Moose antler on my bedroom wall: check
Brush with journalism: check
Posse of famous authors, bullfighting scars, ambulance-driving experience, residence in various foreign countries: in progress
Saturday, July 30, 2011
The HemingWay
Moose antler on my bedroom wall: check
Brush with journalism: check
Posse of famous authors, bullfighting scars, ambulance-driving experience, residence in various foreign countries: in progress
Thursday, July 28, 2011
I Went Running Today
I went running today.
I know, I know. Who is this hacker writing on Holly's blog, and why is she so crazy?
But it's true. I went running today. It's all part of my master plan. You see, I've been really trying hard to work out every single day lately. I've actually been doing so for about a month now.
(Mainly because I want to have the cardio part covered in case of a zombie invasion)
My current workouts consist of following along with DVDs: Balance ball schtuff, Tae-Bo, Denise Austin's whywon'tthiswomanstopsmiling kickboxing, Gilad's epic beach aerobics, etc. I've done it all.
The thing, is, though, I can't exactly bring my workout tapes to Austria with me. I can't exactly bounce around throwing punches in my dorm room. I can't exactly squeeze a balance ball through customs.
So, I'm running. Because it requires nothing but pavement and shoes. (And a top and shorts, please.) I found a good running plan online, designed especially for beginners. It basically has you do intervals of running and walking, alternating, and then gradually decreases the amount of walking as the weeks go by.
I kicked off said plan at a local track today. My Mother the triathlete came with. She did a triathlon last Sunday, placed 82nd out of a thousand-something people, placed second in her age group for the swimming, and she came with. She biked 15 miles this morning, and she came with.
She then proceeded to lap me around the track multiple times, barely walking at all.
Maybe I should do the rest of my training without My Mother the Triathlete. I don't know if my ego can take it otherwise.
Just kidding.
What I'm not kidding about is how hard running is. I remembered hating it in 9th and 10th gym (the last time I ran a mile), but I thought it would be different now for some reason. I thought it would be romantic; I thought the pounding of my feet and the beating of my heart and the bass in my ipod would inspire me and propel me forward. Instead, I sweated and I panted and I walked more than I ran.
But I did run a half mile. Walked about a mile. And that's okay for me, a non-triathlete.
I'll keep trying.
I know, I know. Who is this hacker writing on Holly's blog, and why is she so crazy?
But it's true. I went running today. It's all part of my master plan. You see, I've been really trying hard to work out every single day lately. I've actually been doing so for about a month now.
(Mainly because I want to have the cardio part covered in case of a zombie invasion)
My current workouts consist of following along with DVDs: Balance ball schtuff, Tae-Bo, Denise Austin's whywon'tthiswomanstopsmiling kickboxing, Gilad's epic beach aerobics, etc. I've done it all.
The thing, is, though, I can't exactly bring my workout tapes to Austria with me. I can't exactly bounce around throwing punches in my dorm room. I can't exactly squeeze a balance ball through customs.
So, I'm running. Because it requires nothing but pavement and shoes. (And a top and shorts, please.) I found a good running plan online, designed especially for beginners. It basically has you do intervals of running and walking, alternating, and then gradually decreases the amount of walking as the weeks go by.
I kicked off said plan at a local track today. My Mother the triathlete came with. She did a triathlon last Sunday, placed 82nd out of a thousand-something people, placed second in her age group for the swimming, and she came with. She biked 15 miles this morning, and she came with.
She then proceeded to lap me around the track multiple times, barely walking at all.
Maybe I should do the rest of my training without My Mother the Triathlete. I don't know if my ego can take it otherwise.
Just kidding.
What I'm not kidding about is how hard running is. I remembered hating it in 9th and 10th gym (the last time I ran a mile), but I thought it would be different now for some reason. I thought it would be romantic; I thought the pounding of my feet and the beating of my heart and the bass in my ipod would inspire me and propel me forward. Instead, I sweated and I panted and I walked more than I ran.
But I did run a half mile. Walked about a mile. And that's okay for me, a non-triathlete.
