The Middle of Things. Meghan Florian

      The Middle of Things

      Essays

      Copyright © 2017 Meghan Florian. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.

      Cascade Books

      An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

      199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3

      Eugene, OR 97401

      www.wipfandstock.com

      paperback isbn: 978-1-5326-0715-8

      hardcover isbn: 978-1-5326-0717-2

      ebook isbn: 978-1-5326-0716-5

      Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

      Names: Florian, Meghan.

      Title: The middle of things : essays / Meghan Florian.

      Description: Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2017 | Includes bibliographical references and index.

      Identifiers: isbn 978-1-5326-0715-8 (paperback) | isbn 978-1-5326-0717-2 (hardcover) | isbn 978-1-5326-0716-5 (ebook)

      Subjects: LCSH: Florian, Meghan | Memoir | Kirkegaard, Søren

      Classification: B4376 .F56 2017 (paperback) | call number (ebook)

      Manufactured in the U.S.A. 04/05/17

      For Laura

      Acknowledgments

      For their unfailing belief in my work and my words, I am grateful to and for . . .

      My family: Mom, Dad, Holly, Andrew, Heidi, and Eric; Laura, my best friend and ideal reader; Ruthan, Katherine, Kara, and Amy; my professors, especially Jim Allis and Jack Mulder; Gordon Marino and the Kierkegaard Library at St. Olaf College; The Collegeville Institute; my Queens MFA family, especially Alpha Krappy Grammar, Suzannah Lessard, Michael Kobre, and Fred Leebron; Lunch Ticket, Rhubarb, and Windhover, where earlier versions of several of these essays appeared; Chapel Hill Mennonite Fellowship; Fullsteam Brewery; and finally, The Shadowboxers, though they may never read this, because if they hadn’t had that sound check party in Minneapolis, I might never have figured out how to begin.

      Camp Kierkegaard

      Sandheden er en Snare: Du kan ikke faae den, uden at Du fanges; Du kan ikke faae Sandheden saaledes at Du fanger den, men kun saaledes, at den fanger Dig.

      The Truth is a snare: you cannot get it without being caught yourself; you cannot get the truth by catching it yourself but only by its catching you.

      —Søren Kierkegaard1

      For the third summer in four years, I returned to Northfield, Minnesota for two precious weeks of writing and research at St. Olaf College’s Kierkegaard Library. This would be my summer vacation. Granted that a vacation spent studying philosophy may sound unappealing to most, the quiet and focus of a small college town in summer was all I wanted as an escape from the other employment that takes me away from my own research for much of the school year. A small town with few distractions outside of the local pub is as nice a place as any I can imagine for such a retreat.

      Still, while I was there, an up-and-coming band I had been following for a few years was playing a show in Minneapolis, and this seemed like an appropriate opportunity to get out of my head for a while, have a few drinks, and dance—to remind myself I am not a word-producing machine, and that vacations are meant to be fun. I’d written 5,000-plus words in my first week at the library, on top of daily marathon reading sessions. I was due for some kind of break.

      I was still hemming and hawing about whether it was worth the hour and a half bus trip each way from tiny Northfield to the city, though, which would cost more than the concert ticket itself, when I got an email from the band’s tour manager informing me I’d won a spot—for myself and a friend—at the band’s sound check party the next day.

      I emailed her back and said it would be just me. I laid aside my copy of The Two Ages and bought my bus ticket. Then my social anxiety kicked in.

      I go to concerts alone all the time, but hanging out with the band? A test of my self-confidence. I texted my best friend, joking about the likelihood of making a fool of myself, and began to stress out about what to wear in order to look less like a nutty professor. (Black skinny jeans, chambray shirt, Birkenstocks—was I trendy or nerdy, with my tortoise shell Warby Parker frames? Is nerdy-chic a thing, I wondered, and if so, can I pull it off?) Lamenting the limited options in my suitcase, I nevertheless got dressed on Friday and headed into the city. Nerves would not stop me. I really liked their music. And they were cute. If I fell on my face in front of them, I would at least get a good story out of it.

      I got to the venue early and milled about awkwardly by the sign where Ginelle, the tour manager, told me to meet her. I considered smoking one of the clove cigarettes in my purse, a vice I embrace on research trips, though never at home, but thought better of it, not wanting my first impression to be wreathed in smoke, even if it would add to the aura of mysterious existentialist I seem to cultivate in spite of myself. Eventually two other women joined me—young women, maybe twenty-two, in high heels and thick make-up that immediately made me want to sink into the sidewalk. I tried to breathe in calm and breathe out cool, as Ginelle walked us in, down the steps to the basement venue. I blinked as my eyes adjusted, tried to make confident eye contact with the band, on stage, where they’d already started warming up.

      I’m the Cool Girl, I thought. Though normally I hate the concept, and all such reductive categorizing of women, I tried to believe it was true. It’s easy to feel cool when surrounded by philosophers, at least some of whom have earned the stereotypes we press upon them. Lots of tweed, elbow patches, receding hairlines, and few small talk skills. The “real” world where I was spending this weekend cast that world in sharp relief.

      The other women introduced themselves. I could sense them moving toward a metaphorical center stage in our impromptu trio of fangirls. In the dwindling days of my thirtieth year, I was aware that the confident cool that took most of my twenties to develop was now already fading into the shadows cast by other, younger women. In ordinary life, I am less Cool Girl or even Smart Girl than I am Invisible Woman. I am no longer simply uncool; now I am aging. If you were never the hot one to begin with, wrinkles certainly aren’t going to improve matters.

      Did I mention these musicians were cute?

      I rocked back and forth in my Birkenstocks, smiling shyly. I love this band’s music, and I’m not one to base my fandom on physical attractiveness, but I’m not blind. Or maybe it’s just that anyone who can harmonize like these guys is attractive to me, regardless of aesthetic realities. Maybe they’re not even that cute, rather their voices had addled my brain. Perhaps it’s just that inexplicable quality Kierkegaard’s Young Man drones on about in “In Vino Veritas”—“if love is ludicrous, it is just as ludicrous whether I find a princess or a servant girl,” he says.2 In my case, one might paraphrase: a crush is just as ludicrous whether he be a musician or a philosopher.

      All of this only served to make me nervous, now that I was in the same room with them, now that they were taking song requests, from me (and the pretty young things in their tall shoes).

      We sat on stools in the back as they played, and I loosened up. They were funny, the guys in the band. Normal guys, not rock stars—the kind of guys I might have hung out with in college, I thought. College—longer ago for me than for them. They bantered from the stage, and their banter had a relaxing effect on me, my stress releasing with each laugh.

      They