When I was in college, I ate in the cafeteria. Harding required students living in dorms to buy a fairly hefty meal plan, and though I rarely used all of them from week to week, I did eat at least two meals a day in the caf usually. Dinner was usually the same crowd, a premeditated grouping of folks who planned to show up at the same time and eat together, typically my closest friends, but lunch was different. Because of different class schedules, the lunch table crowd consisted of a few friends and friends of friends and mild acquaintances who happened to not have a class in the middle of the day at the same time as me. Typically that worked out fine for me, and some of the best cafeteria stories sprung out of someone trying to entertain the lunch crowd. (Lyle's dad's a nerd, anyone?)
One semester in particular, I managed to eat lunch most days with cousin, scholar, theologian, and #1 blog fan, though at that time, he was not a blog fan and less of a theologian. That same semester his friend Jeff ate with us most days. Jeff lived off-campus, but I guess he carried a small meal plan so he could have lunch on campus. Jeff and I had known of each other since he and Mac were kids, but we weren't friends ourselves until that semester. Perhaps friends is too strong a term, but we ate lunch together and conversed and generally made each other laugh and didn't hate each other. So . . . friends.
One day I happened to tell a story about my hair's uncooperativeness to a table of all guys. I won't lie and say it was one of my best stories. It was far from captivating, I'm sure, but as I have an obsession with my hair, it mattered to me a great deal. Now if there had been any other girls at the table when I told the story, I think it would have landed an audience. Show me any six college-age girls, and I'll show you four who have at least a mild obsession with their own hair. But to say the story fell flat, is an extreme understatement, but Jeff bought in. He displayed an interest that was completely disproportionate to the importance of the story, and for the rest of the semester, he would start conversations about my hair, and ask for more stories. It was hilarious, but Jeff typically is.
I share that story because it makes me laugh, because my hair obsession is still alive and well and boring people, and because several days in the past week, when I've been trying to think of blogging topics while I'm in the shower (because I do my best thinking in the shower), all I can think of to say is about my hair. And talking about my hair, even in appropriate situations with people who are sincerely interested, always makes me think of Jeff and that semester of lunch-time hair stories.
Jeff is often encouraged to read my blog by CST1BF, but something tells me he doesn't. (Probably because he fears having to read drivel about my hair, which I've managed to avoid until today.) But Jeff, if you're out there, I wanted you to know what a lasting legacy your feigned interest in my hair has had on my life. I thank you, but I'm sure the imaginary readers, who've just endured five paragraphs of aching boredom, do not.