I'll keep trying.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
A Novel in Eleven Parts
If I were to write a novel, in parts, detailing last Friday’s*** adventure , it would probably look something like this:
Part One:
In which Mother and I embark on an iconic road trip across Southeastern Minnesota. Prior to departure, I debate for 4 minutes over which book to choose for my third. First was Persuasion, second was a lighter read on loan from Mother, and third was eventually determined to be This Way for The Gas, Ladies and Gentlemen. It's important to have genre and tone balance amongst one's road trip book choices. And it's important to bring three books. You finish one, you spill a hot beverage on one, and you're still set.
Part Two:
In which I do not read one page, but instead feel the same excited thumping in my chest I felt ten years ago, when I last visited Pepin, Wisconsin***.
***A note on Pepin, Wisconsin: Laura Ingalls Wilder was born there. Hence the heart palpitations.
Part Three:
In which I discover that I am too tall for log cabin doorways, in which my excitement turns quickly into a lump in my throat that must surely be deep emotion at seeing (once again) the birthplace of one's childhood (and present) idol.
Part Four:
In which I force Mother to traipse through a local cemetery looking for Ingalls relations. Here will be a dramatic moment in which I think I spot something. I race towards a marker in the distance...(anticlimax begin) only to realize mid-Julie-Andrews-leap that the tombstone is much too glittering and grand and new to be what I'm looking for.
Part Five:
In which we break for pie. Literally. I had peanut butter, Mother had blueberry. Just guess who chose the tastier slice.
Part Six:
In which we visit the disappointing local Laura Ingalls Wilder museum. After several minutes of pawing through unconnected junk, I finally venture to ask the romance novel reader behind the counter if there's anything that actually belonged to a member of the Ingalls family. Pointing a scraggly finger, she says in a scraggly voice,*** "Two quilts at the bottom of that display case." We look, and there they are. One is rather plain (faded navy and white), but one is beautiful and green and yellow and patchy and looks as though it had been made out of little prairie dresses, all cut into pieces (which, of course, it probably had been). It belonged to either Laura or Rose, and it's strongly suspected that Caroline made it.
***Note: I did marvelous impressions of this lady and her voice all the way home, to much acclaim. Since I can't be with you now to repeat my performance, you will simply have to imagine it. Hint: The Nanny minus the funny plus about a thousand cigarettes plus some grey hairs minus enthusiasm plus bitterness at having to man a dusty old museum day after day. Plus annoyance (her romance novel looked riveting).
Part Seven:
In which Mother and I continue our journey, winding along the St. Croix through hippie towns and unincorporated towns and cult towns and unincorporated hippie cult towns.
Part Eight:
In which we arrive in Red Wing, Minnesota, and attend a production of The Sound of Music in the beautiful (yet stifling hot) Sheldon theater. The thing about seeing The Sound of Music live is that you can’t very well fast forward through the dreaded “Climb Every Mountain" Scene. Gosh, I hate that song. It’s very inspiring, the actress performed it beautifully, and yet, I was practically rolling around in the aisles covering my ears and humming. How I hate that song.
An entertaining part about the play was that at a few different points, Reverend Mother’s skirt (robe?) got caught on the edge of her chair as she stood. Both times I waited breathlessly (okay, okay, eagerly) for the chair to be dragged down with a deafening crash, but her skirt always pulled off just in time.
Overall, it was a good play. Maria was fantastic. The children were cute (although Friedrich wasn’t a creeper! Amelia, I know we’ve discussed this in the past, but the next time you watch The Sound of Music movie version, keep your eye on Friedrich. He’s always standing awkwardly close to Maria, and he’s always trying to edge even closer.).
Part Nine:
In which we exit the theater, sucking in deep, cool, buggy breaths of night air. As we walk along the sidewalk, an open-air Jeep rumbles past. Over the rumblings, just barely, we could hear the driver and the passenger singing “Do Re Mi” with gusto.
