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| I don't consider myself a very handy person. I am always willing to try my hand at being "Handy Andy." But, truth be told, I am not very coordinated. For example, I stopped wearing glasses in high school because objects had a strange tendency to hit my head. I have been hit by baseballs, basketballs, soccer balls, footballs, frisbees, pillows, and almost everything else in between... So, imagine my confusion when I found myself replacing another person's tire today.
The cry for help came from a friend of mine who is an incoming first year student at my school. I met her through a friend of a friend, whom wanted me to show her around. She had a flat on her car and needed someone to help Now, placing aside my superhero complex, the strange thing about this is that I didn't volunteer out of the kindness out of my heart. I have never changed a tire in my life. And, there was a high probability that I would screw things up for her more if I tried. But, I couldn't pass up a chance on doing a little match-making of my own.
The girl has has an admirer in another one of my friends, whom is now a 2L. He met her in a way very different than I (they met in a bar), and he's sweet on her to the extent it makes me a little sick. He exhibits the classic signs of lovesick around her--leans into her when they talk, makes awful jokes, tries to be as helpful as possible, asks her to dinner, etc. So, naturally, when I volunteered to help, I thought of him. As soon as I could, I got on the phone with the guy. I told him to shut up and get his butt to school because his girl had a flat, and he needed to be at school to help her. I mean, what better way to win over the girl's heart than an act of heroism, right? (Even if that act is changing a tire)
The tire-changing was a minor disaster. From a third party perspective, it must have been quite funny watching three educated people try to lift the car and then realize that using the jack was a better idea. We kept confusing turning the bolts left from right, and there were clearly moments where serious bodily harm was imminent. Nevertheless, an hour later, we replaced her tire, said our goodbyes, and then watched her speed away.
For those who can't do, teach. And, for those who can't teach, set up their friends. I hope they end up together because it might be the most successful relationship I will have a hand in.
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| Once upon a time, I went to the University of Washington for undergrad. I was a political science and psychology major, and I spent most of my classes asleep in a crowded lecture hall. Back then, we called professors "Doctor Smith" or "Professor Jones"--never "Julie" or "James" for fear of committing an accidental slight. I actually kind of liked that power disparity. It was much easier to never tell a joke or share personal stories rather than always second guess whether my comments were appropriate. See e.g., "Comment to Professor About His Resemblance to 'Ross' on Friends"
In law school, the informal power disparity broke down a little. First year, we would almost always call professors by their title. Only in small classes or at the professor's insistence were we allowed to utter their first name. But, now, I face a challenge of the social proprietary kind. Now that I have graduated, what do I call them now?
Today, I ran into my old corporations professor in a coffee shop, and I didn't know what to do. When I panic, I pretend I am oblivious--but really, I am terrified inside. The situation was made even worse by the fact that the professor lives two very different lives. In the classroom he is dry, monotone, and never without a suit. But, outside the classroom, he is fond of brightly colored plaid shorts, high white socks, tight t-shirts, and presents himself more... like himself. At first, I had to stop myself from asking him a question about corporations... he was clearly off duty.
So, for now, I have avoided the strange problem of how to address professors, but I know I will have to deal with it one day.. Maybe on a day where the professor isn't wearing tight shorts.
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| Last night, out of nowhere, my friend Paul took it upon himself to find me a girl. "Andy, we are going to find you a girl" he said confidence. "And I am not going to let you say no." At first, I was taken aback by his declaration. I had just threatened to punch Paul in the throat unless he stopped whistling, so I was expecting something a lot less... kind from him. But, for some reason or another, pairing me off would be his new mission in life.
Strangely, friends like to set me up. In fact, I was recently set up with an extraordinary girl, whom is an absolute prize. Part of me likes think that friends try to set me up because they can't comprehend why I am single. I like to believe that when my friends look at me they think: "DAMN, where is his sweet, supermodel, genius girlfriend that happens to be the biggest Chelsea FC fan in the world?!" I imagine furrowed brows and dumbfounded looks. My singledom is the biggest riddle since "Who's in Grant's Tomb?" (No one, because Grant is buried in a sarcophagus) or "What's Black and White and Red All Over?" (a newspaper, dummy).
However, I am not so delusional to realize that the REAL reason my friends set me up is because I want to be with someone.
