Nostalgia

Once upon a time, about eight years ago to be exact, I left home for college. I packed all of my worldly possessions into the back of a Ford F150 and drove the long 45 miles from home to what all the grown-ups in my life happily termed "the rest of my life." I left everything I knew behind me and, for a few days at least, wondered around this new place totally alone and despondent. The food was terrible, orientation was grueling and the heat was unforgivable for a small city in the northeast at the end of summer. My boyfriend at the time helped me move in, then left for the hallowed halls of Harvard, where I was sure he'd meet someone cuter and definitely smarter than I was (because Harvard rejected me, so in the end, I knew I wouldn't be good enough anymore). To make a long story short, I spent the last four months of 1996 totally miserable and mostly alone except for the two or three girls in my dorm that actually liked me. It was awful.

Most college graduates never have to go through an experience like the day you move into college again in their lives. Oh sure, moving out for good is tough (or so I've heard) and the first day at a new job always brings scary new "adventures" and people to go along with them. But nothing will ever equal the concoction of emotions churning in your stomach on your first day at college. Nothing, that is, unless it's the first day of college for a whole new class of students and you get to experience the adventure/disaster all over again from your office window.

I have both the misfortune and fortune to work at my alma mater, which I ordinarily love. I take classes for free and enjoy the somewhat laid-back attitude that surrounds academia. I meet incredibly interesting people and occasionally hear a famous person or two speak on campus.

But when the penultimate Tuesday in August rolls around, my job stinks more than cheese you leave in the refrigerator for a few months. The fun begins in the morning, trying to actually make it to my designating parking lot. Then, once I finally pull in (after sitting in traffic for quite some time because no one knows where they're going), I find that all the spaces are taken--a problem I've never really faced before because I pay to have a spot. Once I finally squeeze my car into a spot designed for a moped, I run to my office and turn on my computer about 30 minutes after I arrived on campus, completely sweaty and ready for some high-octane coffee.

Then the guilt sets in. From my window, I can see the lines of cars. SUVs, minivans and U-Hauls that stretch from stoplight to stoplight and probably beyond. Fathers already look stressed, daughters and sons part fearful, part annoyed. Moms are all overdressed for a hot day like today. These parents have come to my corner of the universe to say goodbye to their children. The last thing they need is these kinds of parking hassles. The last thing they need is attitude from employees like me.

Even though I try to focus on my work and block out the freshmen moving in across the campus, I can't keep my brain on task. I remember the afternoon that I moved in and all the fear comes rushing back: Do I really deserve to be here or did they need a short white girl from a small, rural area to complete their demographic? How long will it be until I fail out? Will I make friends or will people think I'm not smart enough to talk to? If something happens and I can't cut it here, will everyone in my high school and town--the people who were so excited when I chose this school--be the first to say I wasn't good enough for the place in the first place? And will the boyfriend find the rich, brainy girl his parents want for him in Cambridge? Will his life become so different from mine that somehow, someday, he just won't care about me anymore?

Looking back from eight years, I realize my worries were unfounded. But at the end of August 1996, I didn't know that I wouldn't fall on my face, that no one would laugh at me. I didn't know that I'd meet some of the nicest, most caring people in the world who have grown into my best adult friends. I didn't know that I'd eventually return here as a writer, making decent money for someone my age and working on a master's degree. I didn't know that I would be OK. Because when you're scared and frustrated and nervous (with very little hopeful in between) it's hard to ever imagine being OK again.

So when I look out my window on move-in days, the emotions overwhelm me--so much so that I want to run into the middle of the street and shout, "You'll be OK! You really will! That boyfriend? You'll miss him, but you're better off without him because, really, the 4.0 you earn won't be because you 'took classes like aerobics' and you know it. And you'll meet someone just like you who thinks you're a riot and won't care if you throw a hissy fit in her room at 2 a.m. because you're roommate is more hideous than human. You'll really, really be OK!"

(I didn't do it, though, because I didn't want to be hit by a bus.)

So as my day continues, the weird nostalgia/empathy continues. But it hits its peak when I walk to my car around 6 p.m. I've worked late because of the hectic morning and mothers and fathers are leaving their kids in the hands of a university whose president assured them earlier that their children would be well taken care of. And as I approach my car, wedged into the tight mopedesque spot, I see a scene that makes me bawl like a baby. (See, Bill, you're not the only one.) A first-year student steps out of a car with people I assume are his mother and father. He's standing with his roommate, but he grabs his mother in a bear hug that lasts longer than most 19-year-old boy-mother physical contact. She pats his back and lets him go. His dad grips him tightly, quickly, and releases him to the warm northeastern air. And he turns around so no one can see him, wiping his eyes discretely with his pinkies. He reminds me so much of myself, eight years ago, watching my parents leave me all alone in the city. My mom hugged me and barely let me go. My dad hugged me and they both got in the truck. I watched them leave, then turned around and discretely wiped the cascading tears from my bloodshot eyes.