Part Ten:
In which we hurtle home through the dark in The Black Beast (as our van is affectionately known). In which I am reminded of how lit up and beautiful St. Paul is at night, and why when I was little I used to force myself to stay awake whenever we drove through on our way home from Christmas Programs or Grandpa's house. How wonderful everything is at night.
Part Eleven:
In which we arrive home, and Mother promptly uploads the day’s photographs to Facebook. In which I groan inwardly as I see her do this. In which I decide to suck it up and be a darling daughter and say nothing. We make fun of Reverend Mother instead.
***Note: I did indeed begin writing this post last Friday. Obviously it’s taken me a few days to conjure up the masterpiece you are now reading. Sorry.
***Note: (Before you search, I should tell you that there aren’t any stars above that refer you to this note. I needed to write one more, though.) I apologize for the tense changes in the above ‘masterpiece.’ Someday I’ll go through and correct them. But not tonight.
***Note: A final note: I don't call my Mother "Mother" in real life. "Ma" when we tour log cabins. "Mommy Dearest" in bookstores. "Mom" in public. But never "Mother."
Part One:
In which Mother and I embark on an iconic road trip across Southeastern Minnesota. Prior to departure, I debate for 4 minutes over which book to choose for my third. First was Persuasion, second was a lighter read on loan from Mother, and third was eventually determined to be This Way for The Gas, Ladies and Gentlemen. It's important to have genre and tone balance amongst one's road trip book choices. And it's important to bring three books. You finish one, you spill a hot beverage on one, and you're still set.
Part Two:
In which I do not read one page, but instead feel the same excited thumping in my chest I felt ten years ago, when I last visited Pepin, Wisconsin***.
***A note on Pepin, Wisconsin: Laura Ingalls Wilder was born there. Hence the heart palpitations.
Part Three:
In which I discover that I am too tall for log cabin doorways, in which my excitement turns quickly into a lump in my throat that must surely be deep emotion at seeing (once again) the birthplace of one's childhood (and present) idol.
Part Four:
In which I force Mother to traipse through a local cemetery looking for Ingalls relations. Here will be a dramatic moment in which I think I spot something. I race towards a marker in the distance...(anticlimax begin) only to realize mid-Julie-Andrews-leap that the tombstone is much too glittering and grand and new to be what I'm looking for.
Part Five:
In which we break for pie. Literally. I had peanut butter, Mother had blueberry. Just guess who chose the tastier slice.
Part Six:
In which we visit the disappointing local Laura Ingalls Wilder museum. After several minutes of pawing through unconnected junk, I finally venture to ask the romance novel reader behind the counter if there's anything that actually belonged to a member of the Ingalls family. Pointing a scraggly finger, she says in a scraggly voice,*** "Two quilts at the bottom of that display case." We look, and there they are. One is rather plain (faded navy and white), but one is beautiful and green and yellow and patchy and looks as though it had been made out of little prairie dresses, all cut into pieces (which, of course, it probably had been). It belonged to either Laura or Rose, and it's strongly suspected that Caroline made it.
***Note: I did marvelous impressions of this lady and her voice all the way home, to much acclaim. Since I can't be with you now to repeat my performance, you will simply have to imagine it. Hint: The Nanny minus the funny plus about a thousand cigarettes plus some grey hairs minus enthusiasm plus bitterness at having to man a dusty old museum day after day. Plus annoyance (her romance novel looked riveting).
Part Seven:
In which Mother and I continue our journey, winding along the St. Croix through hippie towns and unincorporated towns and cult towns and unincorporated hippie cult towns.
Part Eight:
In which we arrive in Red Wing, Minnesota, and attend a production of The Sound of Music in the beautiful (yet stifling hot) Sheldon theater. The thing about seeing The Sound of Music live is that you can’t very well fast forward through the dreaded “Climb Every Mountain" Scene. Gosh, I hate that song. It’s very inspiring, the actress performed it beautifully, and yet, I was practically rolling around in the aisles covering my ears and humming. How I hate that song.
An entertaining part about the play was that at a few different points, Reverend Mother’s skirt (robe?) got caught on the edge of her chair as she stood. Both times I waited breathlessly (okay, okay, eagerly) for the chair to be dragged down with a deafening crash, but her skirt always pulled off just in time.
