Sometimes I catch myself thinking too seriously. I like to think that thinking too seriously is a little different from taking things too seriously. When someone takes something too seriously, he announces that his life is finished, when in reality, he is nowhere near death. When someone thinks too seriously, she is constantly reminiscing about the past and wondering about the future, generally susceptible to planning big life changes every Sunday night and entirely capable of skipping class to write about thinking too seriously.
Because the preceding sentence makes her look a little too busy, I decided to start saving myself time and stop thinking so seriously. I planned a day of non-serious thoughts, and this is what happened.
The only way I can take myself non-seriously is if I wear my "got beer?" baseball cap. My sister says the only other baseball cap I own makes me look like a train conductor, which is more pathetic than funny. You ask: Why is a baseball cap necessary? On this day of not thinking too seriously, I have to be able to laugh at myself. I think I will be laughing a lot so I don the hat to block my brilliantly warm smile from others intent on their days of serious thoughts.
Walking down the Corner, the first thing I noticed was an important-looking man crossing the crosswalk and talking on his phone. My eyes grew wide: If I talked on the phone, would I turn into someone important looking? I think the fact that I was trying so hard to think fun and carefree thoughts led me to accidentally think serious thoughts. My phone phobia rose up worse than it had days before when I couldn't answer my good friend's call. I started worrying about all the people's calls I'd ever ignored and responded to in texts. I started wondering if my career as a journalist was doomed because of my inability to do phone interviews. And then the important man passed, giving me a sort of strange look. I remembered my beer hat, took a deep breath and continued on my way.
I had to observe a neighborhood for a class project, so after getting off the trolley I headed down the side streets of Jefferson Park Avenue. Earlier I'd told myself that if I really wanted to, I could pretend to be a spy and sprint from tree to tree while taking notes and snapping photos. Ultimately, not even my non-serious self was committed enough to make a gun out of my pointer fingers, so I remained a regular person.
I was supposed to record sensory observations of the neighborhood. I had to sniff it, listen to it, see it. Walking down a lovely shaded side street, I snorted a particularly exaggerated sniff and cringed at my sound breaking the silence. I tried laughing at myself, but the giggle came out too creepy and I ended up cringing again. After that, I just took really deep breaths if I caught a whiff of nature or car exhaust or whatever else suburbia smells like.
It was mid-morning, so most people who lived in the neighborhood were at work or school. One man opened his front door; with one foot in the house and the rest of his body leaning out, he looked down the street at me. All thoughts - both serious and lighthearted, rushed out of my mind. My body morphed into terrified mode, and I picked up my pace. I looked from left to right, assessing the situation and determining if there was anyone else around to save me from this man who stayed home Monday mornings to abduct innocent college girls.
Then he called his dog and it ran out from behind a tree and the two of them re-entered the house.
I returned to my apartment later that evening downtrodden and in a horrid mood. I had failed. I'd thought about serious things. I had worried about my future. I had worried about worrying about my future. I had even worried about dying on the streets of a family-friendly neighborhood. The "got beer?" hat hadn't changed anything; I was still too serious. I stomped to my friends' apartment across the hall and plopped down at the table with my homework. One of my friends has tonsillitis and made me investigate her throat with a flashlight. After the fifth checkup, I noticed that she was crying in her chair.
"If it makes you feel any better, my day sucked," I offered. She looked up at me and laughing through her tears, croaked, "But this sucks more!" Then she continued sipping on her hot chocolate, which apparently "burned but felt good." I smiled to myself. Tonsillitis did suck more than sweating under your baseball cap because a squirrel jumped out in front of you. A lot of things are far worse than anything I've ever worried about. And yet I know that I'm still going to think too seriously. I'm still going to wake up with my shoulders hunched under my ears because my subconscious wowed me with painfully plausible nightmares. I'm still going to think an A-minus on an English paper means a C.
But I'm also still going to think that a "got beer?" hat is always funny. As long as I try not to think about it all day, I may even laugh at myself.
Connelly's column runs every Thursday. She can be reached at c.hardaway@cavalierdaily.com.
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