hypothesis about women

"Have you ever had a woman lecture you about privacy?" I asked.

"Yes," he said, and I wasn't surprised but I was disappointed because I wanted to give it to him.

Here's my current hypothesis:

Women have layers of privacy. You can toe the line at the first layer, and we might let you in. Then you can toe the line at the second layer. But you definitely may not barge in past where you're allowed. You may not toe the line at the fourth layer unless you've been allowed into the third layer. When you reach the point where we won't let you in, you stay out.

We feel horribly betrayed and violated when lines are crossed without our permission.

I think this is how we work.

So what does that mean? Umm...

Well first off, this explains why rape is such a horrible crime. It's barging all the way to the center without being allowed in at all.

But this doesn't just apply to sex or sexual things.

When I was pranked, I felt that same betrayed/violated feeling, but it wasn't very strong and I knew I deserved it anyway. But my roommate got really upset, even though it was my side of the closet that was emptied, not hers.

But he got into our room without permission. I had let him into that layer; she hadn't.

I think that's how it works...

it doesn't go there!

Right before lunch I went to the bathroom and before I unbuttoned my jeans, my pen flipped out of my pocket and landed in the toilet. I wasn't sure what to do but I had to act before it sank, so I grabbed some toilet paper, reached in, launched it out and let it drop on the floor. About then I realized the superfluity of the toilet paper.

I went down to lunch and my ID card wasn't in my pocket. I went back to my room to look for it but couldn't find it--but picked up the check I had to cash--and came back up just as the 11:50 lunch rush was starting. I got a note from the desk and waited in line.

Finally, we approached the door to Saga. I felt something in the back of my pants suppressed a sheepish smile. I knew where my ID card was. I had somehow flipped it out of my back pocket--my pockets are small and it often falls out when I use the bathroom--and flipped it into my pants while in the bathroom.

I cleared my dishes from the table but didn't feel anything in my pants. Had it fallen to my knees? Perhaps. I left the cafeteria and returned to the bathroom.

I locked the door and checked everywhere, but with no luck. The card must have fallen out my ankle. It must be lying on the floor somewhere in Saga.

I asked Steve when I went to dinner, but he hadn't seen it.

The check is still in my pocket.

how to love

The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.
G. K. Chesterton

The most important thing is to love God.

The next most important thing is to love people.

Love people because we are all made in the image and likeness of God, because we all have the same core human dignity, because we're all in this together.

Love those behind you, but love, too, those in front of you.

Though I command languages both human and angelic--if I speak without love, I am no more than a gong booming or a cymbal clashing.

And though I have the power of prophecy, to penetrate all mysteries and knowledge, and though I have all the faith necessary to move mountains--if I am without love, I am nothing.

Though I should give away to the poor all that I possess, and even give up my body to be burned--if I am without love, it will do me no good whatever.

Love, for God so loved. And how ought we love?

Love is always patient and kind.

Love is never jealous.

Love is not boastful or conceited.

It is never rude and never seeks its own advantage.

It does not take offense or store up grievances.

Love does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but finds its joy in the truth.

Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always endures whatever comes.

Love never comes to an end.

If love never comes to an end, then love, in this fallen world, must forgive. Love knows that the person is more important than the pride invested in the disagreement.

As it is, these remain: faith, hope, and love, the three of them.

And the greatest of them is love.

and yet, O Mole, I am afraid

fail

"Mary, you're such a woman," he said, and I apologized.

"I'm more of a shoulders girl myself."

First, I noticed the trash can full of soggy tissues, positioned next to his bed as if he might vomit into it. He sat up a little when I walked into the room and I sat down next to him on the bed. A roll of toilet paper lay on the other side of his pillow.

"What'd you bring?" he asked me.

I placed my palm on his forehead, holding his hair back. He was warm, but I didn't tell him I can't tell the difference between normal body heat and a fever.

"Ibuprofen," I told him and ran my hand through the rest of his hair.

I'd had to ask around to find the ibuprofen. I never have any because I never need any, but people ask me for it quite a bit and I'd like to be able to give them some. Maybe I should just buy a bottle next time I'm in town.

