Raging, Ranting, Raving, and Rhapsodizing

Right now I'm working at a computer learning center. Part of what we do is send our instructors to company sites to train their employees, and typically the people who took the class fill out a little paper evaluation. Part of what I do is enter those evaluations into our system so we have them digitally. (This, ladies and gentleman, is what we call busy work).

We just sent 5 or 6 of our instructors to run some classes for Weld County School District (Weld County teachers were strongly recommended but not required to attend classes like Word, Outlook, and PowerPoint). As I've been entering the evaluations from this particular session, I've chiefly noticed two things:

1. Teachers make giant smiley faces in all the comment sections, as compared to everyone else who... well, don't.
2. Teachers make excellent and consistent smileys.

But there was one evaluation which stood out to me this morning. Iris (who identified herself as an English teacher, big surprise) felt led to pen a lengthy paragraph about the demise of education and the rise of technology in the little section marked "Comments/Suggestions to improve your experience?" I was baffled and moved by her (somewhat misdirected) eloquence, and sad that this little Microsoft Vista evaluation form, that probably only I will ever read, would be her only forum. So I have decided to share Iris' comments/suggestions with you all. Perhaps it will inspire you. Perhaps it will challenge you. And perhaps... it will make you laugh.

"I am sad that great literature and the newest technology are truly moving in opposite directions. We are now forever handcuffed to technology while the great foundations of our historical, literary, and artistic past continue to die protesting but quiet deaths. We have inherited fragmented education (thank you, technology!) where students no longer read complete novels but instead, they jump on spark notes... and text messaging continues to erode essay writing. There is a price tag..."

I just don't know what else I can add to this. I was so surprised to find such lofty language and such passionate expression in so simple (and, it could be argued, inappropriate) a setting that much of its seriousness was diluted by the sheer random humor of it.

Wildly emotive comments? Spontaneous, dramatic suggestions? Do share.

I started a new pack of birth control today. Maybe you didn't want to know that, but let me explain. 1 pack is 4 weeks long, exactly 28 days. It struck me as I was staring at the neat little rows of round yellow pills that I would be taking the last few pills in South Carolina.

Let me walk you through the unfolding of the event which I have been simultaneously dreading and eagerly anticipating. You follow the first row, day by day, to pills 4 and 5 (thursday and friday), when Stephen and I will be camping in Aspen to see Ben Harper and Nickel Creek in concert. We planned this months ago.

Jump down to the second row and follow the little pills all the way to the end. Second to the last pill (September 8th) is my 22nd birthday. 3 months ago I insisted that we stay here AT LEAST until I had celebrated my birthday with my family. Sunday my parents are throwing a going-away party for us and my dad is frantically trying to finish a painting project he's been working on nonchalantly for a long time.

Next row. Pill number 3 is my last day at work. Pills 4-7 I'll be cleaning and packing and crying. Sunday I'm singing on the worship team for the very last time at the church I've been in since I was 10 years old.

And now, the last row. Pill number 2 is Stephen's last day. Third pill in this row is moving day. My dad and sister are going to spend pills 3-5 driving down to our new house with us and helping us get settled. By the last two pills of this pack, I'll be living in South Carolina. If we could jump to the next pack, we'd see Amy and my Dad flying back home on the second pill, and me being in transition for 26 more pills.

Since the move is imminent, I decided yesterday to tell the other receptionist who runs the desk with me (Sandi), and my manager. They'll need time to replace me and I just couldn't hold it in anymore. I really enjoy the other receptionist and felt guilty not telling her. We have a lot of fun together.

This morning I came in and within half an hour 4 people asked me about moving. I never asked Sandi to keep it quiet- I always assume pople understand my need for privacy and operate on the same standards, but people never do. Sandi is outgoing and loves to talk and is really sad to see me go, and I think she talked toeveryone in our office about it.

All day people drifted past the the front desk, casually prying into a subject which is simultanesouly devastating and exhilerating to me; it is deeply personal. They don't mean anything by it, it's just conversation, confirming office gossip, but I'm overwhelmed already and the last thing I need is to answer the same questions over and over all day.

"Yeah, it's a really great career oportunity..."
"We'll be closer to our little nephews..."
"My husband's family is down there, so at least we'll know people..."
"Of course, it's bittersweet..."
"Yes, South Carolina IS very pretty..."

It all sounds so hollow. What I keep wanting to say is that it's none of your goddamn business, and get out of my face. I believe intellectually in the joy I'll experience eventually, but I feel nothing but sorrow. I'm confused like I've been adrift at sea for weeks and I can't tell what's right or left or up or down anymore.

I went to the doctor today and told the receptionist we were moving in about a month when she asked me to schedule my next checkup. She said, "Oh, cool. That will be fun!" I wanted to pound my fists on her desk and yell at everyone in the lobby. "WHY DOES EVERYONE KEEP SAYING THAT?!?!?! Look at my eyes and tell me again!"

Then the doctor asked me to schedule a vaccine, and I had to tell her that I won't be here long enough to receive the full series. When asked about our reasons for leaving, I gave one of my standard answers, "My husband's family lives down there." She asked where my family lives, and I told her how I'm a fifth generation Colorado native, and that almost all my family is here still. She responds, "Wow, that sounds hard for you." Understatement of the century. I'm mourning and grieving and weeping inside. I want someone to mourn with me, to look me in the eyes and say something sincere. To hell with "good luck". Good luck doensn't mean anything. I want to know that my heart is understood. Someone tell me it DOES suck, and it IS painful, and it's HARD to see how beauty will come of my ashes.