I sometimes liken my time spent in college to four years of very expensive therapy. It's not as if I didn't emerge from school with a degree (albeit in musical theatre), it's just that...well, while my other friends were buying expensive text books and laptops, I was purchasing makeup kits, pretty leotards and tap shoes.
While my other friends were studying science, math, and engineering, I was weaving the space with my body and rolling around on the floor trying to become the color yellow. I can do red, too.
Not that attending the Boston Conservatory** was a picnic by any means. On the contrary, in many ways those four years were the most challenging, vulnerable times I've ever known. I always chuckle when people say that Simon Cowell is mean. Ha! Compared to a few of my teachers that surly man is downright maternal.
But let's face it, I had a blast. I loved being constantly surrounded by all things creative, not to mention all things bizarre. Some schools have pep rallies for spirit week? We had psychics who talked to ghosts. Some schools elect class officials? We gave out awards for best package and biggest boobs. (And which broad do you think was voted class lush, four years in a row, once on a write-in vote? My parents were very proud.) I was even elected Queen my Senior year. I still have the tiara.
One day our proprioceptive movement teacher had our class do an acting exercise where we'd trick ourselves into feeling certain emotions. As in, laughing hysterically until we actually felt happy, or screaming until we felt enraged, basically going through the motions until our minds caught up with our bodies. Picture a handful of theater dweebs running around the room screaming. God I miss college.
It might sound wacky, but I remember this exercise as being really effective. After a few moments of artificial laughing my whole body relaxed and I started to feel unbelievably lighthearted and silly. I saw something similar on Oprah last week that reminded me of this called laughter Yoga.
Being a cerebral, semi-neurotic type of gal, changing my mood from the outside in is a concept that interests me.
We all do it sometimes, don't we? Just the other night my pigsty of an apartment started making me feel nutty. (I was also pms-ing, which didn't help.) So I did a few dishes, arranged some clothes into an orderly pile, drank the chocolate milk Hubby made me and then had a lie down on my heavenly mattress and watched The Golden Girls. (I heart having a DVR in my bedroom.) So the result of cleaning, even half assedly so, was that a neater room made me feel all real better. Chocolate milk helped, too.
I know music can definitely alter my mood, as can clothing. I have outfits I refer to as grown up and others that are kid clothes, each making me feel a certain way.
Although I suppose this whole outside in concept isn't 100% guaranteed. It's quite possible for one to be wearing a dainty pink dress, dainty pink shoes, a dainty pink raincoat and still call people douche bags under my breath. Woops, I mean, one's breath.
Tee hee.
**No, I didn't go to school with Katherine McPhee, but I was there during Constantine's time, and my college roommate/best friend did "know" John Mayer, who we shared the Berklee cafeteria with...but (with the appropriate permission, of course) that's another story...
In the meantime, Dear Reader, please allow this wistful broad to share with you a curiously named yet tasty malt beverage:
As for me, I passed on the Porkslap and enjoyed a glass of Riesling, ate some delectable carbs, and invited my inner musical theater nerd to come out to play. (and interpretive dance, just a little. She doesn't get out much.) 