The Girls (a specific group--not the gender) laugh whenever I tell them about someone I am interested in dating. "Oh, OF COURSE you like her" they chime in with a smile. "What's her name again? We can't keep track anymore." Thus, it has become abundantly clear that I have become THAT guy... The love-sick puppy, almost desperate to find a girl. I may throw up from disgust, but they may be right.
I will never say this publicly, but I think it is reasonably likely that I will end up alone in a house with a quirky cat named "Marty" (after Marty McFly). Call it a mixture of self-esteem issues and sheer paranoia, or whatever complex psychology has come up with today. But it is a fear that I do harbor. I just have a hard time believing a woman will be crazy (or gullible) enough to marry me.
Let me tell you about my Uncle C. He is the only son of my maternal grandparents, and I bear a striking resemblance to his former youth. When he was my age, he was kind, smart, and well on his way to a lucrative career. (Starting to sound familiar?). When he was my age, he dated women off and on, but nothing ever came of his pursuits. I remember when my grandmother would bug him about marrying a "nice chinese girl" so she could have more grandchildren. But, his singledom was not his fault. My uncle was never a picky man. He had reasonable expectations in the women he dated, but none of them stuck around. (Today, we still speculate why he was single for so long. The prevailing theory is that he fell in love with a woman whom married another man... damn). Eventually, at age 42, he married my aunt, and I have a cute-as-a-button little cousin.
I don't want to be the guy that all the women pawn off on their friends because they would never date him. I don't want to be the poor love-sick bastard that holds up boom-boxes blasting love songs in a woman's yard (In fact, I am quite that such an act is illegal. Trespass in the Second Degree--knowing entry or unlawful remainder on another's premises). I just want a normal life
... and a cat named Marty. | | |
| Today, someone stole my friend's lunch out of the communal fridge at school. At my school, thievery of lunch is somewhat common. But, today, the lost lunch almost brought her to tears. I hate to see a girl cry.
Studying for exams can do funny things to a person's mental state. During a typical finals schedule, it is not uncommon to see people mumble to themselves, self-medicate with alcohol, or engage in other destructive behavior. For example, the other day, I walked into an automatic door (it didn't swing open fast enough for me). The mixture of high stress and the lack of free time can be a strain. But, finals weeks at my school are only 2 weeks. Imagine what two months of a finals-like schedule can do to a person...
So far, many of us are coping relatively well. The library is always busy and classmates always look tired. But, there mere fact that no one has had dissociative (look it up) is a testament of our mental toughness. As for me, the other day, a bar prep course administrator commented that I seemed strangely relaxed. "You're smiling, so you must not be worry too much" she commented. But, she was wrong. Inside I am a ball of stress that swings wildly between depression and anger over this test. People don't notice because I have become quite good at smiling and being friendly despite the stress. I still like to harass people in the library with awful jokes and take regular breaks because I need it. When it comes to studying, I can't be worried or stressed because I can't concentrate unless I'm somewhat relaxed. When I feel high pressure situations my mind goes blank and I will read pages and pages, while understanding nothing of what I had read.
So, if you see me smiling, don't be fooled. And, if you see my friend's lunch, please let her know :).
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"So you're going to eat a double cheeseburger, two hot dogs, salad, rice, and a cookie?".... "YES"
"You're not fun when you're studying for the bar. I'll see you in August"
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| Last Friday I was devastated--not because the U.S. was screwed out of a win in the world cup--but because the England tied with Algeria. It was a sad day for the Golden Generation of the Three Lions...
My friends call me a traitor, unpatriotic, and a Tory for supporting the England National Team. They shout and jeer while I cheer on my favorite team in the school's lounge. Part of me is hurt by their jeers, to the extent that I wear my Chelsea jersey to school instead of an England one. :) But, I don't care when they say because I love English soccer everyday of my life. Why should a competition that occurs every four years suddenly change who I love? Everyday, I log into several sports sites just to read up on the likes of Frank Lampard, Ashley Cole, and John Terry. I wear their jerseys, I watch their games. I am always there for my team, my players, through thick and thin. I was there when John Terry missed the penalty kick in the Champions League Final, handing victory to arch-rivals Manchester United. And, I was there when Chelsea raised the Premier League trophy despite an injury plagued 09-10 season. Hell, I'm even planning a trip to London next year just to see The Pensioners play at Stamford Bridge. So, in my mind, while I should (and do) support a ragtag crew that represents the my home country, I have every right to support a team that I love 12 months out of the year.
So, go ahead and criticize me if you'd like... just be ready for me to cheer on England, even if they do lose. | | |
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