Overall, it was a good play. Maria was fantastic. The children were cute (although Friedrich wasn’t a creeper! Amelia, I know we’ve discussed this in the past, but the next time you watch The Sound of Music movie version, keep your eye on Friedrich. He’s always standing awkwardly close to Maria, and he’s always trying to edge even closer.).
Part Nine:
In which we exit the theater, sucking in deep, cool, buggy breaths of night air. As we walk along the sidewalk, an open-air Jeep rumbles past. Over the rumblings, just barely, we could hear the driver and the passenger singing “Do Re Mi” with gusto.
Part Ten:
In which we hurtle home through the dark in The Black Beast (as our van is affectionately known). In which I am reminded of how lit up and beautiful St. Paul is at night, and why when I was little I used to force myself to stay awake whenever we drove through on our way home from Christmas Programs or Grandpa's house. How wonderful everything is at night.
Part Eleven:
In which we arrive home, and Mother promptly uploads the day’s photographs to Facebook. In which I groan inwardly as I see her do this. In which I decide to suck it up and be a darling daughter and say nothing. We make fun of Reverend Mother instead.
***Note: I did indeed begin writing this post last Friday. Obviously it’s taken me a few days to conjure up the masterpiece you are now reading. Sorry.
***Note: (Before you search, I should tell you that there aren’t any stars above that refer you to this note. I needed to write one more, though.) I apologize for the tense changes in the above ‘masterpiece.’ Someday I’ll go through and correct them. But not tonight.
***Note: A final note: I don't call my Mother "Mother" in real life. "Ma" when we tour log cabins. "Mommy Dearest" in bookstores. "Mom" in public. But never "Mother."
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
She Saves the Big News For Last
Finished the Sherman Alexie this morning. My goodness, I love that man. If you haven't read The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, you absolutely should. And then read some of Alexie's poetry. He's good at that, too.
I think I have a soft spot for Sherman Alexie because my American Lit. II professor knows him, and told the class a few funny stories about him. I'm constantly in awe of how connected academics are. Probably because they go to conventions and meet other academics. And discuss things academically. And read each other's academic essays. And then cite each other's essays in their own essays. And then go to more conferences to present their academically written, cited essays.
And then they probably go out for drinks.
Anyway, sticking to my summer tradition of alternating impressive books with 'fun' books, I began Jane Austen's Persuasion today. I'm not sure why I chose that particular Austen (actually, I know why: because Sandra Bullock's character talks about the book in The Lake House, a movie I'm not crazy about but have seen a few times recently. I like Sandra Bullock. Her Oscar win was a high point in my life.), but I'm enjoying it so far.
Austens definitely require thought. No daydreaming or multitasking with an Austen novel. If you skim through a paragraph, you should probably go back and read it properly, because that woman sure knew how to pack it in. Also, I always feel compelled to look up all the 'noted' words and phrases in the back of the book. Illuminating, but time-consuming.
And now for the "Big News:"
I feel compelled to tell you now (and have been feeling compelled for quite a while now) that I'm starting a separate travel blog beginning before I leave for Austria. And I may not come back (to Blogger, not to America. I have to come back to America. My books are here.). You see, I like Wordpress. A lot. Blasphemy, I know, but I think it looks crisper and more professional (and prettier) than Blogger. So my travel blog will be there, and if I decide I like it, I may stay with it even after I'm back in the States.
That being said, I'm not completely sure how this whole travel blog thing will go. The women I work with at one of my UMM jobs will be reading it (they first suggested I start it), my parents will be reading it, my sister, my friends, etc. I don't know if a larger audience will cause me to change the things I blog about. I mean, this blog is pretty much a journal. I really don't hold back here. Sure, I doll things up. I try to make my life sound interesting for you guys. I make everyday situations into weird off-poems. But basically, it's a journal. The other blog may be pared down a bit. It will still be me, but as my new audience will likely be more interested in the things I'm doing and seeing and learning than strange poems about street lamps and rants entitled "goodlordwhatamIgoingtodowithmylifeyouguys," I feel a paring down is necessary.
