My brain feels like someone’s crushed it. Probably because I’ve spent the last six hours stuffing information into it and demanding that the information stays retained until at least Tuesday so I can pass an oceanography exam. At the same time I’m cursing Wegner and his ironic process theory—the more I politely request that my brain stops remembering Florida the more it laughs at me and pulls up memories that make me miss the sunshine and wonderful people. Seriously. I’ve been having dreams about Florida and the people in Florida for weeks. I think it’s my body subconsciously fighting against being subjected to such cold weather.
This morning as I was walking to the bus stop, pulling my jacket closer to my body and cringing at the seemingly uninhabitable temperatures [as well as the ungodly hour], I SWEAR every song that came on my iPod was some tropical, sunshine-infused, upbeat beach music. Slightly annoying…except that I think it’s the universe trying to make me feel happier. Or warmer. Or something.
Sweet kicks borrowed from my cousin who is currently on vacation. In FLORIDA. Jealous.
Seriously though, I feel like my brains’ not fully invested in this school thing. I go to class. I listen. I try to understand what I’m supposed to be learning. And then I get home and my notes are completely incomprehensible, adorned with song lyrics and clothing brands.
Or, even better, I don’t end up with any notes at all.
I blame Jace for this one.
Can I just retire from school? Ha.
Last night I took a break from my usually thrilling routine of school-library-sleep (repeat) and went to a basketball game with my roommates. I'll be honest, I'm not really into sports. Usually because I watch them on TV and I get annoyed by how quickly the camera angles switch, making it impossible for the untrained sports watcher to discern what exactly is going on.
Watching a game in real life is a different story. I like being able to decide what player I want to watch, even if he doesn’t have the ball. I like being able to choose if I want to watch the replay on the huge screen or continue watching the game. TV’s don’t really give you that choice.
Being surrounded by hundreds of die-hard fans also makes a huge difference. Their excitement is infectious. Between the tireless screams, the vigor and enthusiasm with which they sing the fight song (even when it's repeated every five minutes) and their obvious devotion to their school and their team, it’s hard not to get all caught up and excited. Somewhere in all the noise—the band playing, the crowd cheering, and the upbeat, ten-second clips of popular songs—the excitement gets to me. I find myself standing precariously on the unstable bleachers shouting and applauding and jumping up and down, acting as though a three point shot has personally changed my life for the better.
It was clearly a BYU game, as made evident by the signs saying "get nasty in the appropriate way", the fan yelling that the ref's call was "bullcrap", and the perfectly orchestrated flash mob. Don't get me wrong, flash mobs are entertaining, but I fail to see how it's any different from being in a real live High School Musical. [Sorry if I’ve offended your passion for flash mobs, guys. Just sayin’.]
I love watching people as their faces flash across the jumbotron—innocent people who are blissfully unaware until one member of the group notices their chance at being famous and starts excitedly screaming and smacking the people around them. The whole group then stands there waving and pointing stupidly at themselves on the screen for half a second until the camera cuts to the next group of people, starting the whole process over again. The best part of the night was when the "Flex Cam" was panning around for someone to show off their muscles. After scanning the crowd for just one person who was willing to indulge them, they reached a seven or eight year old who eagerly ripped off his shirt and started flexing his scrawny little arms and his non-existent abs with all the energy in his tiny little body. I may have nearly passed out laughing, and he may have gotten the most cheers of the night.
My roommates, not on the flex cam
I have a love-hate relationship with the people that yell out commands to the players all the way from the nosebleed section of the stands. As though there's some possible way that the players can hear what you're saying, and assuming that even if they COULD hear you, they would listen to you. Um, really? Ha. But I love the vehemence with which they yell. You tell ‘em, man. You tell ‘em.
After the game was the ritualistic flood of hundreds of cars waiting to exit the parking lot. We took advantage of the long waiting period by turning up music about fifteen times louder than necessary, doing the whole awkwardly-dance-while-being-seatbelted thing, having conversations with strangers in the other stopped cars, and threatening to do something heinous to the car that was throwing pedometers at us (only in Utah…). I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard or so long at things that wouldn’t be funny to anyone else—things that probably weren’t even funny at the time. I was just completely thrilled to be there, to be having fun, to be living again. Sitting in the back seat looking like an idiot has never been so wonderful. It was one of those times that I feel like I’ll remember forever. Where time freezes and where the lightheartedness, the rapture, and the pain in my stomach from laughing so hard seem immortalized—like I can actually be happy forever.
I love being happy. Love.
[Title from my new favorite song, Say You Like Me by We the Kings]