Brown Spots

I've been thinking about what I would write in my next post for some time. More so I've been thinking about what I would leave out. Though a writer must always use his or her own judgement, in order for this account to be "honest" I don't think it should be a record of all the great and wonderful things that I get to experience. My purpose is to convey what is happening in my life, not a rose-colored version of what I want to say happened during my time in England. And so I give you the following:

The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence (or ocean in this case). Though the actual grass here truly is greener (we get a lot of rain), I have seen my share of brown spots. I've been hard-pressed, tried, pushed to my limit. I've made mistakes. A lot of mistakes. Expensive mistakes. I've seen my own inadequacies. I've bodged up papers. I've lost things - lots of things - including my favorite black beret, a new pair of earrings from Rome, and the cleanliness of my chino trousers. I've been terribly jealous. I've longed for my own room, kitchen, house. Some days I want to go home. Some days I want to live in London. Some days I want a cabin in the mountains. For the sake of documentation, explanation and sympathy I'll explain a few of my "humbler" moments.

Last week I had company. Last week I housed company. Housing company is against the rules. When I break rules I incur guilt. Guilt leads to confession of illegal activity. Illegal activity results in punishment. I have been punished. I am now broke (not really, but I'm significantly less wealthy). The other thing that happens when you break rules is that it often makes other people uncomfortable and brings about all kinds of tension, especially when any number of the parties involed fail to speak up and express how they feel. Needless to say I regret some poor choices.

There are students in my house that have what my Mom calls a "golden thread." Good things just happen to them. They find five pound notes on the street. British boys from expensive colleges invite them to four course meals. They plan trips to Prague for 30 pounds. They go to Ireland for the weekend. Their boyfriends send them flowers. They get discounts on their coffee because they're cute. Guys offer to buy their drinks. They get 10 pounds (that's $20) an hour for baby-sitting. The watch they want is magically on sale. And so on and so forth. Can I make a case for jealousy? Please?

I feel less and less cultured and more and more like I'm missing out on life the longer I'm here. Isn't that a bit backwards? I haven't gone to Paris, I won't make it to Scotland, I can't finish all the works of Jane Austen and C. S. Lewis and Tolkien and so on and so forth. I don't even know if I can finish my college courses in four years, much less handle grad school. My doors of opportunity close before I ever knew they were there. Sometimes life is just depressing.

Finally, I like attention. Probably too much. When I don't feel I'm connecting with anyone I start make desparate attempts to communicate. I send dozens of e-mails (sorry Ross), facebook messages (sorry again) and wallposts (Laura Beth). I seek out Skype and MSN victims alike (Brady). Usually this subsides pretty quickly, revealing my all too self-centered tendencies.

But fear not, these are only spots of brown. England has yet to be covered in plagues and despair (at least in this century). I still feed the ducks, walk through the meadows, run through the parks, pass by the spires and study in the largest library known to English-speakers everywhere. I may spend hours in a pathetic state, but I'm being pathetic in Oxford. Things could certainly be worse.