Saturday, December 3, 2011

My Day Brought to You by Metaphor

In an effort to make a rather low-key weekend blog-worthy and engaging...

My phone got left in Arizona about 15 minutes before we got to the airport. But, my mom who is as sweet as a Christmas sugar plum sent it right away and I got it three days later.  We were reunited like lovers separated by cruel fate who eventually raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph. Actually, I had only missed one call and two texts, so getting it was as anticlimatic as when you learn it's only Thursday when you thought it was Friday.

I wasn't really looking forward to the weekend because weekends are just like weekdays--full of homework. You see, a girl with a mission call is about as dateless as a cell phone is reception-less in the middle of the Sahara desert.

You know how in “Rocky” he prepares for the fight by punching sides of raw beef? Well, lately it has been as cold as that meat locker he was in. According to it was going to snow a lot last night, so I woke up on Saturday anticipating to look out the window and see the world blanketed in snow like a lasagna is blanketed in melted mozzarella. But instead, it looked like a lasagna made by a cheapskate cook on a diet who skimps on the cheese and only sprinkles some Parmesan a little on top. I think I'll trust like I do the boy who cried wolf.

Nevertheless, since the night before I had (unintentionally) practically carbo-loaded on pizza like Lance Armstrong does before the Tour de France, I wanted to go for a run. I stepped out from my 70-degree apartment into the 28-degree outdoors and it took my breath away as if an attractive man with a bouquet of flowers had unexpectedly knocked on my door.

Later I hit the library like a bird hits a glass window when it doesn't see it. I hit it like the gas pedal hits the floor of the car in a chase scene, but with the goal of staying there 5 hours instead of trying to get away like in a chase scene. I went to the Periodicals section because it's so quiet there and I like that. But, it's so quiet that if you just clear your throat or tear a page out of your notebook you feel like you stick out like a sore thumb among a bunch of normal thumbs and you wish you could just go unnoticed like the period after Dr. on a Dr. Pepper can.

When I cracked open my Human Disease text book I began reading this sentence; "Because the intrapleural pressure is subatmosphereic...." and the thought of my chronic disease final in one week made my brain hurt as much as your tongue hurts when you staple it to the wall.  The sheer volume of how much homework I had made my heart sink like when you find out that that attractive man at your door with the flowers is there for your roommate. But, the homework grew on me like E. Coli on a slice of Canadian beef at room temperature. I began to enjoy it and I sailed along in my studies gracefully like a boat on a smooth lake, exactly like a bowling ball wouldn't.

Three hours into studying, a nice boy sat at my table and after asking me about my intimidating chronic disease book asked for my number, like a boy in the Periodicles section at BYU would. We had never met, just like a pair of hummingbirds who had also never met.  I was expecting that about as much as you expect a surcharge at a surcharge-free ATM. Maybe there is a bar of reception in the Saraha desert now and then. Can you hear me now?

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