My favorite conversations with people are ones that involve active imaginations and what-if scenarios. I got through ten hours of driving with nothing more than Lisa Loeb on the radio (though, admittedly, Matt and I both probably knew more words to this song than we should’ve and sort of harmonized at times) by talking about my ideal afterlife. I am a bitter, bitter agnostic. I say “bitter” due to the fact that I WANT my awesome afterlife. I feel as if I am entitled to it. I definitely don’t think it’s coming. But I covet it, something fierce. Anyway my afterlife deals primarily with a beach. Bipedal koalas in boater hats (who can also talk) serve me lemonade on little trays when I want it, and cut my grilled cheeses the proper, diagonal way. In my afterlife, I’d get to go to museums all day (which is kind of exactly like the days I have now) but I’d never have to deal with loud mouth-breathers who are attempting to see the entire museum in the span of 14 minutes and clammer over to where I’m viewing a painting and then breathe on me. In my afterlife, I would just be alongside other like-minded people who know better than to intrude upon the painting I’m at when we’re in a very empty room. Even though I sound very anti-social now, I’d also like to be the Social Coordinator of my afterlife. Everyone would probably have resting quarters that are summer camp-style. This means like dorm rooms or cabins, depending on the level of commitment. We could have like community dinners at long tables and different people are in charge of clean up each night! Like Girl Scout camp, but for adults. Every night I would organize a theme night. Mondays would be Wild Wild West. Tuesdays: Outer Space. Wednesdays: Under the Big Top. Things of that nature. I would also screen my favorite films and serve a lot of alcohol and there would be plentiful dance floors.
I can’t think of anyone I envy more than this girl:
A few days ago we were talking about what we imagined our exact opposite/worst significant other to be. I’ve finished mine: (I really hate sloth and lawyers):
A district attorney hailing from the deep south who owns snakes capable of eating small birds and general cute critters; a Thomas Kinkade* enthusiast who also enjoys Anime and owns live Sting albums (do they exist?); a person with pasty skin who shuns the outside unless it’s for a trip to Hooters or the shooting range; a person who uses the Bible as a moral code when it comes time to proselytize about women’s rights or sexual orientation but gladly dismisses this code when it comes time to focus upon himself. A person who will not dance, ever. A person who devotes more time to his WoW character than his Body Mass Index or his book list.
*Thomas Kinkade is like the best-selling artist of all time. He’s got “galleries” in malls throughout America that eagerly sell his hi-tech prints of kitschy Americana that are soulless, embarrassing, laden with heavenly pastel light and are pro-Republican. His works are extremely popular with evangelical Christians but it’s well known that he’s into ritual territory urination (aka MARKING things like a dog) and has admitted to groping women. Great taste, America.
On Sunday Matt had to work all day in order to finish things up for the deadline of his textbook. I decided to date myself on Sunday and took myself to the free exhibition of art from ancient Afghanistan at the Smithsonian. All of it was thought to be lost during their skirmishes with the Soviets in the 70s but some crafty museum higher-ups decided to hide the treasures in a vault under the presidential palace. It was uncovered in 2004. Seeing the Greek influence on art and metalwork that are 2,000 years old was just astounding. Try as I might, I cannot distance myself enough from present-day humanity even as I’m glimpsing jewels from the burial shrouds of a nomadic chieftain and his wife. This teenage boy with a left arm fused like a claw – he didn’t have fingers and the arm ended prematurely but he clutched onto his program with it, anyway. He had a tube in the middle of his throat and was able to utter short sentences to his father every time he exhaled. He drooled from the exertion of forming words but sure enough tried anyway. He hastily touched the glass enclosures and that was definitely enough to make those skittish guards go edgy. As soon as one approached him, they saw what was going on with this kid and they just let it go. They let him grapple onto the glass. He cared and he wasn’t apologetic about it. And I wanted to cry, a long and hideous cry, for the poor people like this kid who will probably be shunned but just don’t care. I love how his parents spoke to him and treated him. I love the grace that they had. I’m mad at myself for pitying them, as they didn’t command it. They didn’t even want it.
I walked around the entire National Gallery and it was much less crowded than last week, due to the fact that the weather is now much more pleasant. I went to the Native American museum and realized just how awfully we treated these people. I saw a red-winged blackbird outside in their garden and felt like it was a kindred spirit.
I went home and was treated to many kisses and then pizza. Matt is MUCH better at dating me than I am at dating myself.
