, shakes his head disapprovingly, and points to the sign behind him: “We don’t serve ropes.” Dejected but determined, the rope goes around the corner, ties himself into a ball, frays the top of his head, and returns to the bar. The bartender charges over to him and asks, “Hey, aren’t you that same rope?” And the rope says,
(Wait for it)
“Nope, I’m a-frayed knot!”
It’s a bad joke; I know that it is a bad joke. And chances are, the Stanford committee (if they even got to my essay) tossed my file into the “no” pile with a jaunty little, “Nope, Miss Myers, I’m a-frayed knot!” If so, I’m glad that I was able to provide that snarky little moment snooty fun. Mostly because I’m having my own snarky little moment right now.
They don’t realize it, but they finally let the joke girl in. Twelve years and significantly better grades later, I’m heading to Stanford for a post-doc. When I accepted the offer, there was a part of me that wanted to work in an “a-frayed SO,” but I resisted the temptation. For now.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
51.
Natural Wonders
I have been to the Grand Canyon twice, but I have only seen it once. In fact, I have stood at the edge of the Grand Canyon twice but only seen it once. Come to find out, it is possible for the entire canyon, every grand inch, to fill up with fog—a fog so thick that a person can stand on an outcropping at the jagged the edge of a natural phenomenon and see nothing but solid, bright grey. As I stood there, I knew that my feet should feel tingly, the way they always do when I’m on the edge of something, but they didn’t. It’s a strange and stirring feeling to witness a natural wonder firsthand, but I think it is even stranger—and maybe even more stirring—to brush by one.
Just last week yet another natural wonder slipped by me. I flew from Tucson, AZ all the way up to Niagara, NY, spent three days there, and never got to see the falls. The entire town was quiet, wrapped in the silence of heavy snowfall, but everywhere I went the sound of rushing water echoed in my ears.
Niagara Falls provides power for states all the way down to Georgia. It is divided evenly between two countries and every year an unpublicized number of people soar over the edge, sometimes intentionally and other times not. I expected that the Niagara River would look and move like the Rhine, dark water with a frighteningly quick current. But the Niagara is deceptively calm. Large chunks of ice glide easily across a white/grey surface, contradicting the warning signs that line the shores. In the wintertime the falls must be carefully maintained to avoid ice build up, a process that involves “turning off” portions of the falls at night. I learned about its history, I watched its river flow by, I slept in a bed two miles away from it, but I left the Niagara region without seeing the falls.
I’m not sure what to think about these missed moments of grandeur. There’s a part of me that wants to make profound and insightful comments about sensing but not being able to see the powerful things around me. Or the way that missed opportunities can mean seeing new things or seeing things differently. I’m not sure what I was supposed to see instead of Niagara Falls. To be honest, the symbolic message of it all is lost at this point: those are really big freakin’ falls and I wanted to see them.
I have been to the Grand Canyon twice, but I have only seen it once. In fact, I have stood at the edge of the Grand Canyon twice but only seen it once. Come to find out, it is possible for the entire canyon, every grand inch, to fill up with fog—a fog so thick that a person can stand on an outcropping at the jagged the edge of a natural phenomenon and see nothing but solid, bright grey. As I stood there, I knew that my feet should feel tingly, the way they always do when I’m on the edge of something, but they didn’t. It’s a strange and stirring feeling to witness a natural wonder firsthand, but I think it is even stranger—and maybe even more stirring—to brush by one.
Just last week yet another natural wonder slipped by me. I flew from Tucson, AZ all the way up to Niagara, NY, spent three days there, and never got to see the falls. The entire town was quiet, wrapped in the silence of heavy snowfall, but everywhere I went the sound of rushing water echoed in my ears.
Niagara Falls provides power for states all the way down to Georgia. It is divided evenly between two countries and every year an unpublicized number of people soar over the edge, sometimes intentionally and other times not. I expected that the Niagara River would look and move like the Rhine, dark water with a frighteningly quick current. But the Niagara is deceptively calm. Large chunks of ice glide easily across a white/grey surface, contradicting the warning signs that line the shores. In the wintertime the falls must be carefully maintained to avoid ice build up, a process that involves “turning off” portions of the falls at night. I learned about its history, I watched its river flow by, I slept in a bed two miles away from it, but I left the Niagara region without seeing the falls.
I’m not sure what to think about these missed moments of grandeur. There’s a part of me that wants to make profound and insightful comments about sensing but not being able to see the powerful things around me. Or the way that missed opportunities can mean seeing new things or seeing things differently. I’m not sure what I was supposed to see instead of Niagara Falls. To be honest, the symbolic message of it all is lost at this point: those are really big freakin’ falls and I wanted to see them.
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