an average day.

January 14.

As an adult, snow loses it's appeal the moment you're required to go back to a functioning normal life in it. This is true even in Mississippi, where the mere suggestion of flurries is enough to send even the most jaded adults into fits of euphoria...myself included. I'd spent my two snow days off work with my nose practically plastered to the windows, drinking coffee and giddily watching the untouched white winterscape become pocked with footprints, spiked with snowmen, slashed with the tracks of makeshift sleds.

I was feeling anything but euphoria as I gingerly picked my way through the sheet of ice, slush and snow surrounding my car outside my place. Rain boots on my feet, suede ankle boots in my hand, scowl on my face because I was late for work and hadn't yet packed for the weekend as I'd intended. It didn't help that I had a staff meeting commencing as I walked in the door, but I grabbed a handful of walnuts from the stash in my office and decided to make the best of it.

Thankfully my place of business always provides ample material for it. On this particular day, someone from the Office of the Dean of Students called over claiming that he had spoken with the mother of a student or prospective student whose name was spelled as "La-a" and who was concerned over the mispronunciation of her child's name. (Let me break here to clarify that I'm relatively certain this is a joke and that said individual is NOT actually enrolled at Ole Miss.) Within a few minutes most of our office was participating in a debate over how we would pronounce the name. Leia? Lei? No one hit on the correct answer, which was...LaDasha. Upon hearing this there was a chorus of groans and laughs, but it wasn't nearly as intense of a reaction as one might expect. After all, in our line of work we are constantly exposed to bizarre names (two of the best I've come across are Aqua'Netta and Tequila Sunrise). However, after the groans and laughs there was a thoughtful pause as my colleague Brad experienced a minor epiphany and then said "Wait. That's not her name."
I looked at the name scrawled on a slip of paper resting on the counter and then: "Oooooh...." I looked back up at Brad in understanding. "Yeah," he said. "I'm not calling her that. That's not her name. That's not a dash, it's a HYPHEN. Her name is technically LaHyphena." Just another day in Financial Aid.

After work I scrambled to throw a random assortment of clothes and shoes into my weekend bag and hit the road for Florence to attend my sister's baby shower, enjoying the cut of gray highway across landscapes still white with snow, and counting the never-ending procession of melting zombie-like snowmen. Upon arrival at my parents' place, my mother informed me that she had a few errands to run and that her car wouldn't start, could we take mine? I considered this. "I'm not really sure I can get us down the driveway, Mom, it's still REALLY icy..." Vicki didn't see this as an issue. "Oh, it's fine, all you have to do is put it in reverse and just sliiiide on down the hill." I stared at her. "Yeah. You're driving then." Moments later I was gripping the door handle and watching in simultaneous horror and awe as my mother executed a perfectly controlled slide down and out onto the street.

At Belk's department store I patiently talked Vicki out of a series of entirely too clunky and vaguely sporty black "dress" shoes before giving up and going to try on the pair of black patent peep-toe platform heels I'd been trying to ignore. Mom was already in the process of purchasing her own shoes when I walked up to the register, and was deep in animated conversation with the sunny and petite woman behind the register, whose shining black hair was perfectly and smoothly pulled back to show off flawless chocolate skin. Beside her stood a younger guy who towered over here and was about three times as wide. A high school linebacker uncomfortable in the khakis and preppy navy and red striped sweater required for his part time job. Me and the linebacker exchanged a dismayed Look as the conversation between my mother and the saleswoman turned to hot flashes, although secretly I was fascinated by how laughingly and cheerfully these two women were covering such a topic. When it veered toward aging and dead parents with equal enthusiasm I interrupted with a polite reminder of all we had to do. The linebacker glanced at me in shy relief and appreciation.

After Belk we trekked into Walmart in the manner us Tompkins women always do...with laser focused determination on the mission, as if we're a swat team with a very precise amount of time to rescue someone trapped amongst any number of bombs and landmines. We hate Walmart. We hate the throngs of people in their Alabama, Auburn, and Tennessee tee shirts who lazily amble down the aisles in the manner of patrons at an art gallery, and the constant movement of products from one place to another to ensure that one has to traverse virtually every single aisle in order to find everything she needs, and most of all we hate the fact that we are by birth cursed with the ability to ALWAYS wind up in a checkout line behind someone with 65 coupons, or 65 questions about a product, or 65 items mysteriously missing a price tag or scan code. At least the Walmart in Florence sells wine.

I went to bed that evening full of perhaps one too many glasses of said wine, new stories, and girly pleasure over new shoes...not too bad for an average day.