Duh.
I was, however, gratified that Backel had the courage to at least justify in person what she wasn't willing to disclose earlier. Not that it didn't pang with hurt to hear, but it made the post-blow a bit cushioned.
I was angry. I became distressed. Not to tears, but close enough to embarrass myself writing about it.
Alright. To tears.
And I'm sitting in the glaring Longwood sunlight, blinded by a combination of my own insecurities and that radiant ball in the sky, when I hear an unassuming chorus float through my stereo system and consequently, my enraged thoughts:
It's disgusting
Their priorities:
How we're entrusting them
With authority.
What kind of disgraceful Vice President am I? Not only will we be adding so many to our ranks this spring, but I can honestly (and boastfully) say that I contributed to that stockpile. I've encouraged that growth, fostered it, picked out its musical events, and given it a preemptive Superior rating.
I welcome my family new members, holding capacities I would love to share in, but would never fully appreciate myself. But she will. And if nothing else, that seems to mean that she deserves it so much more than I ever would.
And I realized, basking in the glow of a far more superior light, that my job is to be the person who lives out the reality of those last two sentences, not with aggressiveness or bitterness, but with the genuine and warm embrace of a "mother hen."
A "beautiful mother hen," mind you.
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