Muddy Thoughts

I always knew that London had a dirtier side; it just never showed itself. It's like Hollywood before Lindsay Lohan started doing drugs. Everyone had a feeling that it was gritty, you just never had hard evidence. This weekend, I went with Luke and Lisa, his girlfriend who is visiting with her family from Colorado, to go see Harlequins play Bath in rugby. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision for me to go and actually stemmed from me trying to be nice to Lisa and buying her a ticket so she could go with Luke. Luke got her a ticket somehow and I ended up tagging along as that awesome third wheel that I love to be sometimes. Yay!

It was terribly typical when we arrived at the stadium; wind was blowing in every conceivable direction and the rain swept across our faces and coats, wetting our hair and dampening the field for both teams to trod upon for three hours. Luke took his seat next to Lisa, both of them shivering physically, but sharing that nearly palpable dorky affection that is typical of each one, while I took mine next between a quaking kid from Ithaca and Abby, who was wrapped in every conceivable source of warmth she had brought along. Personally, I took my steaming hot chips, turned up my peacoat collar and sipped on a cup of hot chocolate with Bailey's and whipped cream. Neither method kept either of us warm for long, but it was worth it to be warm for a brief period of time.

For the record, rugby really isn't that confusing. But if no one bothers to explain it to you, it might as well be like trying to teach quantum physics to a kindergartener. The players from both sides huddle together in a giant...huddle, called a scrum, and someone hikes the ball, then they all try to get to it and tackle each other. From there, it appears to be complete chaos, with lots of kicking and falling and tossing of the rugby wall itself. Halfway through the second half, I realized that there was a method to their madness. When one player falls on the ball, his teammates run over and protect him (and the ball) from the opposition while others set up to run further down the field to score a 'try,' the equivalent of a touchdown. We cheered for the Harlequins and, fittingly, we won by a score of 22-9. I just seem to have that effect whenever I'm around people.

On the bus, both ways, Abby and I sat next to each other and talked for what seemed like two hours at the least. To be honest, from the second we started talking in the train station, we didn't stop talking. Some of your friends are just cool like that. But one topic of discussion that lent itself to my brain (after a game of 20 Questions that involved guessing "rugby ball" and "power drill") was a topic that Mallory had posed last weekend. It's very general and I might as well just come out with it and stop wasting typing space. If you think of what you were born with, in terms of your body, you didn't have much of a choice. You are what you are and you can't help it. However, the body is, in the end, a container for the soul. It houses the essence of what we are and who we are, from our morals to our consciences and possibly our memories. If you debate that love is nothing more than neurons and axons working together in a neurological state to produce certain glandular reactions and results, then you give this theory no credence. It's something to think about, an idea that boggles the mind and requires a good cup of tea/coffee, a notebook and a few hours to gather your thoughts on.

What it comes down to is the question of whether or not you can look into someone to see his or her soul or simply look at his or her physical appearance. It's a question of judgment and looking for the good within someone...or the bad, for that matter. It's such a can of worms and such a great topic to sit and talk without someone about for hours on end. When Norah and I have a few hours to ourselves or have a roadtrip we're taking somewhere, that's what we do. We have our "deep and meaningful conversations," as she calls them. If nothing else, you've shared your thoughts with someone else and given them a glimpse of who/what you really are. That's what counts for me. Although my mind may be cluttered and muddy from the rugby match within, it still has enough up there for a few hours of solid conversation with a friend.