thoughts on spring

I roller bladed to school today, ignoring the fact that the roads were wet and my skills on wheels have been pretty much untested so far this spring season. You're probably anticipating an epic wipe out story to belong here, but I made it to Theological Hall relatively unscathed. What I did find interesting however is that once I rolled into my classroom and sat down, I realized that I had no idea how to take my rollerblades off. Like, no idea. I sat at my desk, staring at my feet, bemused and actually a bit scared that I couldn't make my hands remember what to do. Every time I tried, they just kept getting tighter and tighter.

This ordeal taught me two things:

1. Technology and I will never get along. We eye each other cautiously. We send nasty msn messages back and forth -- y'know, typical enemy stuff. Yes, even the technology of rollerblades (damn you Nike and your nylon spaceship cording)
2. The more I learn, the more I realize how very little I know

My undergraduate career is all-too-quickly coming to an end and I greet it with as much apathy as I can muster from under my covers, where I am sure to be found these days either taking a nap, or sleeping through class because it 'wasn't important to go today'. Knowing that I am in the general majority of university students who don't *really* care about what they're doing, or don't make a point of being especially studious doesn't make me feel better. I mean, I've been so academically lazy over the last four years that I don't even recognize myself any more. Is this normal? Will I change? Or am I condemned to a career of cubicle hopping, ladder climbing and glass ceiling hitting, reminiscent of Office Space? It's hard to tell. It's even harder to care, at this point.

I love this time of year though, in spite of myself. For most people, spring brings a sort of spiritual rebirth. The days are longer, the air is warmer. People make passing remarks about their flower gardens and walk around in Capri pants, their hair flying in the now-southern wind. The grass is pushing up from the wet earth; the birds are reclaiming their post on neighborhood trees. But for me, April will always mean one thing and one thing only: soccer tryouts. In particular:

* The first time that I dig out my old cleats from last season, bang off the bits of sod and realize that they fit me even more perfectly than they did six months ago
* The way that the perfect spring tryout day smells
* The freshly cut and marked field, pristine in its virginity
* The nervous energy I get that makes me run faster, shoot harder and shake internally on the sidelines whenever I get called off
* The first slide tackle. The brilliant feeling of digging up turf with my cleat and remembering how much I missed playing on grass that didn't leave violent gashes up your thighs when you took a fall
* The competition. I loved tryouts because I love a challenge. I would outrun, outplay and outthink every girl on the field, simply because someone was probably assuming that I couldn't. I would find aggression and determination in me that even the most important game of my life couldn't motivate

Sadly, soccer tryouts are no longer a part of my April schedule and I feel a twinge of something -regret? Nostalgia? - When I walk past City Park and stop to watch the coaches set up pylons, or step to the side to avoid being hit by a gaggle of five-year-olds on a warm up run. Part of me thinks that I could play again, could get back to the level I was at in high school, but the rest of me knows that at least right now, I don't have the resources (like a car, for example). For now, I'll be content with watching the odd game on my way home from class, and managing to get my rollerblades off of my feet when I do choose to indulge in the occasional bout of physical activity.