a wannabe intellectual?

I've been avoiding my computer screen, or at least this blogger create a new post screen all weekend. I've wandered around my house, trying desperately to convince myself of a number of things, and to avoid thinking about a number of other things. It's funny in that odd coincidence sort of way that I almost always discover things about myself when my parents leave town and my house is empty of most of the tension that exists over the course of a normal day or week.

This week I've found myself wondering if anything I write, anything I do, really matters? I mean, do you really care that I made chicken with pesto for dinner on Friday night, that I painted my toenails twice over the course of the weekend, that I watched a couple of movies, went to the Stampede to do rides with friends, and went to an awesome concert last night with my baby brother? (and just as an aside - it was a Christian concert, and my brother and I decided that Christians really don't "rock out" very well. The band did, and some of the crowd, but the band had to work pretty hard to get the crowd into it. Too bad, 'cause the concert really was amazing, well worth the price of the ticket!) If I was one of those people who smoothly managed to find a "spiritual" reason, or a tie-in to faith in everything, if I somehow made each episode of my life an object lesson, would that add significance where it feels as if there isn't any? Or is life really only about the mundane occurrences, with the occasional moment where faith and spirituality springs to prominence?

Don't get me wrong, life has actually been fairly good lately, with a few marked discouragements or challenges, but I feel odd to even mention or complain about those, because they're insignificant in comparison to the things I faced over the course of five years of depression.

And I discovered something about myself over the course of the weekend. I hide, even in writing where I tend to be most honest, bits and pieces of myself. I have a burning desire to be accepted as an intellectual - as a bright, intelligent person with something of substance to contribute to the world. And yet, most days I feel inadequate. I hide the parts of myself that I have associated with a lack of substance. For instance, I love to read fiction - not weighty, intellectual classics, but historical fiction, romantic stories, anything light and fluffy. I read probably 4 or 5 novels of this sort a week on average. I bought the latest issue of Oprah's magazine last week. (Now you need to understand that I realize that most of the world thinks of Oprah as a woman of substance, but I grew up in a home where my dad poo-pooed anything in the talk show or reality television format, and so I am predisposed to be embarrassed at purchasing something like a magazine with her name on the cover.) I bought the magazine because it had an article written by one of my favorite non-fiction writers (Anne Lamott) - plus, it was the summer reading issue and I thought I might pick up a few recommendations on some good novels to read. Lamott's article was great - what I hesitate to admit because I fear it will taint the perception of myself as intelligent is that I just as eagerly read the article on "How men really feel about breast implants," the article that tells you how to best deal with curly hair in the midst of summer's heat and humidity, the article on how a variety of writers display their libraries, and the article with pictures of the best outfits for under $300.

I recently picked up my diploma from the university, and, in a moment of pride as I came home, showed it to my dad. He studied it for a moment, and said, in a tone that I'm sure was attended to be joking, but was instead cutting and hurtful, "where's the magna cum laude or suma cum laude?" So much for enjoying my moment of accomplishment. Maybe it isn't the rest of the world that I want to recognize my intelligence - maybe it's just my dad.