In a nutshell, I'm going over there. But I will likely come back and visit. Because I'll miss you guys and I'll miss my bad poetry and my Person of the Week and reading over the posts of a younger, less savvy me.
I'll be sure to post the link to the new blog as soon as I create it. I hope you'll stay in touch.
I think I have a soft spot for Sherman Alexie because my American Lit. II professor knows him, and told the class a few funny stories about him. I'm constantly in awe of how connected academics are. Probably because they go to conventions and meet other academics. And discuss things academically. And read each other's academic essays. And then cite each other's essays in their own essays. And then go to more conferences to present their academically written, cited essays.
And then they probably go out for drinks.
Anyway, sticking to my summer tradition of alternating impressive books with 'fun' books, I began Jane Austen's Persuasion today. I'm not sure why I chose that particular Austen (actually, I know why: because Sandra Bullock's character talks about the book in The Lake House, a movie I'm not crazy about but have seen a few times recently. I like Sandra Bullock. Her Oscar win was a high point in my life.), but I'm enjoying it so far.
Austens definitely require thought. No daydreaming or multitasking with an Austen novel. If you skim through a paragraph, you should probably go back and read it properly, because that woman sure knew how to pack it in. Also, I always feel compelled to look up all the 'noted' words and phrases in the back of the book. Illuminating, but time-consuming.
And now for the "Big News:"
I feel compelled to tell you now (and have been feeling compelled for quite a while now) that I'm starting a separate travel blog beginning before I leave for Austria. And I may not come back (to Blogger, not to America. I have to come back to America. My books are here.). You see, I like Wordpress. A lot. Blasphemy, I know, but I think it looks crisper and more professional (and prettier) than Blogger. So my travel blog will be there, and if I decide I like it, I may stay with it even after I'm back in the States.
That being said, I'm not completely sure how this whole travel blog thing will go. The women I work with at one of my UMM jobs will be reading it (they first suggested I start it), my parents will be reading it, my sister, my friends, etc. I don't know if a larger audience will cause me to change the things I blog about. I mean, this blog is pretty much a journal. I really don't hold back here. Sure, I doll things up. I try to make my life sound interesting for you guys. I make everyday situations into weird off-poems. But basically, it's a journal. The other blog may be pared down a bit. It will still be me, but as my new audience will likely be more interested in the things I'm doing and seeing and learning than strange poems about street lamps and rants entitled "goodlordwhatamIgoingtodowithmylifeyouguys," I feel a paring down is necessary.
In a nutshell, I'm going over there. But I will likely come back and visit. Because I'll miss you guys and I'll miss my bad poetry and my Person of the Week and reading over the posts of a younger, less savvy me.
I'll be sure to post the link to the new blog as soon as I create it. I hope you'll stay in touch.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Today
Today
I worked.
What else can I say about that?
Well, a lot. But I won't.
I basked in the finished Hemingway book
and I find that the crazygeniusbastard got me after all.
(You knew he would, didn't you?)
I paid my dues at the library.
$8.00 is the price of submerging in one book
and ignoring all others.
I've never felt quite so judged by a librarian before.
20 is clearly past the age when one can be grinned at by spectacled old matrons:
"Oh how sweet! She's a reader!"
Now I'm just a schmuck who can't bother to return things on time.
I had a dance party by myself.
And pulled a muscle in my shoulder.
By myself.
I watched The Illusionist.
Mostly because of Edward Norton. Sorry.
And I was a little bit disappointed.
It's so very promising: period piece, dramatic, good actors, magic.
But at the end of it I smiled because things turned out.
And then I frowned, because wouldn't it have been more interesting if they hadn't?
A little more suspense, a trickier plot, and 20 more minutes might have helped.
I want to watch The Prestige so I can compare.
Now I'm turning to my long-awaited Sherman Alexie (The Absolutely True Diary).
Isn't it funny that I've read 100 pages of it already? In less than 24 hours of sporadic spurts?
