Clean Up Time

Today I had cleaning checks. I came very ill prepared to Provo and have zero cleaning supplies, which resulted in me having to be rather creative in order to successfully pass:

• The toilet was scrubbed down with shampoo
• The tables were dusted with a dirty t-shirt
• The kitchen floor was swept with a post-it note
• The porch was swept with a credit card application we received in the mail today

I was pleased with myself and my creativity until I got to “sweeping” the porch. Believe it or not, it was highly degrading. Especially when the neighbors next door were sweeping with a real, full grown broom and the guy across the street took out his trash and stifled a giggle when he passed me. I think buying real cleaning supplies in the fall would be a wise investment.

I promise I'm almost 20 years old

This afternoon as I was walking from the library to the Wilk I noticed from the swarm of youth that EFY sessions have begun. The campus is being overrun by giddy youth full of the excitement of a week away from home, the potential of finding a new crush, and being spiritually uplifted. It was a bit of a nostalgic walk as I thought back to my own EFY days, nearly five years ago. As I got into the building, I pushed my way through the horde of kids wearing colored wristbands and found the elevator, which was being so proficiently guarded by an EFY counselor, probably my same age. As I reached for the button that would bring me the elevator, the mentioned counselor stopped me in my tracks:

"Sorry, all EFY kids need to use the stairs," she said authoritatively with a finger pointing me to the other side of the building.

"Uh, I'm actually a student," I reply while awkwardly pointing to my empty wrist, not sporting a colorful band, for evidence.

She offers a half-hearted apology, "Oh, sorry, you're fine then, go ahead."

"Thanks," I mutter, overly annoyed, probably more than I should be.

I've been dealing with this problem my entire life. Once, while on a vacation to the east, we made friends with a school teacher. She told me that she loved guessing how old kids were and that she prided herself of the fact that she was so good at it. She said she was almost never wrong. She gave it a shot and guessed that I was going into 4th grade. I was going into 8th. Just last year on my 19th birthday my grandma told me that I looked like I was 14 years old. Ouch. My mom keeps telling me that someday I'll appreciate it, that I'll be grateful that I look so youthful. She's always right about things like that, so I guess I'll trust her. But I have a feeling that 'someday' isn't going to be for a long, long time.