Single in the City 101 - An Introduction

Admitting to myself, and all of you lovely readers, that not only is SSG ready for a boyfriend but that she's willing to actually do something to maybe bump into him and you know, spill her guts on this here website about her feelings on whole process brings back two very distinct memories from college.  Both of which have nothing to do with dating; however, get repeated often when I'm around Spleen and Digs (my college roommates for you new peeps).  And um please pause for a moment to dig ON THAT proper usage of the semicolon.  What, what?!  English major in the hizzouse.

Which coincidentally brings me to item numero uno which we affectionately refer to as "space."

Space, a Thesis

For some INSANE reason, I took on an honors program at mah college.  I had to do some extra course work and then finish off my degree with a thesis.  A thesis that I had been "researching" for two years.  And by researching, I mean I picked a topic.  And then I read a bunch of stuff on it.  And then I realized that holy shitballs, I'm actually going to have to write this thing.

So my last semester in college, I stopped working, crammed a bunch of left over courses that I hadn't yet taken (Hello freshman of the 100 level Astronomy LAB!) and set off to write my thesis on "Aspects of Space in the Literature of Women in the Beat Generation."  And by space, SSG doesn't mean outer.  She means physical space like doors and windows, verandas and porches.  And for those of you familiar with Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady you may be wondering "were there women writers of the Beat Generation?"  And SSG assures you that YES, there were.  Otherwise she wasted a hell of a lot of paper.

So I thought, no problem.  I am ON THIS.  I waited until I felt passionately about something.  I defined what I wanted.  I did my research.  All that was waiting was for me to rock it.  So I started.  Over and over again.  I'd sit in coffee shops with Spleen and Digs, stare at the blank page for 20 minutes and then state strongly in the silence, as if to convince myself that I was on the cusp of genius.  I'd say out loud, only the following phrase: "SPACE."

And then we'd all start cracking up.

But nothing came.

It got less funny.  A larger question loomed. 

What if my preparation didn't matter?  What if what I spent all of this time waiting for, never came?

Are You Laughing at My Shot?

There were two pool tables in the bottom floor of our 11 story dorm.  For a small deposit you could shoot a few games (rounds?) and keep an eye out for the baseball hottie you had a major crush on (and by "you" of course I mean SSG).

SSG plays pool about as well as she plays every other sport.  So um, NOT WELL AT ALL.  I've said it before, and I'll say it again.  I've got about as much athletic prowess as Elton John ... maybe even less.  

So one evening Digs, Spleen and I were downstairs pretending to be sharks (though for the record those two ladies totally are).  I spent a lot of time bending over the table, setting up my shot as if I had some vague idea of what I was doing.  I drew my arm back, thrust it forward and missed the cue ball completely catching myself just in time before face planting onto the table.

Can we say HAWT?  Yes, I believe we can!

Digs and Spleen started cracking up.  To which I cried "are you laughing at my shot?!"  They looked up from some story they had been telling each other and said "what are you talking about?"

SSG:  I know you're laughing at me!  How did you not just see that?

Digs & Spleen:  WHAT are you talking about?!  We weren't even watching you!

***

And that's exactly how I'd describe the early stages of BW09.  It is so difficult to remember that there is no distinct time line.  And that no matter how conspicuous I feel now that I've made this shift, the world really isn't watching my every move.

The thesis did eventually come.  My pool game on the other hand?  Still very much waiting for that to make an appearance.