greasy haired tuesdays

Hello my name is Aimee and this is a real life adventure...

As I was crossing central this morning with a latte in my right hand and a toasty Chompie's bagel in the left, I found myself channeling urban chic Barbie. Well, if Barbie had greasy hair and was sporting the same pair of jeans for the third time this week. Nevertheless, the smell of my everything bagel put a bounce in my step.

Lately attending my PRM 402 class has become quite the challenge for many reasons. The first and most obvious being that it begins at 7:30 am downtown, meaning I must be out of my front door by 6:40 am to arrive on time (hence the perpetually greasy hair on Tuesdays). Secondly, the class subject is on statistics a subject I find extremely fascinating yet difficult to grasp. There is also the feeling of being on edge constantly. I feel if I react too quickly, or the wrong word is said tears will come streaming down my face immediately and with no warning. Could this be because I am nearing the end of the Twilight series and I cannot stand to know whether Bella gets her happy ending? Is it because I am over tired thus irrationally reacting to the smallest of gestures by my peers and professors? Am I harboring some feelings of hurt and regret that statistics happens to pull out of me? Despite the reason (we may never know) I was pleasantly surprised to find myself chugging cheerfully along to my lecture.

Of course, all happy stories must come to an end as mine did once Dr. Barry started in on qualitative vs. quantitative research. I looked around the room and realized I was the only person failing to nod in agreement or look enlightened, something I am thankful that Dr. Barry did not notice. Then it hit me; I may not be near as fashionable (or gorgeous) as the never-aging 60 year old but I had become the Barbie of 402. A deep fear settled in the pit of my stomach, and the bagel and cream cheese (the real Barbie would never be able to consume cream cheese) I had so anxiously snacked on was swirling around causing a wave a nausea to wash over me. Not only was I not understanding, but my semester long project was also looking like a lost, hopeless cause. Close to what I must have looked like in the third row from the back, sitting alone.

For the duration of class all I could think was, "Help! Someone get me back to Malibu!!!"