The boys' parents left and he and his roommate made their way toward the university center for a bit of exploring (I'd assume) before their first floor meeting. When I passed him, I saw the fear and sadness--and a little bit of hope--in his eyes. I looked and him and thought "You'll be OK. I know you'll be OK. If I can do it, you can too."

Then I took out my phone and called my best friend from freshman year, and reminded her again of how glad I am that once upon a time (about eight years ago) our parents left us alone in the city, scared and frustrated and nervous. But we were OK.

Hmmm. Maybe it wasn't such a bad day after all.

It's All Greek to Me

Ah, the Olympics, that wonderful two-week international competition that finds us glued to our televisions each night cheering for our toned, tanned athletes to beat the pants off those enormous eastern European competitors with names like Sven and Svetlana. It doesn't matter to us that the competition occurred six hours earlier. No way. We're screaming in our living rooms, hoping that the guy in lane five (who you can barely see from the water showering from his backstroking arms) will kick the guy in lane six's ass. Hurrah for brotherhood, for international sportsmanship and, of course, the opportunity to really stick it to the French and Germans.

I love the Olympics and, throughout the next two weeks will probably watch more gymnastics and diving than baseball. (I know! It shocks me too!) But as I watch these extremely fit and mostly good-looking people compete, I'm plagued by an age-old question. No, it's not how female gymnasts tolerate those awful wedgies when they're prancing around on the balance beam. This is important--a conundrum that has confused countless humans since the beginning of time: Why in God's name do men have nipples?

You may laugh, but you've thought about it too! I know you have! Those male swimmers or drivers stand poised on the edge of the aptly named Olympic-size pool and as they reach their hands above their head and stick out their chests for their entry into the water, they throw those nipples in your face and suddenly, you fixate on them. It's like a car accident--you know you shouldn't stare because you're slowing traffic behind you, but you can't help it. You keep looking at the TV, hoping for the shot to change, but up and down the row of male swimmers it's nothing but nipples, nipples, nipples. Whaaaa!! Dear lord! Make it stop!

Now, men may argue that seeing a woman's nipples is some kind of religious experience tantamount to nirvana. In fact, they probably wouldn't mind seeing more female nip in the Olympics--might make for a more enjoyable two weeks for them, probably. But male nipples don't provide that same kind of entertainment for us girls. In fact, I always just wonder why they even exist. Here's some hot swimmer like Michael Phelps with a totally buff physique--huge shoulders and pecks that just don't stop--but he has these teeny little nipples interrupting that flow of flawless skin. They don't do anything. They just sit there. Insignificant and useless.

One has to wonder what God was thinking when he placed nipples on a man. Was it only to make male and female harmonious opposites of one another (as the Da Vinci Code people would argue)? Or was there some kind of plan for them that just went awry when Adam and Eve gave in to temptation. Were man and woman supposed to share the joy of nursing until Eve ate that stupid piece of fruit and was punished with "much pain in childbearing." Are broken nipples man's constant reminder that he could have provided free nourishment for his child if only he wouldn't have listened to his wife?

If you don't buy into the whole creation thing, then we're left with evolution as an explanation. Once upon a time, did man share the role of human baby bottle? Or, will man one day grow mammary glands and spontaneously develop the capacity to nurse his child while the mother (finally!) gets some sleep?

It's possible that male nipples have some use I just don't know of. Maybe they give a swimmer somewhere to hang his goggles if his hands are full. Or maybe, when connected to moles and freckles on a man's body, they create some kind of hieroglyph that translates into that person's life goal. ("Ah, John, your meaning of life looks like a remote control! Looks like you're just meant to be a couch potato.")

Whatever the male nipple's mysterious purpose (or lack thereof), I wish the Olympic cameras would focus less on the nipple shots and more in other regions (nudge nudge, wink wink). After all, we know what goes on below the Speedo and, as such, can spend less time thinking about its purpose and more time making fun of how small it is.

p.s.

Just one more thought about Neville, before I stop thinking about Harry Potter for a few months...

