I'm disappointed in today's educational system. I was led to believe that if I worked hard, put in the effort, wrote the papers, took the tests and, all around, spilled my brains out on paper, I would be rewarded and all around me would have no doubt of my overwhelming intelligence. I was duped.
I have now been out of college for three years, out of the work force for two - and in that time I have yet to receive one report card, a certificate of achievement, a cord to wear around my neck at graduation, heck, I haven't even heard about a graduation - near as I can tell this stage of life just keeps going and going with no kind of accolades at all. What the heck was I working toward for the past twenty-five(ish) years?!
In fact, these days are now spent washing clothes that get dirty again, emptying the dishwasher that gets filled before I can turn around, cleaning floors that are perpetually dirty, changing diapers that always seem to be wet and grasping, in vain, for some way to prove to somebody, anybody, usually myself, that once upon a time I was regarded as a highly intelligent human being, complete with straight A's, a high ACT score and a title following my name at graduation. If only that mattered now.
Now I'm relegated to the knowledge that even though I'm spreading out a bedspread that I dried, against my better judgment, in our non-industrial-sized dryer, thus breaking said dryer and semi-melting said comforter, there really was once a time that I could kick the mean tail out of a calculus equation or two - heck, I could even write one smokin' book report.
Take that, world.
"And when the living creatures give glory and honor and thanks to Him who sits on the throne, to Him who lives forever and ever, the twenty-four elders will fall down before Him who sits on the throne, and will worship Him who lives forever and ever, and will cast their crowns before the throne, saying, 'Worthy are You, our Lord and our God, to receive glory and honor and power; for You created all things, and because of Your will they existed, and were created.'" - Revelation 4:9-11
04 May 2009
Oh So Glamorous
"I feel oh so glamorous, looking super fabulous"
If you don't recognize the above lyrics, it probably means you're not a thirteen year-old girl - so that's a good thing. I will have to admit, I have suffered every once in awhile from the guilty pleasure of imbibing in the toxic tonic that is tween pop - Ashley Tisdale, Miley Cyrus - I'm a closet Disney pop-star fan. Yes, I've DVR'd Hannah Montana, even repeats I've seen before. Yes, I've watched High School Musical . . . by choice . . . more than once.
However, this embarrassing self-revelation has nothing to do with the what I came here to tell you, except for the fact that due to my recent cosmetic enhancements I find myself belting lyrics to Ashley Tisdale tunes in my head (if you're singing in your head anyway, might as well sing it loud and sing it proud). What have I done to cause such a reveling in pre-teen glamour? I have painted my fingernails. Yes, for the first time since dressing as a rock star in third grade with red tips or participating in blue and silver spirit days in high school, I have a color on my nails other than clear (or French tips - which haven't even appeared on my nails in a good five years).
Now, it's not just having a hue on my fingertips that is so impressive, it's the particular shade that I'm sporting this morning that has added this extra zest of peppiness. You see, it's amazing how glamourous simple tasks, such as changing a diaper while wearing an oversized "I Heart New York" t-shirt and American flag boxers, can feel when decorated in jazzy pink. Yes, pink. For those who don't know me, pink is not exactly my signature color. I absolutely refused to wear it during my high school years and only recently have begun to branch out. In dressing my daughter in varying tints of the girly pigment, I have begun to open up a little more.
Thus, when I had to paint my nails to keep one from peeling painfully mid-nail, I allowed my dearest husband to select a shade. Pink, interestingly enough, was his color of choice. So, I embraced the dare, and here I sit, happily clacking away with nails that are much more bubbly than I (which, if they could talk, would probably interject a high-pitched squeal every now and again) and I, suprisingly, maybe, kind of, like it. Shh. Don't tell.
And, at least until the shade wears off, I will enjoy reaching to tickle my tiny bundle of joy with fingertips that match her p.j.'s - at least they're shiny.
If you don't recognize the above lyrics, it probably means you're not a thirteen year-old girl - so that's a good thing. I will have to admit, I have suffered every once in awhile from the guilty pleasure of imbibing in the toxic tonic that is tween pop - Ashley Tisdale, Miley Cyrus - I'm a closet Disney pop-star fan. Yes, I've DVR'd Hannah Montana, even repeats I've seen before. Yes, I've watched High School Musical . . . by choice . . . more than once.
However, this embarrassing self-revelation has nothing to do with the what I came here to tell you, except for the fact that due to my recent cosmetic enhancements I find myself belting lyrics to Ashley Tisdale tunes in my head (if you're singing in your head anyway, might as well sing it loud and sing it proud). What have I done to cause such a reveling in pre-teen glamour? I have painted my fingernails. Yes, for the first time since dressing as a rock star in third grade with red tips or participating in blue and silver spirit days in high school, I have a color on my nails other than clear (or French tips - which haven't even appeared on my nails in a good five years).
Now, it's not just having a hue on my fingertips that is so impressive, it's the particular shade that I'm sporting this morning that has added this extra zest of peppiness. You see, it's amazing how glamourous simple tasks, such as changing a diaper while wearing an oversized "I Heart New York" t-shirt and American flag boxers, can feel when decorated in jazzy pink. Yes, pink. For those who don't know me, pink is not exactly my signature color. I absolutely refused to wear it during my high school years and only recently have begun to branch out. In dressing my daughter in varying tints of the girly pigment, I have begun to open up a little more.
Thus, when I had to paint my nails to keep one from peeling painfully mid-nail, I allowed my dearest husband to select a shade. Pink, interestingly enough, was his color of choice. So, I embraced the dare, and here I sit, happily clacking away with nails that are much more bubbly than I (which, if they could talk, would probably interject a high-pitched squeal every now and again) and I, suprisingly, maybe, kind of, like it. Shh. Don't tell.
And, at least until the shade wears off, I will enjoy reaching to tickle my tiny bundle of joy with fingertips that match her p.j.'s - at least they're shiny.
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