In conclusion

I made it back to the employment office yesterday. I have to admit that it wasn't quite as dreary the second time around. Describing it as some kind of governmental purgatory wasn't really fair, but then I knew that when I wrote it. While it still took an hour to have a two-minute paperwork task completed, the hour seemed to pass by much more quickly, without as much silence and sadness weighing upon those in the waiting room. Maybe this had to do with the presence of children in the room yesterday.

Across from my seat against the wall there was a sweet little girl who leaned contentedly against the stomach of her obese mother, unaware of the grotesque contrast between her small, innocent body and that of her mother's. Being trapped in a room with no color, cheap, inspirational posters, and employees who looked as sad as the clients apparently didn't cause her particular distress. A little boy with two perfect white teeth visible beneath his upper lip was a bit more energetic, more interested in leaving than staying. He wriggled on his mother's lap, slipped off of it, and tried to run away before her arm reached out and grabbed his blue jacket. When she caught him, she sat him on the chair next to her and looked at him for a long time. He gave her a kiss on the cheek with a lovely, childish smacking sound. She pointed to her other cheek, and he obliged her with the same. She proceeded to point to her forehead, eyebrow, chin, and nose, and each time his two teeth would disappear as his smile formed into pursed lips.

Both I and the woman next to me were rather mesmerized by these displays of affection, although I disdain having children within the next seven to eight years. Our mutual sigh caused us to look at each other and laugh, "He is so cute." As I looked at this woman for the first time, although we had been sitting together for about twenty minutes, I was surprised to find her rather pretty. Unlike most of those in the waiting room, her face was unlined by stress, hopelessness, and cigarette smoke. Her blue eyes were complimented by clear skin, good bone structure, and a small, pert nose. We fell into conversation with one another, initially complaining about the length of the wait, and the seeming indifferent sluggishness of the employees. She told me that she needed to get her paperwork quickly so that she could pick up her son at school on time. I asked her how old he was, and she said, "He's four. I have two other little boys. Would you like to see a picture?" They were standing in a row, drowning in winter coats, hats, gloves, boots, and snowpants in front of a snow-covered Christmas tree. "Yeah, I have three, but I just got fixed." I immediately thought of cat who could no longer have kittens--surely that was not what she meant. As she looked earnestly at me for a response, I realized that was precisely what she meant, and I said, "Oh, ok." Wishing to further explain herself, she said, "I've been with their dad for seven years," indirectly telling me that yes, they were all from the same father. "We got together when we was fourteen." I did some quick arithmetic: "So you're 21 now?" She nodded. I immediately decided to tell her nothing about myself, as I am 21 and notoriously inexperienced in all areas of adult life. I thought having a pina colada over Christmas break was daring; she has had three children.
A few moments later, my number came up on the digital display labeled, "Now serving," as if this was the deli at the local Giant food store. I introduced myself in a polite, professional manner to the tired man completing my paperwork, realizing that such an effort was pointless...futile, even. When he was finished, I took the paper and nodded to the blue-eyed woman as I stepped swiftly towards the door. "It was nice to meet you." I realized the absurdity of this statement when I remembered that I didn't know her name. She smiled and said goodbye. And as I started up my car, I hoped that she would be able to pick up her son on time, that she would get a job, that her boyfriend wasn't abusive, that her children would be well-educated, that they wouldn't have to visit the unemployment office.

Employment Office

Walking into a government office often feels something like entering purgatory. People sit quietly, staring, waiting, praying that their release will come quickly, although time is irrelevant in places like the DMV and the employment office. There is even a distinctive smell in these sorts of places. It's somewhere in between burning sulfur and Glade apple cinnamon. Though I have done my time in the DMV, at least until I have to get a new license, I had not yet paid my dues to the employment office until this past Friday.
I was not in need of basic job skills, unemployment benefits, or a degree from Ivy Tech, I just needed a simple bit of paperwork completed. I figured that I would stop by on my way to visit a friend, allowing about 45 minutes for bureaucratic piddling. Instead of dressing in jeans like a rational person, I chose to remain in my dress pants, sweater, and knee-length black coat, complete with heels for my little trip there. Upon opening the door, I immediately recognized that I had made a mistake. All 30 pairs of eyes belonging to individuals seated along the perimeter of the wall turned to look at me. They saw my clothes, the fresh middle-class appearance of my face. There is usually shame associated with visiting the employment office, and I felt embarrassed to invade the privacy of a group of individuals who were all in the same unfortunate situation. I took a number, and sat down next to a woman with a blonde mullet. The people sitting around me immediately felt silent, and I felt like a well-dressed alien. I couldn't make eye contact or conversation with anyone, so I contented myself by reading pamphlets on food stamps and job training.
This little piece of paper that I needed was apparently difficult to obtain, for I waited, and waited. Making myself feel invisible by burying myself in the pamphlets helped. The extreme tension in the muscles of my neck and shoulders left for the most part, and I felt somewhat comfortable in this particular level of purgatory. The people stopped staring eventually.
Unfortunately, I was not released from the employment office with the promise that I would not have to return. After the 45 minutes, the receptionist was still 5 people away from calling my number. I crumpled the piece of paper and realized that I would have to go through all of this again next week.

Where do they find these people?

