I'm sitting here because I've been writing a paper. The paper is 1000 words over the limit and I still have a brilliant conclusion to concoct. So I guess I'll just transfer my neverending writing over here.
The paper is about the debates among scholars and philosophers and mystics in the first centuries of Islam. I've written it as a script. They sound EXACTLY like Presbyterians of 2007.
The Lovely Daughter just sent me some photos of the results of a shopping trip for a dress for a dance. It's pink. All of her formal dresses have been pink. She and the dress: both gorgeous. Mom: thankful for the internet, which allows me to share in shopping 2500 miles away.
I only went to one formal dance at which I felt any degree of comfort. It was my senior prom, and my dress, like all of my friends' dresses, came straight from an India Imports-type store in Northampton.
I went to one other formal dance. That one was at home over a winter break; I have no recollection whatsoever of my date. But I do remember that my older stepsister was at home. She had gone to a fashion college in Atlanta, which was only one of the many striking differences between us. She put together an outfit for me that could not have been Less Me. I'm betting that she even did eye makeup. Even More Less Me. (Got that?)
Remember, I went to boarding school. The one where girls would not have been caught dead in possession of eye makeup. The very best part of prom occurred between 4:00 and 6:00 am, when the boys were mercifully gone and we girls, painfully aware that we were soon to lose our 24/7 friendships of three and four years, switched to jeans and t-shirts and wandered the campus, hair almost to our waists, arms around each other, singing at the top of our lungs.
So that's my night. Al-Ghazali and pink dresses and memories of the long-ago friendships of young women.