Darn that Hemingway.
Stay gold, everyone.
I worked.
What else can I say about that?
Well, a lot. But I won't.
I basked in the finished Hemingway book
and I find that the crazygeniusbastard got me after all.
(You knew he would, didn't you?)
I paid my dues at the library.
$8.00 is the price of submerging in one book
and ignoring all others.
I've never felt quite so judged by a librarian before.
20 is clearly past the age when one can be grinned at by spectacled old matrons:
"Oh how sweet! She's a reader!"
Now I'm just a schmuck who can't bother to return things on time.
I had a dance party by myself.
And pulled a muscle in my shoulder.
By myself.
I watched The Illusionist.
Mostly because of Edward Norton. Sorry.
And I was a little bit disappointed.
It's so very promising: period piece, dramatic, good actors, magic.
But at the end of it I smiled because things turned out.
And then I frowned, because wouldn't it have been more interesting if they hadn't?
A little more suspense, a trickier plot, and 20 more minutes might have helped.
I want to watch The Prestige so I can compare.
Now I'm turning to my long-awaited Sherman Alexie (The Absolutely True Diary).
Isn't it funny that I've read 100 pages of it already? In less than 24 hours of sporadic spurts?
Darn that Hemingway.
Stay gold, everyone.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
What Humidity Does to People
It's so humid outside that I almost left my car in the Target parking lot and swam home.
Luckily, my room is nice and cool (and CLEAN I might add (this is new)).
I've decided that I'm either going to finish For Whom The Bell Tolls tonight or die trying.
It's embarrassing that one book has taken me almost a month to complete.
I blame the heat.
Luckily, my room is nice and cool (and CLEAN I might add (this is new)).
I've decided that I'm either going to finish For Whom The Bell Tolls tonight or die trying.
It's embarrassing that one book has taken me almost a month to complete.
I blame the heat.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Important Parts of Last Night
Let me tell you about last night.
Last night was Harry Potter (oh boy, don't tell me you didn't see this one coming).
And it was magnificent.
I mean, there were parts that made me shudder and wonder to myself what the heck were the directors thinking I don't understand why they couldn't stay true to the book here why are they jumping off a cliff good Lord why is Snape clutching a corpse this is bordering on disturbing why didn't they show Percy's big entrance that was one of my favorite parts oh my gosh Ginny please go away you make me sick sometimes.
Or something along those lines.
But I think over all, the movie, just like the book, had the ending that it needed and deserved.
That's really the most important thing, right?
There were other important parts of last night, though.
Like the feeling of complete panic that swept through the theater when the 3D glasses weren't working and everything was blurry. I was literally almost in cardiac arrest when The Man Behind the Curtain finally adjusted the projector correctly and the trailers came into focus.
Like when the Weasley family was mourning Fred and everything was quiet until I began to hear sniffing sounds coming from all around me. The entire theater was crying. The man next to me was crying. The ladywiththemostobnoxiousvoicei'veeverheard behind me was crying (loudly). And I suddenly felt like laughing. Until Harry began his walk towards the Forbidden Forest. Then I stopped laughing and started sniffing myself. I actually fogged up my own 3D glasses and had to wipe them. Not being a glasses-wearer, that was a new experience for me.
Like taking pictures in the lobby of people dressed up as Patronuses and Veela and Freds with bandaged ears and two twin boys with hair sprayed red.
Like when my friend and I had to visit the facilities before the movie. We waited in line for about 10 minutes before we finally got stalls. I was just trying to calculate what my odds of catching an STD from the toilet seat were when I heard my friend yell to me (from across the lavatory): "Holly! We flush ourselves in!" The entire bathroom erupted in echoing, nerdtastic giggles.
Like after the movie, when I decided not to wait for Bea (the GPS) to 'acquire satellite.' I thought I could manage to get home by myself. A sort of deluded Harriet Tubman, I convinced myself that I could find my way North. Apparently, I couldn't. I ended up goodnessknowswhere at 3 in the morning making illegal uturns in quiet neighborhoods and pleading with Bea to help me. She eventually did. Then the problem became keeping myself awake.
