I’ll spare you all the gory details, but this has not been my week. It’s been a train wreck of one little crisis after another, but they’ve either been a) resolved b) paid for or c) cleaned up, so no worries. Let it be said, though, that spilling a cup of coffee all over myself in the middle of my three hundred person lecture hall was not the way I imagined my Wednesday afternoon going.
It should also be mentioned that I’m in the death throes of finishing my aforementioned graduate school applications, and I’m set to give a presentation on Monday to my seminar class–alles auf Deutsch.
Hey, Rachel, haven’t you been speaking German for quite awhile now? Shouldn’t a fifteen-minute presentation on a topic you know well be pretty easy?
Shut it, voice of reason. All of this is to say that my usual brand of internal Rachel-bashing has been taken to new levels lately, and I’m well aware that I need to give myself a break now and then, and maybe even a little more often than that.
But, haven’t you ever wanted to change little things about yourself? Not in an “ohmygawsh I wish I looked like Kate Middleton and that I never ate too much Nutella or that I was as smart as Nate Silver and thought that cat videos were a waste of time” types of changes, but little things.
I would like to be slightly shorter. I blame my terrible posture on my amazonian height, and I would like to be able to wear heels without towering over the general population.
I would like to have an attention span longer than an hour. I tried to watch Love, Actually (because ’tis the season, amiright?) last weekend, and I fell asleep within a half an hour. I never recall anything that happens in the last 30 minutes of my lectures, and I get up and take a walk around the building every hour like clockwork when I’m at work so that I can concentrate again.
I wish that any math problem involving the numbers 3 or 7 did not seem impossible. Seriously. Any other numbers, and I’ll at least try to figure out the stupid answer without digging out the calculator on my phone. I have no answer for why this is, I just hate things like subtracting 37 from 100 or guestimating a 7% sales tax in my head more than any reasonable person ever should.
I would not mind if my feet did not smell. That is all.
I wish that dirty dishes bothered me. I feel like this statement deserves a disclaimer along the lines of “despite my mother’s best efforts and warnings that all of my future roommates were destined to hate me if I didn’t learn how to do dishes immediately using them,” I still resist washing dishes with the same level of determination that George Clooney avoids marriage.
I want to walk up stairs without getting winded. Run five miles? On it. Bike an hour to and from work? No sweat. Walk up a flight of stairs to get out of the U-Bahn? BRB, I’m dying.
And I will have you all know that I knocked a glass off of my desk whilst writing this post, and it shattered all over the floor. Thus. I declare this week over. I’m done. In other news, I woke up this morning and IT WAS SNOWING. Glorious.