Author: courtneyholden

So I feel older today, in a good way. In a mature way. No, not  because my 26th  birthday passed three days ago, therefore officially settling me in my “late 20s.” And not because I now wake up to NPR instead of *N SNYC.

No, I feel more mature because of another recent event: My group of 15 friends ate out last night, and when it came time to count up the money thrown in to pay for our purchases, we not only met the total (which included 18 percent gratuity), we surpassed it BY OVER $10!

Amazing.

As my friend Adam pointed out last night, that’s the difference between eating out when you’re in high school and when you’re in your 20s.

The next step: Dividing the bill by the number of people sitting around the table. But I’ll save that for when I’m not still picking up pennies and nickels I find on the sidewalk.

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Today I’m holed up at Starbucks, diligently reading the articles for the feminism class I have in about an hour … sure, I had all of Thanksgiving break to do the readings … damn Harry Potter books.

Anyways, as I sit here in the atrium, the Christmas music hums through the speakers. I’m not sure if I’m ready yet for Old St. Nick and jingle  bells, but it is nice to see the cheer and generosity that spreads because of the season. A cute 13-ish year old wearing a merry, cherry red hat carries her baby sister. A young man holds the door open as he enters the cafe and two others exit. Friends chat nearby, one retaining his winter jacket to ward off a slight chill.

It’s beautiful.

And sure, sisters hold siblings, doors are held open and pals discuss their lives all throughout the year. Why is that in the days between Thanksgiving and Christmas we attribute it to the the season?

Hmm … just some thoughts.

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Hey friends. I wrote a new “fledge” (an essay, pondering, long thought, etc.) for Soulation the other day. If you have a spare second, I’d love for you to check it out. Here’s a link.

And please, please, let me know what you think.

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Ok, so I just went to the bathroom (I know, you don’t care, TMI, etc., but trust me it’s relevant to the story) and I looked in the mirror (Aha! I told you the bathroom thing was relevant) and saw a big smudge of black stuff on my teal shirt about 4 1/2 inches below my right armpit. I didn’t do any highly advanced analysis of said “black stuff,” but I’m pretty sure it was mascara. That’s the only ebony substance I’ve encountered thus far today… although since I don’t tar my driveway very often, I suppose black gooey substances don’t really play much of a role in my life at all …

So now, and by all means, send me a note if you know… How in the hell did I manage to get mascara under my armpit?!

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“By the time I’m your age,” the little blond, a middle-schooler, conversing with her gray-haired grandfather began, “I hope I’ve done everything I wanted to do.”
I’m trying to focus on my femininsm homework, but I’ve been eavesdropping, er, listening accidentally, as the two talk back and forth, equals, despite the 50-plus year age difference. He takes in what she says and offers wisdom amassed over the years; she responds enthusiastically, her youth apparent in her vitality, with questions and responses.

They’ve been talking about school and the future, the past and the war.

It’s a neat pairing. Her confidence is comes through in the mature way she speaks, her well-voiced opinions and advanced diction. His enjoyment is obvious in the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and his kind probing to hear more about her life.

Though I’m not a part of their conversation, it’s such an obvious reminder of how important time is. It’s a blatant display of how necessary it is to spend our days and hours and moments wisely, to invest them in people. Because as much as we learn about the world around us, what use is the information if we never share it?

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One of my close friends, Alana, is a fabulous cook. So last night, when we had a small collection of close friends over for games and gabbing, she brought a delectable apple tart.

We had settled down to play an eight person game, but  because there were 10 people playing, Mike and I were on a single team, as were Alana and David. Halfway through, we decided it was time for dessert. So, cutting slices for the gathered group, Alana handed be the first piece, a rather large section.

“This is pretty big,” she warned, handing me the plate.

“That’s alright,” I responded. “I’ll share with Mike.”

Taking the fork in hand, I delved into the slice. It was, as expected, delicious. One bite … two bites … five bites … As Mike shuffled around our cards and took our turn, I relished the sweetness of the crust coupled with the apples’ tang. With all but two small bites left, Mike snagged a crumb before I finished off the “pretty big” slice.

Our turn over, Mike was paying more attention to the piece of pie that he’d missed out on. Noting the now empty plate, he stood up, determined to get his own slice.

When he came back, a few minutes later, his plate empty except for a small dollop of  whipped cream, I asked, “Where’s your piece?”

“It’s all gone!” he said.

Ooops … “Er, sorry about that. Well, it was really good … Is that any consolation?”

“No,” he said. “It’s not.”

 

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