Neville has to be in Gryffindor for a reason. He gives all appearances of being wimpy and mild, but somewhere deep inside of him lies a bravery that the Sorting Hat had to see to place him in Gryffindor. (I thought about this when I watched the first movie last night.) We've already seen traces of it. In the first book, he tries to stop Harry, Ron and Hermione from leaving the common room and losing the house more points. His bravery really starts to shine through in Phoenix. He helps Ron, Ginny and Luna attack the Slytherins and escape from Umbridge's office. (I believe Ron even comments on Neville's aptly timed disarming charm). Later on, in the Ministry of Magic, Neville refuses to leave Harry. He helps him take on the Death Eaters, which took some serious courage (considering he had a bloody nose and couldn't even talk right). I think we can expect great things from Neville.

(Percy Weasley's also going to have a major impact before the series is finished. He turned traitor in Phoenix, choosing the Ministry over his family. What happens now that the Ministry has acknowledged Voldemort's return? Will Percy go back to the Burrow, or will he continue to doubt. I think he's the weak link in the family and could be easily persuaded or influenced by the Death Eaters.)

And that's enough of that. I'm reading "The Da Vinci Code" now, so maybe I can think about that for a while, instead of Harry.

I'm Just Wild About Harry…

When people used to make fun of me in elementary school and junior high for being, well, a total nerd, my parents always told me to ignore them and they'd just grow tired of me and leave me alone. Luckily I haven't had to employ the ol' "ignore them and they'll go away" technique with anything but flies since about 1995. But recently fellow blogger Bill has regressed about 16 years and started calling me names, attacking the very heart of my being by claiming that I'm obsessed with Harry Potter. Me! Obsessed! Can you imagine? Anyway, I tried ignoring him, but he didn't go away. So here's what I think: If he's going to give me a reputation as a Harry Potter fanatic, then I'm going to earn it. No more silence. Maybe I am obsessed. And if I am, what better place to get it out of my system then here? Go ahead and gloat, Bill. One day I'll get even.

Each time a new Harry Potter movie or book is released, I feel compelled to read the entire series. This might seem obsessive, but it really just makes good sense. It reminds me of what events happened in which book and I always pick up details I've missed the first few times around. With the release of "Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban" this summer, I once again read the whole series. This was my first time rereading the most recent book, "Order of the Phoenix," and I stumbled upon so many things I'd missed the first time through. Anyway, I also found myself deeply intrigued about the forthcoming "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" and, ultimately, the end of the series. I consider this kind of intrigue and sense or urgency about the series a testament to J.K. Rowling's writing ability. She creates a world with people I love, people I hate, places I long to explore and situations I can hardly fathom. As I read the books, I can see myself so much in the characters (one in particular) that I can almost hear the conversation at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, or the explosions issuing from misfiring wands in the DA. As a would-be writer, I admire Rowling's ability to create a world filled with fantastical people and events that is still somehow believable. She's mastered the trade. And she has a whole new life to show for it.

That being said, Phoenix left me with theories and questions that PERHAPS I've spent too much time dwelling on. But really, everyone I know who has read the books has their theories (even "normal," "bland" Bill). These aren't just for kids. Admit it. You love them too. And you've got questions, just like me. Here are mine.

(For those of you who haven't gotten around to reading "Order of the Phoenix" yet, I'd scram now and come back after you finish it.)

* Rowling announced the title of the sixth book about a month ago. On her official Web site, she said outright that the Half-Blood Prince (HBP) is neither Harry nor Voldemort, that HBP could have been the title for the "Chamber of Secrets" and that many clues to HBP can be found in Chamber. To me, that indicates that the half-blood prince has to be someone we've met already. Loads of people say it's Neville, but as we learn in Phoenix, Neville is a pureblood wizard. (It's in the chapter, "The Only One He Ever Feared," I believe.) Where does that leave us? The characters we meet in Chamber are Gilderoy Lockhart (now wacko in St. Mungos), Dobby the house elf, Mr. Weasley and Aragog--that huge spider. (There are probably more, I just can't think of them.) Could it be Hagrid, who is half wizard, half giant? Is Rowling just being clever by saying it's not Voldemort but it's really Tom Marvolo (the human Voldemort once was)? Could it be Malfoy, who is so proud of his pure-bloodedness? Did Narcissa mess around with a Muggle and conceive Draco, making him really a half-blood? Is it Dumbledore himself?

Although I'm desperately trying not to reread Chamber to glean any clues I might have missed, the relation between Chamber and HBP is really driving me mad. When you think about it, the battle scene between Harry and the basilisk could be interpreted as a foreshadowing of the great battle between himself and Voldemort years later. Is the fact that Harry pulls Godrick Gryffindor's sword out of the Sorting Hat a vital clue? Does it imply that Harry is a distant relative of Gryffindor and that, in battling the basilisk with it, he's imitating the battle between the school's original founders? Voldemort, after all, IS the heir of Slytherin. Is Harry the heir of Gryffindor? Or is it merely the battle of bravery over cunning.

