there's a light (what light?)

I realize that Wilco did not include the question mark, but to me it feels like it should be there today.

I love bikers. Cyclists, I mean. Every afternoon when I step out of ICS at 5pm and into the rush hour madness of public transit, I have the privilege of watching all the cyclists on College Street. I admire cyclists in Toronto. I am too fearful to join them, particularly because I have seen too many of them nearly get smushed by a cab or a thoughtless driver, or even by a self-centered pedestrian who steps out into the bike lane in front of them. But there is something wonderfully, beautifully subversive about the many, many cyclists who whiz past me as I walk to the subway.

Today I am stuck on a question that plagues me on a regular basis: will I ever NOT be crazy insanely committed to too many worthy activities? Before November 1, I must write the LSAT, apply to law schools, catch up on all the reading I'm missing to study for said LSAT, catch up on my independent study reading, re-write a paper so that a poor grade on my transcript can maybe be raised, start leading a women's group, ... And that isn't meant as self-pity, and I don't want anyone's sympathy, because I committed to all these things. I said yes to them. And they are all wonderful things to be involved in. And I actually thought that I was going to AVOID this kind of craziness this semester by being wary of commitment. I guess not. But feeling this overwhelmed, trying to anticipate a time sometime in the future when I might have time to relax for a few hours, often makes me think about the rest of my life. Will I perpetually over-commit? What will it take for me to stop leading an over-committed life? Or is that just the way life is these days? Sometimes I think it will be better when I have a job (and am not a student), or when/if I'm married, or when/if I have kids.... but I know that's not necessarily true. One of those life questions for me, I guess.

Yesterday I cut my finger on a rusty nail sticking out of the underside of my kitchen table, and yelled out loud (I was alone in my apartment). I promptly burst into tears. I know that "burst into tears" is an expression that perhaps has lost its meaning, but it really describes what happened to me--and it did feel like it happened TO me--because it was totally unexpected and unpremeditated. It was like a reflex; it was automatic. It was strange. And very cathartic.