I am sitting in a booth in Clemons. I'm realizing that things are not looking up. It's not like I thought that they were looking up, or that they were going to start looking up pretty soon. But when the realization sweeps over me, intermingled with the coughs of my peers and the weird coffee sweat smells of my peers, I can't help but think, "Things are not looking up."
It all began when I started lying to myself. The lies were small, so tiny that I could whisper them into my palms then sort of rub my hands together until they disappeared. The first lies started when I woke up in the morning. My alarm would sound and I would roll my face on to my phone's screen and see 8 a.m. And I would whisper in the groggy early morning voice I use when talking to my alarm: "But Connelly. But Connelly's phone. It's really 7. It is!" And I would fall back asleep.
I am sitting in a booth in Clemons working on a group project. I think I am contributing. But I do not know for sure. Things are not looking up.
I am sitting in a booth in Clemons eating Munchkins. These are doughnut holes. "Ten of these are equivalent to half a doughnut." This lie goes hand in hand with the lie I tell myself at the gym. The one about 50 crunches improving the four-pack I thought I saw while lying down a few weeks ago. Just 50 crunches, boom, bam, and you're out, on with your day, fit and dare I say "cut." When I lie down on that mat, that ringworm-infested mat, I know that things are not looking up.
If you want me to describe what things look like when they are looking up, you need some sort of context to work with. I can give you that.
If things were looking up for me, my teeth would not feel fuzzy when I ran my tongue over them. My bangs would be pulled back instead of tickling my eyebrows. I would be chewing Double Bubble instead of this cheap stuff that makes my tongue blue. I would have run that half-marathon this weekend because I could have. I would have asked that former New York Times journalist I met this weekend for advice because I could have. If things were looking up, I would go home and wash the dishes that touch my faucet. Because I could, it really isn't that difficult.
Now you must know. You must know why I am relieved. I am sitting in a booth in Clemons and while things are not looking up, they certainly are not horrible. My mother would say something about starving children in Africa. I would respond with something inappropriate about said children's four-packs. "If I wanted to care about other people I've never met, I could."
I am sitting in a booth in Clemons. My group has left. We're going to finish our project tomorrow. After more than five hours together, we said without saying: Things are not looking up. We were laughing and juggling potential "transition" words and saying, "Why are we still eating these Munchkins?" and pondering the existence of a Munchkin fairy. I am relieved. My teeth can have plaque on them and my clothes can smell musty and my texts can go unanswered. Things are not looking up.
I don't like the view from down here.
Connelly's column runs weekly Thursdays. She can be reached at c.hardaway@cavalierdaily.com.
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