A Kreature of Change

Whilst staring into the red face of an offended Danish man today, I had an epiphany about my life. I lack the one thing that has been mankind's key to survival: adaptability. The portion of my brain that stores the information of "life lessons/past situations that you should have learned something from to better handle future situations" must have been rendered useless in one of my plethora of concussions. Here are a few key evidences to support this argument.

1. The first week of my freshman year, I had a class in the MARB. The MARB is a ridiculously structured building with its identical classrooms and wretched architecture that reeks of the 1970's. Despite its confusing structure, all of my classmates seem to have figured out how to not get lost in it. I have had a class all but one of my semesters at BYU in the MARB and I continue to end up in the wrong classroom (or on a completely different floor full of eerie fish and disturbing biology professors who smell of dead animals) if I do not walk in the same door on my way to class.

2. My entire family talks about 10 decibels louder than the average human being. Genetic research is being conducted to determine if this is attributed to the fact that some of us (my dad) are deaf or we simply lack a "normal" speaking voice gene. Speaking too loudly coupled with my tendency to talk about things I probably shouldn't has resulted in disastrous situations time after time. The intelligent person would have learned their lesson by at least the third mishap, but I am still going strong after my 701st entanglement. While talking loudly about a dramatic human being who I maybe don't like that much, a frightening Danish man sitting next to me and my poor cousin chimed in with "(Danish accent) Sorry to butt in, but are you talking about (insert person I was complaining about)?" Horrified silence filled promptly with cousin's remarks about how much he adores said person. The angry Danish man's face was a sickly red at this point and was making me feel quite pleased with myself as he continued to stare at me with unblinking eyes of pure hatred. I tried to smooth over my situation by talking as quickly as possible about worlds most random things in hopes he would forget how I just bashed on one of his life long role models. I am pretty sure he would have punched me in the face had my glorious cousin not come to my rescue by stating we had to leave that very instant.

3. Some people outgrow childhood loves, some don't. This concept is not that peculiar nor is loving Harry Potter so much you create an alternate character of yourself in every single book. Lots of people love Harry Potter. There is even a new theme park in Disney World to commemorate this revolutionary series of geniusdom. J.K. Rowling has more money than the queen of England because so many people love Harry Potter. Everyone should love Harry Potter as much as I do or at least as much as the world in general does. I feel as if I am talking to a martian when they tell me they A. haven't read all the books (or, horror or all horrors, none of them) B. Have only seen a movie or two C. Didn't cry on their 11th (possibly 12th and 13th and so forth) birthday when they didn't get an acceptance letter via owl to Hogwarts. I got to express my ardent love for Harry Potter this week at the midnight showing of Deathly Hallows with my fantastic Harry Potter loving ward. Every one of us dressed up. My favorites were: Dumbledore, the bust of Rowena Ravenclaw, Voldemort, a 6-year-old house elf, Hagrid, Gildroy Lockhart, Molly Weasley, a Nimbus 2000, Ollivander, Rita Skeeter, and the Grey Lady. Right before the heading to the show, I remembered back to the time my mom signed me up for a Harry Potter night at the library. The flier for the event advertised: quidditch, potion lessons, charm classes (with a wand fitting), and a night of magical fun. When my mom hugged me goodbye, I hugged her back extra hard. My 12-year-old self knew this would be the last time I would see my muggle mother for at least a year as per the West Jordan library was the American platform to Hogwarts. When she said, "Be out here at 8:00PM so I can pick you up". I knew her full statement was actually , "Be out here at 8:00 PM so I can pick you up after your year at Hogwarts" but as per she and I both knew what she meant, it wasn't necessary to add those last six words. Guess what? The library gig was a total hoax. Quidditch was using brooms to play indoor broom hockey. Potions was watching dry ice bubble out of a lame plastic cauldron. Charms was eating a handful of peculiarly shaped marshmallow cereal. I attempted to pick up every book in the library convinced one of them HAD to be a portkey. Ever since the unspeakably disappointing library incident, I have been wary of any Harry Potter events that promise magic. Even so, as my now twenty-year-old self dressed up as Bellatrix Lestrange this week, I literally had the thought "Maybe the movie theater will have a piece of popcorn that is actually a portkey to Hogwarts!!!"
I guess some things about me will never change: my lack of directional skills, talking too loud, talking about things I shouldn't, lacking all forms of tactfulness, my desire to be buried with the elder wand when I die, my certainty that Hogwarts is actually a graduate school, and my general inability to change above personality traits ;) P.S. If any ridiculously muscled, martial arts master wants to be my body guard against "Angry Danish Man" and the many other people I am still likely to offend, please send me: a recent photograph, a recording of your intimidating voice, your percent muscle mass, the record of your (at least 8 years) of defensive training and your favorite dessert recipe that I will force my roommates to bake for you when you want to be compensated for your protection services. Thank you in advance for your speedy responses!