A Winter’s Night

After a tumultuous day (9:30 Latin and work until my 6PM radio show) I rushed to the library to print off over 50 pages of reading for two of my classes. Despite the fact that we have purchased text books, every class seems to think it necessary to drain our printing accounts. But that’s fine. In another of my classes, the assigned text, Paul De Man’s Blindness and Insight, is out of print. Despite being privy to this knowledge, the professor chose to leave the assigned reading days at the beginning of the semester, hardly giving us time to acquire the text. I had other things on my mind (i.e. my grandfather’s death) and therefore didn’t order the book as quickly as I should have (that day).

Upon realizing that I wouldn’t have my book in time and that a reading journal was due tomorrow on this text, I facebook messaged everyone in the class and finally got a kind soul to lend it to me. I was, however, the third person to ask her to borrow it, so I was forced to negotiate a time with a stranger to pick up the book. He decided that he would be finished with the reading at 11:30PM sharp and that I could not be early or late picking it up.

So I sit down and read 35 pages of Balzac’s “Adieu” with which I’m at the same time infatuated, horrified, and giddy to read from a feminist perspective. I finish that promptly at 11:20 and begin wrapping up to brave the elements. It is currently 16 degrees in KV (2 degrees with wind chill) and I didn’t think driving on these questionable roads would be wise, but that walking should be fine. This was silly. I began walking somewhat aimlessly to this stranger’s house to pick up this elusive book, wearing mittens and a scarf wrapped around my face, headphones as earmuffs, and trying to feel confident about my academic dedication. I arrive at the house and the book is shoved in my face accompanied by “Enjoy this psychotic reading,” promptly followed by a door slam.

I start walking back and the wind is now blowing in my face. My face reacts by crying uncontrollably. As I walk further I become acutely aware of the fact that I had forgotten to put tights on under my jeans. I couldn’t help but invoke the images from Balzac of the dedicated French braving the Russian snow in the name of their country. No, I wasn’t eating my own horse or making a raft and watching my countrymen die, but it was fucking cold! Nevertheless, I made it home where I enlisted kitty’s help thawing my thighs.



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