Anti-bibulous.

Thursday night, after a full day of working on my master's essay, and just after finding out that I'd been rejected by the University of Pennsylvania, I piled all of my things together and left to catch a ride with PH to practice. I'd forgotten about spring break, however, and found myself locked out of building where she works. I'd also managed to forget my cell phone, so I had no way of getting in touch with PH to let her know that I wasn't going to be able to meet her. I loitered around for a little while, hoping to catch her, and then trudged down the street to catch the bus.

I took the bus instead of the subway because I like the bus – it's warmer, and a nicer atmosphere – and I felt like giving myself a treat. The reason why I don't usually catch the bus is that I usually have to wait for it. This time, however, the bus came very quickly, before I was able to dig out my transpass. I put down the printed copy of my master's essay work to get it, and the wind promptly blew my paper into the street.

I stared after the paper, scudding across Broad Street, and barely kept down a temper tantrum. I have other copies of the paper, of course, but there was something cruel and sadly symbolic about having that particular copy blown out and run over.

Which was when someone came in and saved the day. "Oh my god!" yelled the bus driver, leaving the bus idling in the bus lane and hurling herself out of the door. "Your notes! Honey, get your notes!" I scrambled after the ones that had blown farthest into the intersection, and managed to snag them, while she ran around behind me. "My daughter had this happen the other day, and she was like 'Mom, my notes! I need my notes, Mom!'" She handed me her fistful of dirty paper and climbed back on board. I staggered on after her, feeling a little wobbly. "I'm in school," she told me as she closed the door. "I know how it is." The rest of the passengers sat, undisturbed by the delay; two ladies in the back continued their conversation about those btches at Pay/Half who do they think they are I know I am sick of that isht.

Before that happened, I was working myself up into a righteous gloom and doom attitude, sure that this rejection was indicative of a larger mediocrity on my part, sadly wondering (as I am wont) what purpose I have on the planet (mope whine sigh &c), but I couldn't maintain it in the face of such genuine goodness. It was driven home at the next stop, when someone who was not entirely there got on the bus and - unprompted - proceeded to tell the driver all about her three seventy year-old boyfriends. It's pretty amazing that someone can listen to diatribes about elderly lovers all day and still have room in her heart to catch some idiot student's runaway paper.

Back to the narrative: practice was indoors, and we worked on lifting, which is perhaps my favorite part of rugby. There's something about a) getting to go that high in the air, and b) lifting someone up over your head that is utterly awesome. Lisa is really focused on decision-making, which is a little scary for me. I think I want to remain a lifter, and let those other people do the thinking. I'm not sure what that says about me as a person/member of the body politic, but that's how it is.

I spent last night out at GG and CK's birthday party, which was loads of fun and entirely bad for me. I ate and drank a lot of things that do not fall under the auspices of my diet, and sang three karaoke songs that most certainly lost me respect in the eyes of my teammates. (I don't think there's anything better than a soulful duet of "Leather and Lace" with TLC, though.) I have a headache and a little bit of a hangover this morning, which is embarrassing and, sadly, no excuse for not doing work. I dragged myself out of bed at seven, and my master's essay is plodding along. It's based on a paper I've already written, which should mean that the writing is easier. But when have I made anything easier on myself? As my parents like to tell me, I live on stress. Thank heavens for grad school, I guess.