Rowling also noted that the first chapter of HBP was her original opening chapter for Sorcerer's Stone. How can that possibly work? I'm beyond drawing conclusions about this. It's literally giving me a headache.

* The prophecy Dumbledore relates to Harry has also been weighing heavily on my mind. "The one who can defeat the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month wanes" (or something like that). Basically Harry learns that it could have been he or Neville (hmm...) and that by coming after him, Voldemort marked Harry as his equal. In the end, Harry will either kill or be killed (or, as he puts it "be murderer or victim"). It has to be to fulfill the prophecy. This is obviously cut and dried--it will come down to the great battle between good and evil. But what's Neville's role. Is he just a screw up, or is he as important as Harry in this scenario. Will Neville become a major player in the end of the second war? I already think it's important that Harry was helping Neville out of the Death Room in the Ministry of Magic when the prophecy broke, thereby eliminating the possibility that Voldemort could ever hear it. I also think the fact that Bellatrix Lustrange tortured the Longbottom's to lunacy is important, given Bellatrix's near escape (with Voldemort) in Phoenix. Both Harry and Neville know that the people who killed/almost killed their parents are out there, trying to hurt more innocent people. It makes sense for Neville to step up and become a vital part of the Order of the Phoenix. (Harry even notes how Neville's aptitude for Defense Against the Dark Arts improved dramatically before Umbridge ended the DA.)

* Can Sirius Black really be dead? And what's with that curtain in the Death Room. Luna Lovegood says, "They're not really gone, you know. You heard them whispering just behind the curtain." What's that mean? Can they come back? Every character keeps reinforcing that Sirius is gone, never coming back. I sure hope all those characters are wrong.

* Ron, Hermione and Harry pick their career paths in HBP. What will they do? I see Hermione teaching. Ron seems to be struggling to find something he's good at, and I think he'll come into his own in HBP. He's on the path to being a great Keeper, but really, he won't have what it takes to play professionally. And if Harry lives, he'll be the next (and much more permanent) Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. (He wants to be an auror, but I don't think he'll get the OWLS he needs in potions to do it.)

* When will Ron wake up and realize that Hermione's desperately in love with him. Honestly. Men are so stupid.

* Harry and Tonks? Harry and Ginny? Harry and some girl we haven't met yet?

Am I obsessed with Harry? Apparently so. But it's not unlike the obsession I used to experience when I finished a really great Shakespeare play (like The Winter's Tale or King Lear). It makes me think, gets my literary studies gears rolling and working again. As for all the answers to my questions, I guess I'll just have to wait until Rowling decides to give them to all of us.

August Is the Cruelest Month

Somewhere the sun reflects off a pristine, white beach while delicate waves tease the shoreline. In the distance, a fisherman watches his line bob in the water and downs a cold brew from his Igloo cooler. The sky is blue; the weather is perfect. It's always endless summer there. Sadly, "there" is a photo on my desk, a photo that always reminds me that summer isn't endless where I am. And now that August is here, it hits me even harder. Summer won't last forever, and soon the only vestiges of warmth and sunshine I'll see are those captured forever by my Minolta Zoom 130.

I've always thought August is the cruelest month in my corner of the universe. True, the arrival of February sends me into a downward-spiral of depression every year, but August is worse. The back-to-school sales advertised on television and in the newspaper always remind me that fall is just around the corner. It may still be 90 degrees outside my window and kids might still be racing their bikes and heading to the local swimming pool, but soon (only too soon), the leaves will change color and fall to the ground. Brisk morning air will hit my face when I leave home in the morning and my car windshield will sport a thin layer of ice I'll have to nudge off. High school football games and homecoming queens usher in chilly nights and, before you know it, the snow starts to fly. August always reminds me that summer is almost over and winter--my own worst enemy--will be here before I know it.

I had so many things I wanted to accomplish this summer that I didn't. I didn't read all the books I wanted to; didn't finish refurbishing some old chairs that match my kitchen table; didn't lose 60 lbs, meet Mr. Right and run off to Vegas for a wild and crazy unSusie-type wedding. Instead, I took some naps on the back porch, spent some quality time with my family, lifted a lot of weights, ran a lot of miles and watched a lot of baseball. I know I should feel good that I at least did something, but I'm still disappointed. Summer is almost over and I have very little to show for it.

The optimist in me wakes up every morning and reminds my pessimist that summer is still here and I have plenty of time to enjoy it. There are still months before snow flies. But I can't help wishing that I could jump into the photo on my desk, take a swig from that fisherman's beer and enjoy the bright sun and lazy lapping of the waves without worrying about the end of summer. In the photo, summer never ends.