I decided not to care about the Presidential race until primaries started. That is early enough. Beginning campaigns a year and a half before the election is every bit as annoying as Christmas in July. At any rate, I'm trying to be a conscientious voter by researching the candidates and keeping tabs on the process.
Now, there is a lot that I would like to say on this issue, and I might say it later. But let's be honest--it's now 12:45 a.m. and I have an 8 a.m. class that I plan to be functional for. I just need to express one simple thing before I can sleep: how in the world do these candidates round up warehouses of supporters? Do they just make a call? "Hi Mike, this is Hillary, I'm just wondering if you could get me 4,500 beaming fans by 7 p.m. at the Kellogg plant." Mike pulls a few strings, and soon Hillary is standing before a multitude, peddling her wares. She throws in some words like "change," "progress," "comeback," promises to work indefatigably for the good of the country, claims extensive (almost presidential) political experience, and these people explode, as if on cue, with unrestrained bursts of applause. (One wonders if she promised babysitters and snowshovellers if they would only come to her rally.)

But I'm being unfair. I don't hate Hillary, and if I'm honest, the other candidates aren't so different. It's mostly pandering and political sleight-of-hand. I just dislike the way that some people choose to swallow whole the absurd rhetoric of many of these candidates. How is it that people still actually choose to accept what politicians promise at face value? One would think that we have learned.

Rain in Indiana

At some point during my sophomore year, someone told me that Indianapolis was only bested by Seattle in high rates of seasonal depression cases, brought on by rain. Until then, I had never fully realized just how much rain fell in this already ugly state. There did seem to be many days of muddy shoes, wet pant legs, inside-out umbrellas, and hunched shoulders, but I guess I had never aggregated all of the days in order to conclude that I attended a college that regularly experienced a Midwest monsoon. Entire ponds would form in front of dorms and academic buildings; I would not be dry for nearly the entire day, despite 5 hours of class; and the worms that littered the sidewalks would experience untimely deaths, regardless of how gingerly one stepped.
Today was one of those rainy Indiana days, only, I did not know that it was going to be before I left my apartment. If I had, I would have brought my umbrella. Stupid. Stupid. You might think that I would have established a logical system whereby I might always have an umbrella handy. But no. Today was not only just another rainy Indiana day, it was also another Elizabeth-forgot-her-umbrella day. Even on days when I have no protection against the elements, not even a hood, I refuse to run, unless I'm with someone else. Running across campus by yourself looks foolish. If you were foolish enough to have forgotten proper gear, you should experience the consequences. And so I walked. Between the library and the dining commons, I knew that my hair was completely soaked, and my black ballet slippers were in a state of emergency. I moved more quickly to get inside to survey the damage. I imagined that the rain possibly made me look more attractive. After all, some of the best professions of love happen in the rain. Jane Eyre experienced it--so did Kiera Knightley in the most recent film version of Pride and Prejudice. Why couldn't I look as glamorous, rain dripping off of my eyelashes and chin?
What I saw when I finally got inside and scuttled into the bathroom, dear reader (I feel that this address is appropriate considering the above allusions), you have probably already guessed. I looked everything but glamorous, and quickly became embarrassed that a few boys had likely seen me. For goodness sakes, I don't even like girls to see me in such a state of aesthetic distress! I not only had mascara and eyeliner literally running down my face, my hair also looked like a Britney Spears wig--after she had jumped into a swimming pool in a state of drunkenness. Gathering my pride, a hair tie, and some Kleenex, I managed semi-botched tidying. Nothing was to be done about the wet clothes though. Heavy, wet jeans were to be my burden for the day.
And I think that I should end with that sentence, as I have realized how incredibly narcissistic and girly this is beginning to sound. Suffice to say that I am not a fan of rain. Especially rain that comes all the time, and goes sideways. And rain that makes you feel like a piece of soggy cereal.

Juno

Somewhere between feminine sentimentality and Borders I managed to imagine myself writing a blog. On Saturday night, I went to see Juno, and found myself wiping away the pool of tears that had settled into the crevice of my neck during the conclusion of the film. Good movies usually make me feel a sense of the sublime once they're finished; I breathe softly and regard my fellow movie-goers with a soft focus lens as we emerge from the dark theater. The most logical thing to do after such an experience is, of course, to visit a bookstore. On the walk there, I began to compose a few sentences in my head on the complexity of humanness that such a film inspires--composing as only pretentious college students who listen to Damien Rice and have no responsibility can. I sometimes engage in these mental exercises, when my brain isn't occupied by thoughts of lunch, the outfit I'm wearing, or how behind I am in my daily schedule. Wandering through the literature section at Borders only fed this reflective mood, (although I must admit that I took a break by reading a Conan O'Brien monologue in a book on one of those sale tables). I looked at novels by Fitzgerald, McCullers, Updike, and Alvarez, but bought none, as I seem not to have money for such things now. I thought about returning to my apartment to make an entry in my journal in Word, or write a poem in my notebook. But then, (and this, if you pay close attention, is the segue to the decision to blog), I was overcome with that irresistible, 21st century longing for semi-public self-exposure--hence, the blog.
Don't worry, I decided at the bookstore not to divulge anything truly juicy. I simply plan to jot down some observations, thoughts on life, and any brilliant sentences that come to me after watching good movies. Now, instead of wasting time on the internet looking at pictures of friends of friends of friends on Facebook, I will waste time on the internet on this blog. Goodie. Perhaps it will be slightly more fruitful than my Facebook experiences.* I look forward to many posts, both good and bad, read and unread. Hopefully I will not decide that somewhere in between masculine emotional cluelessness and busyness that I no longer want to write here.






*Gosh, don't people know that when you list "Friendship" on your profile, you actually mean that you are a nice single girl who isn't flirty or forward?