“You’re in a good mood

“You’re in a good mood this morning…”

My roommate was wrong—I was in a great mood this morning, but I wasn’t sure why. Jamming to a little Cassius – The Sound of Violence and feeling pretty darn good. My flight was late last night (Newark Airport sucks), my seat was busted, and I think the pilot might have been aiming for thunderstorms. But there I was, bubbly as could be this morning.

At first I thought it was because of the wedding I went to this weekend, but that doesn’t make any sense. I’ve had fabulous times at the last two weddings I’ve been to (the most enjoyable and the most expensive respectively), but both were somewhat depressing ’cause it was a wedding and all. So what gives? I think it’s because I was talking. Just the simple exercise of “expressing one’s thoughts or emotions by means of spoken language,” put me in a great mood. I don’t talk or interact with people very much in the course of my normal day in Austin. It’s not like I’m a mute when I leave the house, but the lion share of the expression of my thoughts and emotions are captured by the 21″ glowing box sitting on my desk. I can feel the buzz slowly dissapating, and it’s sucky. It’s actually kind of embarrasing that the lack of interaction is so tangible. Anybody know of a job where I can get paid to get plastered and play wiffleball on a tennis court at the most exclusive country club in Cape Cod at 2am in the morning? Man…I’d be set.

Speaking of jobs, we’re going through another round of layoffs at work this week. We’re supposed to be notified by Friday. I was supposed to have a meeting with my manager last week, but he moved it to this Friday. Nice. This is the most worried I’ve been since the first round of layoffs. Worried isn’t the right word. I’m not really worried about losing my job. I can live on much less than I’m making now, I feel pretty good about my chances of getting another job, and if they lay me off, then finally they might finally realize what I contribute.

Enough negative talk—I had a great time at the wedding this weekend. Rosco, one of my very best friends from school got married and it was great. I was honored to be an usher, and it was great catching up with a bunch of Phi Sigs. Unfortunately it seemed like CWO was afflicting some of the guys that showed up (probability of affliction was higher for those bringing long-term girlfriends), but a good number of us still got our adventure on. Any trip that involves all-you-can-eat breakfast at “The Egg and I”, miniature golf, candy stores (they had ring pops, push pops, and big league chew!), and wiffleball with an oversized bat is bound for hilarity. Good times.

So what about the grandma? Hm. Rosco is one of the most even keeled person I’ve ever known. The generation older than him in the family were a bunch of party animals. It doesn’t make any sense. It’s like he’s the Anti-Hulk. Even the grandmas were rowdy! Case in point. Me and two other Phi Sigs were to usher two grandmas and a stepmom right before the groom walked down the aisle. Simple. Which one should I usher down I thought? As the three women were walking towards us, one rowdy grandma winked at me, and gave me her arm. Simple. So, we strolled down the aisle, and about 5 feet away from the front row, a wave of panic. Left or right? Bride’s side or Groom’s side? I had no clue! Here I am at a wedding for this great guy, a storybook setup on the edge of a precipice looking out onto the Cape, a hundred family and friends sitting on either side of me, at a wedding easily topping six figures, and here I am with rowdy grandma on my arm, and I’m panicking. What to do? What would you do?

…

So I just followed grandma. The rowdy one must know where to go right? She veered to the left so I followed. Hey, the role is Usher, not Guider. Unfortunately I was wrong, and later there was some last-minute seat switching. Thankfully, the wedding was “Mark Phillip”-proof. Classic.

Oh yeah, and a toddler blew a kiss at me at Newark Airport while I was buying a newspaper. I see Wellesley in her future. It was dope.