Another gut reaction surprised me. A few hours earlier, he told me he was sick and I felt that same protective instinct toward him that I felt toward my sleeping friend just two days ago. I was upset and ready to take the sinus infection from him and spend the day curled up in bed with a headache so he didn't have to.

I've felt this way toward my grandmother before she died, toward my uncle, toward my sisters, toward my family in general, but I want to know why I didn't have this gut reaction when the plague swept through my hall. Maybe because there were enough women-friends and boyfriends to take care of everyone and there wasn't much I could do--I don't have any drugs, I can't tell if you have a fever, and maybe it wasn't my place to help. All I have to offer is attention, physical contact, and generic "sleep well stay warm drink lots of water" sort of advice. Why didn't I at least want to help?

The answer to any question about a personality flaw or sinful habit is either "I'm afraid" or "I don't love strongly enough" or both (usually both), so I'm not going to analyze this any more than I have. I'll just take it as another reminder to work on love and courage.


Funny. Today Fr. Iuani's homily was about shouldering burdens for people. That's two homilies in a row that have been about what was already on my mind.

can't sleep

I was cramming for a current events quiz, something I have to do most Fridays around lunchtime, when I saw him. His hair, too long for his taste, was the color of Kalkaska sand, and it had been too long since he'd shaved the stubble from his chin and cheeks. His eyes were brown, his boots were tan, and his coat was desert camo. He adjusted the strap of his bag, an aberrant twilit blue, on his shoulder. I tilted my head and he reacted to my expression.

"Is everything alright?" I asked. "You look--"

He'd been up late writing a paper, then up later fighting the computer and rewriting the paper. Some of his strength was missing. He set his bag by the fireplace and covered it with a heap of beige, topping it off with his glasses. I thought briefly about moving them but couldn't think of a safer place. He asked me to wake him up at 12:40, then buried his face into the crotch of a couch and tucked his toes under the armrest.


I remember asking friends to wake me up. It's happened once or twice this year, but last year, it was chronic. I remember the first time I'd been up late with a paper. I asked Will to wake me up for a 10 o'clock, expecting to wake up at 9:45, and curled up in a chair in the EAR. He woke me up at 9:50 and I panicked. When I stepped out of the chair, I discovered my left foot to be asleep, through my calf and up into my thigh. I put my right shoe on and hobbled to class as quickly as I could, my left sock snagging on the concrete. That night I sprawled out on Amanda and Georgia's floor in Mac, my ears tuning in and out of the Cowboy Bebop playing on someone's computer. "I love how Mary's just so peacefully and angelically asleep," I heard Liv say.

"No," Will said, "she looks more like she's passed-out drunk asleep."


I ate quickly then sat in the chair next to my sleeping friend, clicking through the Washington Post. It was 12:30. I felt a jab in my ribs. I looked up. A red coat.

"I'm looking for something physical, something tangible," he said.

Jeff stole something and you think I have it, I thought.

"Can I have the Constitution reader?"

Facepalm. "I left it in my room," I said.

"There's still time before one."

"I have to wake Jeff up in 10 minutes."

"Ask Asa to wake him up."

I did. I wrapped up in my giant blue coat (and saw my roommate: "are you going back to Benzing?" I asked her, but she was headed to the library) and escorted my friend down the stairs and out the door. I left, but left my conscience on the chair. Something in me reached back.

A few steps outside I realized it was Friday and men are allowed in rooms after noon. I told him where the reader was, asked him to drop off my Latin book, checked my watch (12:36) and hurried to my watch. He was just waking up when I reached the couch.

My gut reaction surprised me. I felt like I had utterly betrayed him by leaving him alone while he slept. I felt like I should have been there making sure nothing disturbed him while he lay there allowing his strength to seep back into him. Apparently something had. I had failed.

I scrambled. "Go back to sleep," I told him. "You have five minutes."

He declined, yawned, and pulled himself up further.

All I could do was move out of his way when he walked around the table.