Overload/Mental Fermentation

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When there is oxygen present in a cell, it goes through a process called cellular respiration in order to give the body energy in the form of adenine triphosphate, or ATP. When oxygen is not present in the cell, it is forced to go through a process called fermentation instead. The two kinds of fermentation are lactic acid fermentation and alcohol fermentation. These days it seems like fermentation would be a good metaphor for my life. Work has used up all my good energy and now I'm running on empty. This gives my life a leg cramp, forcing me to stop something or eventually fall over hard. This means I have to sacrifice some of the stuff I would love to be doing to complete homework assignments and the like. While this sacrifice is unwanted, it allows oxygen to flow back into the used areas of the life and function normally.

Just Call Me Wendy

On a cool June morning, my mother called me outside to the driveway after breakfast. There was a surprise for me, she trilled, and a good one, too. Delighted, I slipped on my shoes and danced into the sunlight.
The bicycle that stood on the baking asphalt that day still resides in my garage, its handlebars rusting and its seat dusty, the spokes of the wheels connected with lacelike cobwebs. But that June morning, the bike gleamed magenta in the sunshine, and the bell chirruped merrily as my mother’s fingers pushed it again and again. At the same time, she looked expectantly at me. I couldn’t help it; I burst into tears.
“Oh, Rachel,” she said, half pitying, half exasperated. I knew a new bike was a special treat, and a very expensive one as well, but just looking at the great metal figure scared me out of my wits.
I suppose every child has that day, when they first lose their training wheels, and must ride out in the road, wobbling, on two thin circles of rubber, until, with a great crash, they fall into the brambles at the edge of the pavement. No one gets it right the first time. They get up, bandage their cuts, and get back on the bike, more determined than before.
That day, even though I knew, somewhere in my eight-year-old mind, that I was not the only child to face the challenge of riding a two-wheeler, I could not understand why anyone would want to.
Somehow, probably with the promise of ice cream, my mother coaxed me onto the bike, placed a bright blue helmet on my pigtailed head, and told me to pedal. I obeyed, while she held onto the back of the bike, balancing me. After a time, she let go; I fell, splayed and screaming, into the grass.
For several days I refused to try the bike again. I sat in the yard, or in my room, thoughtful and solemn. My mother was worried, but tired of trying to get me back on the bike. She let me be. Then, on a grey Saturday that looked like rain, I pulled my mother by the hand and, silent, led her to the garage.
I worked all day, even when the rain began to fall, tapping on my helmet like distracting fingers. I did not notice when my mother went inside for an umbrella, nor that she was telling me to put the bike away and come get dry. I biked up and down the driveway, falling less and less, until I could make one full rotation, then two, then more. I soon lost count.
Towards evening I was cold and hungry, and I put the bike away. My mother, who had gone into the house long ago, hustled me into the kitchen, toweling my hair and setting the water to boil for hot cocoa. I was shivering, and grinning.
The next day, I came down with the flu. My mother had to watch me all week, so that I would not sneak into the garage and bike away up the street.
Years later, when she told me of this, I truly didn’t believe her. Me, sneak out of bed with my nose running, to bike around the neighborhood? By the time I was ten, I hardly biked at all, preferring to read on the hammock whenever it was a nice day. Biking was a distant, half-forgotten, childish activity.
At the time of my biking obsession, biking was not what was on my mind. I wanted to be big, to grow up and do big kid things. It was this that compelled me to ride in circles until I could turn without falling, this that made me sneak to the garage in rain or shine. Biking held no thrill for me; growing up did.
In later years, this didn’t really change. When I was eleven I went to sleep-away camp, not because I was excited to stay in a college dorm room and take academic classes for three weeks, but because I didn’t want my little sister to live away from home before I did. I cut my hair at the age of fourteen because my friends had convinced me that frayed, split ends were for babies; straightened, even locks were more adult.
But now, as college and jobs and reality loom above me like dark thunderclouds, I am beginning to sense a change in myself. I am beginning to think kids are better off than they ever know, and that they take a lot for granted. When you are grown up, there is no one to take care of you, pull you in from the rain, make you hot cocoa and buy you bikes. Everything is up to you. You are independent, in the worst way.
Yesterday, my mother asked me if I wanted to try driving up the street to my grandparent’s house. After all, she reminded me, it won’t be long until I have my permit, and will be adding up road hours.
“No,” I snapped, and dashed to my room faster than a rabbit running from a fox. I can’t stand the thought of driving, of being responsible for a car and gas and the people in the back seat. I can’t stand the idea of being old enough to do that, to be mature and trusted and counted on. I can’t stand the fact that I can’t help it.
My position has entirely changed, in the course of seven years. If Peter Pan alighted at my window tonight, offering me the chance to stay a kid, I would leap after him, pixie dust or no. Wendy, who I once despised for ever desiring to be forever young, seems to me now a more understandable, even admirable, character. I’m starting to wonder if I will ever be contented with the age that I am.

High School Preparation

Back in middle school (which seemed like a lifetime ago) we had so many presentations to prepare us for the upcoming high school years. For some reason, none of them could put out my fear of the huge school I was about to attend. This was where all the grades started counting. I feel if I screw up just one test, my whole life is messed up. It’s not a good feeling. When we had a tour of the high school, I remember thinking “Man, this place is enormous!” To my horror, I found out I was looking at only one third of the school. Each third of the school is a different house: Fitts, Townsend, and Pequot. I got stuck in Pequot, the great house with no air conditioning. Each house is color coded… like that’s supposed to keep my fear at bay or something.

Next stop on the tour of confusion and frustration was learning about the schedules. Back in 6th grade I felt overwhelmed at the thought of having a schedule… and I thought I had problems then… There’s not a single day that’s the same schedule, no, they had to make it as twisted and messed up as possible. One day you’ll have period one at the end, beginning, or middle of the day and same with all the other periods. It’s like someone just randomly threw together all the periods in one huge collage of chaos. There must be some kind of purpose to making this schedule. Some of the kids that were giving high school presentations told us that even they hadn’t mastered the high school schedule and they were seniors!

Even in this confusing new place there are a few safety zones… the cafeteria. Just the vastness with all the lunch tables and the food waiting in the open doors of the lunch lady zone beckons you in and you already know that this is the best place to be in the whole high school. Luckily, I’ve visited the high school before; I’ve only been in the large gym for a chorus festival and on the upper level of the gym for wrestling practice. I think it helped a lot to get to know where my PE classes are going to be around the school, just another problem to cross off the list of doom.

When I visited the high school, I found a lot of mixed emotions about how students in the high school felt about the place. Usually, the presentations are hosted by the student council members or some other student club that helps the school out with stuff. But, as you walk down the halls, you’ll hear kids trying to freak you out, screaming at you from the cafeteria that high school’s going to kill you. After that, the last thing I needed to be informed about is that the first Friday you have of high school is called Freshman Friday. It’s when everybody else in the school chases down freshman and spray paints “frosh” all over them. Sometimes, they’ll even roll you down a hill in a garbage can and stupid stuff like that. I asked a senior where good hiding spots were… he said there weren't any. Thanks… I think I’m going to wake up sick that day…

I can’t believe there’s so much to worry about with high school. It’s the last thing I want to do over the summer but I guess I can’t help it because high school is basically unavoidable. It’s far too late to think about staying back now. People say it flies by but I just can’t understand why. With so many opinions about such a confusing place, it’s nearly impossible to tell about what high school is going to be like. All I need to know now is that it’s going to be harder than any other school I’ve gone through and my goal for this summer is to try and wrap my mind around that. You may laugh at me, but think back to how you felt right before your freshman year…