This is my cat, Madeleine Albright, in her official sleeping position. She chivvies under my arm while I read my catalog, then sleeps there all night. She’s seven years old and only weighs about six pounds. And she’s spiteful. She gets me.
First, let me say this. I am having a hard time not being absurdly pissed off that I’m stuck in Texas while my sister, who I know for a factual fact does not care at all about Dave Barry, gets to go meet him, along with the rest of my family, even though he’s been my literary idol since I was seven, and she probably can’t even name three of his books. But plane tickets are expensive, so I will stay at home and keep doing such intellectually stimulating things as studying for a standardized test. Because I have to take one next week.
Why? Because my school orientation is next week, and they’ve determined that my ACT score, which was great, and my AP test scores, which were perfect, do not count since I took them in high school. Awesome, right? It’d be fine, but I’m starting to feel pretty nervous about the whole school thing. People keep telling me that I’m going to meet people who have the same passions as I do when I get to school. People like me. But I have a hard time believing it. Believing that I’m going to walk through the door, look around, and breathe a sigh of relief because I’m surrounded by people who will “get” me. Am I supposed to believe I’m going to show up and see people who bake artisinal bread wearing too much eyeliner and cycling shorts? That I’ll finally meet someone else who flips with equal appreciation between Mario Batali and the Daily Show? That there’ll be another person there who is simultaneously training for a marathon AND acknowledging the fact that if they were stranded on a desert island and someone offered them a case of nutritionally complete meal-replacement bars or a single Nestle Lion Bar they would pick the Lion Bar every time? Will there be other girls who take it EXTREMELY personally when a cake falls in the middle, but feel no sense of responsibility whatsoever to change the oil in their cars? People who can drink English Breakfast to pump themselves up for a night of slamming cheap beer? People who fall asleep EVERY SINGLE NIGHT with the King Arthur Flour catalog in their arms, but are equally intense about watching the Broncos each week. People who have worked as a Hooters girl, a construction project manager, a financial analyst, and found the only common thread between these jobs is that they have, at every workplace, “won” at potluck? Are they going to be like me?
My guess is that they’re not, although that could directly be attributed to the dark cloud that’s been hanging over my head at the thought of missing out on Dave Barry.
Okay, I have to go finish canning my tomatoes so I can get to kickboxing on time. And no, that’s not a joke.