(no subject)
Well. Here it goes again. Almost my first day of school, for the 17th time. (In two days.)
Thanks to years of capitalist conditioning, I felt compelled to buy things in preperation. So I went with a red theme for the school supplies, and a purple and brown theme with the clothing. I also bought the textbooks: Perspectives in Nutrition, Buildings Across Time and Female Circumcision in Africa. The nutrition one has loads of colored charts and calculating tools and out-dated food photographs, and reassuring statistics like this: a healthy woman's body is 25% fat.
Along with back-to-school-shoppinng propaganda, changing weather and a generous financial aid/scholarship/grant check deposited the same day as my paycheck, the shopping was fueled by my suddenly being a size 6/7. This is 5 sizes less than I was at one point in Berlin.
Not that sizes are supposed to matter to mature, independant women. According to my text book, it's fat percentages that matter. According to my therapist, it's body image and and satiety and whatever. According to Susie Orman, in this book I bought because O magazine recommended it and I'll do anything if O says so, "Fat is a femanist issue." (From what I gather from the first few ranting pages, women make themselves fat both to fulfill their nurturing instincts and to become more monumental in a world that constantly minimizes us.)
I don't think I ever attempted physical monumentality because I feared not being taken seriously -- at least not by venturing wider. I wore heels when I waitressed, even though any person in his or her right mind would wear something more comfortable, because I swear I got better tips when I was taller.
While I was shopping, I also noticed how when I carries the plastic shopping bags and wire hangers on my wrists, as I do for whatever reason, they left deep red stripes like scars, like some sort of visual shopping-bag suicide attempt merger. If I was 17, I'd write a poem about that.
In other news, Brian got his three-year residency at the Times, like I knew he would. He will now not have to move to some far away city with probably a bad climate to write obituaries for $7 an hour. He's covering courts and cops (whatever that means) in the North Bureau. Doesn't that sound professional? North Bureau.
Also, we've almost been together four months. If I was 17, I'd write a poem about that, too.
Orientation was suddenly over last Friday. I don't even know If I said bye to anyone when I left the office. The last week was so busy with Dawg Daze prep. I was half-way scheduled to be working 8 to 2 a.m. tonight (right now) at this Fred Meyers after-hours extravaganza, but when I left The Daily at 7:15 after shopping all day, and with an eight-page magazine to design, I didn't feel like working in six hours of watching freshmen shop. So ... maybe I'll bump into people around campus? I always feel weird when unintentional relationships based on short-term proximity end. Do I stay in touch? I never really talked to anyone about anything notable anyway. What would we talk about now? Suddenly all this stuff I repeated over and over is gone from my head entirely and I'm 90% reabsorbed by The Daily.
Well, cest la vie.
Where is my boyfriend? I want him to come over so we can eat cake and watch Seinfeld. If only I didn't have this damn paper to put together ...
Thanks to years of capitalist conditioning, I felt compelled to buy things in preperation. So I went with a red theme for the school supplies, and a purple and brown theme with the clothing. I also bought the textbooks: Perspectives in Nutrition, Buildings Across Time and Female Circumcision in Africa. The nutrition one has loads of colored charts and calculating tools and out-dated food photographs, and reassuring statistics like this: a healthy woman's body is 25% fat.
Along with back-to-school-shoppinng propaganda, changing weather and a generous financial aid/scholarship/grant check deposited the same day as my paycheck, the shopping was fueled by my suddenly being a size 6/7. This is 5 sizes less than I was at one point in Berlin.
Not that sizes are supposed to matter to mature, independant women. According to my text book, it's fat percentages that matter. According to my therapist, it's body image and and satiety and whatever. According to Susie Orman, in this book I bought because O magazine recommended it and I'll do anything if O says so, "Fat is a femanist issue." (From what I gather from the first few ranting pages, women make themselves fat both to fulfill their nurturing instincts and to become more monumental in a world that constantly minimizes us.)
I don't think I ever attempted physical monumentality because I feared not being taken seriously -- at least not by venturing wider. I wore heels when I waitressed, even though any person in his or her right mind would wear something more comfortable, because I swear I got better tips when I was taller.
While I was shopping, I also noticed how when I carries the plastic shopping bags and wire hangers on my wrists, as I do for whatever reason, they left deep red stripes like scars, like some sort of visual shopping-bag suicide attempt merger. If I was 17, I'd write a poem about that.
In other news, Brian got his three-year residency at the Times, like I knew he would. He will now not have to move to some far away city with probably a bad climate to write obituaries for $7 an hour. He's covering courts and cops (whatever that means) in the North Bureau. Doesn't that sound professional? North Bureau.
Also, we've almost been together four months. If I was 17, I'd write a poem about that, too.
Orientation was suddenly over last Friday. I don't even know If I said bye to anyone when I left the office. The last week was so busy with Dawg Daze prep. I was half-way scheduled to be working 8 to 2 a.m. tonight (right now) at this Fred Meyers after-hours extravaganza, but when I left The Daily at 7:15 after shopping all day, and with an eight-page magazine to design, I didn't feel like working in six hours of watching freshmen shop. So ... maybe I'll bump into people around campus? I always feel weird when unintentional relationships based on short-term proximity end. Do I stay in touch? I never really talked to anyone about anything notable anyway. What would we talk about now? Suddenly all this stuff I repeated over and over is gone from my head entirely and I'm 90% reabsorbed by The Daily.
Well, cest la vie.
Where is my boyfriend? I want him to come over so we can eat cake and watch Seinfeld. If only I didn't have this damn paper to put together ...