Woops. I was going to write "The Dangers of Writing" but then I almost fell off the exercise ball we use as a chair and accidentally pressed enter.

I was going to write about a short story I'm working on, but I've decided to comment on my weekend instead.

The roommates and I hit up the Holi Festival of Colors on Saturday, like everyone else who's at BYU. Apparently the Hindu temple in Spanish Fork does this every year, and it's one of the biggest celebrations of its kind (Yes! One sentence, two correct uses of it with an s!). Basically, it's thousands of white kids who don't even know what Hare Krishna means chanting it at the top of their lungs and throwing colored powder in the air. It's rather enjoyable.

Well, I'm going to cut this short since I need to get working on some Arabic. Goodness knows I could use a little discipline when it comes to "homework time."

The Dangers of

Layover

An airport terminal is a fascinating place. So many worlds collide, and yet rarely do these worlds leave a mark on each other: people walk quickly past each other, oblivious to the lives brushing against them with their tensed shoulders. There is an unavoidable disconnectedness, a sort of mortal limbo. No one is where he wants to be yet—he is in transition, whether this is a layover on his way to Mexico City or the place where he’ll pick up his checked baggage and walk out into Denver, Colorado.

A woman in a pink tracksuit hurries her little boy along, not even glancing at the skinny young man standing alone in khakis and an argyle sweater-vest. He has the sort of hairstyle that might have been popular in my sophomore year of high school, and He looks too young to be carrying the official-looking briefcase in his left hand; then again, maybe I’m too young to be sitting in an airport terminal with a notebook, contemplating the lives of hundreds of people whom I will never meet.

Fair enough.

Airports don’t get the attention they deserve. Each terminal is a smorgasbord of humanity: toddlers and senior citizens, college students and college dropouts, businessmen and mid-thirties yoga instructors from Miami. They teem with life, with memories, with upset stomachs and walking sticks and lost luggage. Every pair of feet rushing by has walked in different places, and my hands itch to write their stories. But what right do I have to put myself in their path? I certainly never earned it. Then again, if I never put myself into others’ lives, how will I ever be able to form any relationships at all? One must be willing to risk a thousand forgettable encounters in order to experience the one that is meaningful.

Self-Evaluation

I have come to a sad realization.

There are three groups of people who I find most ridiculous:

Females, because they make everything much more complicated than it should be, and they're alarmingly shallow at times.

English majors, because they are insufferably pompous.

And freshmen. For obvious reasons.

And yes, you may have realized--I fall into all three of these categories. What a sad, sad day . . .

The Joys of BYU

I applied for exactly three schools last year: Princeton University, Yale University, and good ol' Brigham Young University. I received rejection letters from all but one.

At the time, that was the worst possible thing that could happen. Princeton was my first choice. It just seemed so perfect to me: great academics, beautiful campus, far away from home (no offense), tons of smart kids to meet, etc, etc. So when I found out that I had only been admitted to BYU, my fall-back school, I was little less than devastated.

Then I got here, and my mind has been completely changed. Sure, there are plenty of negative sides to being a 17 year-old at the Mormon-est college in the world. Heck, sometimes, I wonder what in the world I'm doing here. But to be completely honest, I am ridiculously happy that I had to come to this place. Here are some of the reasons why:

~ This really is a beautiful campus. Every building is different, and I especially love the JFSB. It's gorgeous.

~ There are approximately 17,000 male students are here. Enough said.

~ Many of my classes begin with a prayer. Although some people are, for some reason or another, opposed to this, I'm quite a fan.

~ I randomly see guys on unicycles at least once a week. This brings me great joy for no reason whatsoever.

~ My entire ward is less than a minute's walk from my apartment.

~ Everything I learn reinforces my testimony of Jesus Christ. Funny how people think being educated should do the opposite. . .

~ People are ridiculously creative about date and hang-out ideas. Some activities in which I have participated: late-night mini-golfing with broomstick handles, marshmallow gun capture-the-flag, making newspaper outfits and going to Wal-Mart, several adventures on the roof of my apartment building, throwing paper airplanes from the second floor of the student center, unforseen Latin dancing, epic Love Sac battles, and, just last night, I sat in a hot tub with some good friends sipping Martinelli's from fancy wine glasses. We even put the bottles in a bucket of ice (well, snow) for effect and tried to coerce other innocents into joining us.

~ The Cannon Center. Who says a cafeteria has to have terrible food? Seriously, that place is legit. And did I mention all-you-can-eat?

~ We actually have good sports teams. This is quite a new experience for me (no offense, Anoka), and it sure makes it a lot easier to have school spirit.

~ Well, I'm sure there are many other reasons, but I probably should get ready to go to work now.

Cleaning Check, End-of-Semester Style

I am eternally grateful for cleaning checks.

Don't get me wrong: I'm as predisposed to living in my own filth as the next college student. It really doesn't bother me too much.

But still - without cleaning checks, our apartment would be well on its way to conversion into a toxic waste facility. Though that would be kinda cool, I really don't think it would be considered "BYU-approved housing" anymore.

So every month the management posts that daunting little orange packet, and each roommate selects a page of chores as her own responsibility. The two options for the apartment-checker (I'm not exactly sure of her formal title . . . . We like to think of her as The Bringer of Doom) sit, typed in heavy font, at the bottom of the page: "Pass" or "Fail." At the beginning of the semester, the "Fail" option frightened us, and so we made it a point to accomplish every task on the list to ardent perfection.

Eventually we wizened up. Here at the end of the semester, our cleaning-check innocence long-lost, the night before cleaning checks usually finds us devoting ten precious minutes to wipe down our assigned areas with a wet towel, sweep a vacuum over the carpets, pull a broom over the floors, and pick up whatever clothes, books, and toxic waste clutter the floor. You wouldn't believe how cluttersome toxic waste is.

It's worked so far. The only negative comment I've gotten on my evaluation sheet was, "The blinds are a little dusty," with a cute little smiley face to make sure I wasn't offended by her flaming criticism of my blinds-dusting skills. And I worked so hard . . .

The Toilet Paper Famine

It's happened again - a toilet paper famine. Everyone's quite positive she was the last to buy, and in any case, no all-important TP graces either bathroom in our lovely BYU apartment.

Guys could get away with this a little more easily, for obvious reasons. With us, it's a little ridiculous. No one really mentions it, no one buys some more, and all the while that little post thing next to the toilet hangs empty and desolate. Poor little post thing.

I suppose I'll probably cave and buy some from the Creamery tonight, although I could survive a while longer on my secret emergency stash (You make think this a bit miserly, but I am quite sure most of the other girls have an SES as well, so no harm done). We'll see how things turn out.

And such is life in our little apartment at Brigham Young University. A little quirky, a little stressful, and an altogether lovely topic for a blog, don't you think?