Like when I sang every Beatles song I know (which is, forgive me, an awful lot of Beatles songs) at the top of my lungs in order to keep myself awake. I was so tired that my voice was scratchy and pathetic but I made it home okay nonetheless. The dogs were happy to see me.
Yes, it's over. Yes, I'll never see another Harry Potter movie in a theater (unless I go to see this one again, which, let's face it, is highly likely). Yes, before the movie started, I was dreading it starting a little bit. Everyone was. Harry Potter began when we were all young. People have waited for Hogwarts letters, people have waited for the next book, the next movie.
But the waiting is over. It's all here.
I have a Harry Potter book on my lap right now. The Prisoner of Azkaban, because it's my favorite. And I'm thinking about how different it is every time I read these books. How there's always something new. Not because the books have changed, but because I have. And I will.
And as long as there's still that, I don't think anything has ended at all.
Last night was Harry Potter (oh boy, don't tell me you didn't see this one coming).
And it was magnificent.
I mean, there were parts that made me shudder and wonder to myself what the heck were the directors thinking I don't understand why they couldn't stay true to the book here why are they jumping off a cliff good Lord why is Snape clutching a corpse this is bordering on disturbing why didn't they show Percy's big entrance that was one of my favorite parts oh my gosh Ginny please go away you make me sick sometimes.
Or something along those lines.
But I think over all, the movie, just like the book, had the ending that it needed and deserved.
That's really the most important thing, right?
There were other important parts of last night, though.
Like the feeling of complete panic that swept through the theater when the 3D glasses weren't working and everything was blurry. I was literally almost in cardiac arrest when The Man Behind the Curtain finally adjusted the projector correctly and the trailers came into focus.
Like when the Weasley family was mourning Fred and everything was quiet until I began to hear sniffing sounds coming from all around me. The entire theater was crying. The man next to me was crying. The ladywiththemostobnoxiousvoicei'veeverheard behind me was crying (loudly). And I suddenly felt like laughing. Until Harry began his walk towards the Forbidden Forest. Then I stopped laughing and started sniffing myself. I actually fogged up my own 3D glasses and had to wipe them. Not being a glasses-wearer, that was a new experience for me.
Like taking pictures in the lobby of people dressed up as Patronuses and Veela and Freds with bandaged ears and two twin boys with hair sprayed red.
Like when my friend and I had to visit the facilities before the movie. We waited in line for about 10 minutes before we finally got stalls. I was just trying to calculate what my odds of catching an STD from the toilet seat were when I heard my friend yell to me (from across the lavatory): "Holly! We flush ourselves in!" The entire bathroom erupted in echoing, nerdtastic giggles.
Like after the movie, when I decided not to wait for Bea (the GPS) to 'acquire satellite.' I thought I could manage to get home by myself. A sort of deluded Harriet Tubman, I convinced myself that I could find my way North. Apparently, I couldn't. I ended up goodnessknowswhere at 3 in the morning making illegal uturns in quiet neighborhoods and pleading with Bea to help me. She eventually did. Then the problem became keeping myself awake.
Like when I sang every Beatles song I know (which is, forgive me, an awful lot of Beatles songs) at the top of my lungs in order to keep myself awake. I was so tired that my voice was scratchy and pathetic but I made it home okay nonetheless. The dogs were happy to see me.
Yes, it's over. Yes, I'll never see another Harry Potter movie in a theater (unless I go to see this one again, which, let's face it, is highly likely). Yes, before the movie started, I was dreading it starting a little bit. Everyone was. Harry Potter began when we were all young. People have waited for Hogwarts letters, people have waited for the next book, the next movie.
But the waiting is over. It's all here.
I have a Harry Potter book on my lap right now. The Prisoner of Azkaban, because it's my favorite. And I'm thinking about how different it is every time I read these books. How there's always something new. Not because the books have changed, but because I have. And I will.
And as long as there's still that, I don't think anything has ended at all.
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