Night and Day.

Being in grad school, I am conditioned to have two modes: on and off. For ten to twelve hours of the day, I'm on campus with the switch turned to 'on' but the second I stumble into my apartment in the evening, all bets are off. In fact, I find myself only capable of the basics, such as:

• Cooking, sort of. I can generally manage to pour myself a bowl of cereal, and if I'm feeling particularly cheeky I can punch in a few numbers into the microwave. This is why cooking on the weekends is vital, unless I want to have a 5-day date with Cheerios.
• Checking voicemail. I am, however, not capable of returning these messages.
• Occasional grunts.
• Lying horizontally, whether on my couch or bed or sometimes, in worst case scenarios, in the middle of my living room floor. Sitting and standing are completely and utterly out of the question.
• My apartment, for inexplicable reasons, does not allow dress attire and therefore I am usually in pajamas within 4.5 seconds of walking in the door. I am not, however, capable of putting away said dress attire which hangs out in a heap near the corner of my bedroom.

If On-Campus Laura ever met Off-Campus Laura, she'd probably be taken aback. Weren't you just running around like a crazy person a few hours ago? Where's the wit? Where are your pants? I haven't heard you say anything remotely intelligible since you got home.

Today's joie de vivre is what makes On-Campus Laura possible: the 8-hour night of sleep... expendable for some, but a requirement for me. I'm the person who gets really jazzed about going to sleep. Someone who, at 10 o'clock, is hurriedly brushing her teeth so she can jump into bed. I have the gift of a pillowtop mattress and the ability to fall asleep in under three minutes; I take neither for granted.

I tip my hat at those who can get four hours of sleep and still say coherent things the next day- I am in awe of your existence. Still, I get a little too much joy from a good night's sleep to trade places with you. Bonne Nuit.

My Joie Club.

A couple years ago, I visited my friend Liz in Korea where she lived for a year teaching English. Early into the trip we spent an afternoon wandering around Gyeongbokgung Palace, admiring the odd animal statues and flurry of tiny Koreans girls, giggling into cupped hands. Gyeongbokgung is smack dab in the middle of a busy area of Seoul so it was interesting to look right and see an ancient temple, and then immediately to your left you could see a giant skyscraper with scrolling advertisements.

"It's an interesting juxtaposition, isn't it?" Liz asked. "I think juxtaposition might be my favorite word.... what's yours?"

"...Sandwich," I responded.

I might have dropped the intellectual level of that conversation considerably that day, but it's the truth. Sandwich is a great word. A great food, too. For those of you who read Stuff White People Like, you might recall that expensive sandwiches made the list and I can't even begin to raise argument with that. I like sandwiches - especially the expensive ones. The truth is, no matter what kind of sandwich is, I have a theory that it will always tastes better when someone else makes it.

So the day I discovered Ninth Street Deli, a sleepy little Mom and Pop operation carrying the sandwich known as the North Village Club? Well, let's just say I've already decided I will never find a better sandwich. Ever. Forget it. Columbia, Missouri might not be the eighth wonder of the world, but what it lacks in glamour it makes up for in sandwiches.

After a long day of work and class, I usually grab the North Village Club to-go with a pickle, but the walk home seems like an eternity. So if you're ever on that side of town and you see me speeding towards my apartment with a stupid grin on my face, just assume I have precious cargo in my backpack. And don't even bother trying to get my attention until I am down to just the crumbs - I can only focus on one joy at a time.

joie de vivre: a music entry.

The first time I heard Bon Iver, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up tall. I was left in what I can only describe as a musical stupor - who the hell is this and how many times can I hit 'replay' before I start pissing off the neighbors?

Bon Iver is today's joie de vivre because listening to him is like walking through fog or staring up at misty street. It's haunting, it's beautiful, it's poetry. It reminds you what music is capable of.

Justin Vernon wrote his first album one winter in the northwoods of Wisconsin, sequestered in a remote cabin - and you can hear that in his voice, in his lyrics. Even if you didn't grow up braving freezing cold and dark winters, anyone can relate to the feeling of winter. It's desolate and beautiful. It's lonely and comforting. Most of all, it makes you stand up and take notice of your surroundings instead of letting it all slide into the periphery.

Good day, sunshine.

Today's joie de vivre is that first warm day in the winter which reminds you spring is just around the corner.

It's the sight of those hopeful folks in shorts who clearly are jumping the gun but can be admired for their forward-thinking anyway.

It's the downtown which seemed to have woken from its hibernation and the hipster crowd who've returned to their places outside the coffee shop, lazily stumming guitars and carrying on quiet conversation. Even the hipster dogs have taken their place back on the sidewalk, sniffing alongside storefronts and looking all together pleased for having found such hip, progressive owners.

It's the ice cream shop which opened up its doors a few weeks early on account of the weather and the steady stream of patrons going in for their first dish of mango ice cream.

Like most people with a pulse, I'm a firm believer in new beginnings, and spring, if anything, is just that. I have long thought that New Years was oddly placed on January 1st. Who can be hopeful and resolute towards change in a time of year so dark and cold? If the new year began when things were actually looking new, maybe I'd have more success with that whole self-improvement thing.

This warm spell we had today will likely not last. The groundhog saw his shadow, after all. But warm days remind us (or tease us) about warmer days ahead... and I can't argue with that.

Yoga for the awkward.

If a stranger met me on a crowded street, I can guarantee that a thought running through his or her head as we crossed paths would not be, "My, there goes a particularly graceful and flexible young lady." I am neither of these things, quite frankly. My gait is awkward at best, and because of a condition I was born with my balance is all but on permanent vacation. Maybe that's why I'm drawn to those who can fold themselves in half or gracefully balance upon one foot with their arms stretched towards the sky... maybe it's just the manifestation of my jealousy issues.

The truth is, people practice yoga for a lot of different reasons. For some it's strength training; for others, it's a ways to keep stress at bay. I suppose the reason why I keep dragging out the blue mat is a combination of the above reasons, but also for the simple fact that it brings me to some sort of awareness of this thing I call my body. For some reason, breathing in through my nose and tripping over my feet as I attempt to get into downward dog position reminds me that when you strip away all the noise, it's just you and your body. When you're only left to concentrate on your breathing and the movements of your body, it can clear out the cobwebs. Today's joie de vivre is yoga. Not because I'm any good at it, not because I'm some hippie-in-training. It's because yoga pulls life a little bit into perspective... sort of the same way it pulls at your hamstrings: it can be uncomfortable, but overall it loosens you up and makes you feel good.