The follies and benefits of a country residence.
Forgive my brief absence. I have been preparing for my next change of scenery. Next week I will take up residence in an entirely new place, where I know nary a soul and where the common beliefs and practices are not exactly in keeping with the BYU Honor Code. Also the eligible male population will be considerably less varied than at BYU: two singles wards with four women to every man. Who knows what will become of me in such a place? It is possible I could thrive and find precisely what I am looking for {or who rather}, or I may use my busy-graduate-student status as an excuse and become quite the recluse. Time will only tell. Though I remain in the western states, I have decided to not divulge the place of my new dwelling so as to protect myself from detection. Goodness only knows that one of our readers would have a brother or cousin nearby, whom would certainly become an object of either admiration or derision on the blog.
But as for now, my time at my country home with my parents has been only slightly more exciting than I last mentioned. Because I am from a small Mormon-settled town, the 24th of July celebration is the event of the season. It has always been my favorite time of the year, though this year I planned on it being much less exciting because of the non-surplus of single men.
Granted, my greatest worry was running into
Mr. Cowboy who was sure to be there, as the 24th is just his sort of scene {rodeos, country dancing, and the like}. Before I had returned from England, Mr. Cowboy had written me on Facebook {I have long since "unfriended" him}, simply to congratulate me on my graduation from BYU. That bothered me. So much so that I did not reply. I could not even squeak out a simple "thank you". But such seemingly small interactions should not exist between us. When I returned from England to my parents' home, they informed me that Mr. Cowboy had been by several times to visit {once again without his dear, little wife}.
So as my parents and I drove to the first event of the 24th of July celebration, they asked me how I planned to escape Mr. Cowboy. I joked about wearing a disguise or sneaking about like a ninja-spy, though that may have been a viable option. But as I arrived on the scene, the throng of people arrested my wariness and I became only too thrilled to seek out my old high school friends. In an unsuspecting moment as I searched through the crowd for familiar faces, I bumped right into Mr. Cowboy and his wife.
This was the first time I had seen him since he left on his mission. The last time I had seen him had been the night before he was set apart. We had said a tearful goodbye and he almost kissed me, despite his girlfriend {who is now his wife} being inside his house just yards away from where we stood. On seeing him again, my body went into flight mode and I never entirely looked at him. Much to my chagrin, I was forced {quite unwillingly} into a hug by him and by his dear, little wife who has always pretended to like me for Mr. Cowboy's sake. Then I simply left. My mother was polite enough to remain there to exchange pleasantries, but I turned my back and walked away all the while quite aware of his eyes following me until I was out of sight.
There were other moments during the weekend of celebrations where I was tortured by how purposefully we were ignoring each other. Both of us were only too aware of the physical location of the other. At one event we were three feet from each other, but stubbornly refused to look or speak. His shunning is due to hurt, mine due to unbending pride. When I think of it, I dislike myself for being so rude, so obviously disdainful. I want to talk to him, explain somehow. But then I remind myself that I was set free by his marriage, and in order to remain free from his influence, it must be so.
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During this same weekend, I spent some time with an old friend who in high school was that guy friend that every girl needs. The Pal. Though I never considered it in high school, on recalling certain aspects of our friendship, I am almost certain of his at least having a crush on me in days long past. Perhaps my recollection is obscured slightly, but one never knows.
We had a wonderful time becoming reacquainted {I was a terrible friend and did not write to him on his mission} and then he asked if I would like to go bunny-bashing with him and several other of the guys who had come home for the weekend. I was hesitant, but agreed as I ought to be adventurous and participate in activities I have never tried. To make a long story short, bunny-bashing was not something I enjoyed. In the slightest. Though I must say, The Pal was quite attentive and made sure that I was never on the point of fainting. I think because of my reactions, he bridled his desire to participate in the massacre and was the only one among the group who never made any attempt to kill one rabbit. Such gallantry! Although he probably regarded my reactions as a bit too Mrs. Bennet-esque. But he has promised to take me fishing sometime in the future, however, that may never happen because unbeknownst to me, I balk at the sight of blood.
Con Amor,
The Lady
This Saturday, like so many before it, found me entering yet another musty bookstore.
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