Presently, I am enrolled in American Heritage in the BYU Salt Lake Center to fulfill the requirement with as little effort as possible (And I do mean presently. I am in class right now). The only real strain is getting up here once a week to listen to the ravings and jabberings of an old and pre-senile man that wears winter gloves because he had a surgery which requires his commitment to sterile hands. Right on brother. Maroon is a good color on you.
Enter the carpool. I, despite my relatively comfortable manner in living rooms full of friends, am really quite shy. In an attempt to avoid announcing my desire to save gas to the whole group, I just turned to my right on the first day here and asked the boys that were sharing a headset to watch "Ratatouille" if they would be interested in setting up a carpool. Big mistake.
The one directly to my right was an APX alarm representative. He didn't even have to say it. His smug transparency was a dead give-away. It wasn't the fact that he sat on his ipod touch giggling away just loud enough for people around him to notice him or the fact that tonight he asked everyone in the car to stop talking so he could call the Utah Jazz dancer whose number he managed to procure after a game where some "connection" of his bought him 800 dollar front row seats. Those did bother me, don't get that twisted, but it wasn't the worst. The worst of it was that I found myself jealous of him.
Not the Jazz dancer, necessarily, but the money. I want it in a way I don't like. I want a Burberry suit. I want a Porsche. I want to drop out of school and be an eccentric, brilliant young investor who hob-knobs with, like, the guy who merged Daimler and Chrysler. That appeals to me, sadly.
And as I sat there dreaming of all the things I could do and have if I could just talk myself into putting families in debt like "Johnny" (For real. Fake tan too. Love him.) I tuned back in to what was being said for a second. The boy had begun bad mouthing missionary work. He was sarcastically picking apart the day-to-day struggles of an Elder in the field. It was all the reminder I needed, that I'm really doing a great job at living.
I may make a fortune. I may not. It won't matter. There are greater things I am involved in than multi-level mania. For now I think I will stick to those. That's what I'm good at.
Aaaand...
You're the best.
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7 comments:
Amen, brother. Well put, on all accounts.
he got a jazz dancer's number, how did he do that? could you ask him?....I support you in your cause.
I'm not asking him but my best guess is that after the game he was in the locker area or the box or some after event and shamelessly went a'self-promotin' and arm -twisted her into giving her number to a 19 year old.
Classy, insert credit card number for phone number and it's not unlike how he sells alarm systems to poor old women in under-privileged neighborhoods.
Um, when is your class? We need to get you a new carpoop situation there...
Man, I don't know if Justin meant to type carpoop or carpool. The letters are close. Freudian finger slip.
and hopefully you promptly punched him in the eye.
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