Collegiate Times

SHE SAID:

I have seen more cleavage than I ever thought possible on the first day of classes.

After a summer of empty sidewalks and class buildings spoiling me, I suddenly find my way blocked by a parade of pretty girls who are too "prettied up." Please, ladies, I implore you - leave your clubbing gear in your dorm rooms. I hate going to my 9 a.m. class feeling like I'm participating in the Guinness Book's largest walk of shame. I don't need a reminder of my past travels somewhere inappropriate in heels. Yes, be proud of your pre-freshman 15 bouncy bosoms, but be proud of them somewhere else aside from the journey to class. How does a girl feel comfortable swinging those things when an older man with a leisure suit hands her a New Testament?

Now, don't get me wrong. I like to get my boobaciousness on now and again. But for me, instead of hiking up the girls and looking party-ready for my first class, my focus centers on just getting to said class on time. For me, that's a struggle in itself.
For the seasoned veteran of several semesters (a number that I will not impart), getting to class is just that. Getting to class. You scrub your teeth, you scrub your face, you pull on those favorite threadbare jeans, and boom, you're ready to get out there and get your study on. You attempt to walk as quickly as you possibly can across campus while avoiding a skull-splitting collision or cursing at bicyclists.

But if you have a moment, you can also take a rewarding break from floundering in the sea of cleavage. Armed with a pair of bulky sunglasses and that piece of Chick-fil-A you've been craving all summer, you can plop your posterior down and engage in my sport of choice - people-watching. (And I'm not worried about the fried chicken. My freshman 15 found me long ago. If you can't beat it, eat it.)

Of course, notable personalities emerge from the pandemonium.

"Future Fratboy Froshie" wears a dirty white hat turned backwards and a popped collar on his polo shirt. He talks loudly enough on his cell phone for all other pedestrians to hear, oblivious to their eye-rolling and blatant eavesdropping. Instead of scoring a hot date with this call, the Triple F-Bomb reveals that he was, in fact, trying to score some extra money from his mother.

"Mary Miniskirt" dominates the walkway with her Chanel bag and Ray-Ban sunglasses, strutting her stuff in a pair of Manolos that, no doubt, her daddy bought for her. Despite her barely-there haute couture, she has accidentally left the price tag swinging from her skirt. Ms. Miniskirt is, sorrowfully, the victim of Future Fratboy Froshie's amorous gaze.

"Eddie Engineer" is a dude who's got comfort down to a science - almost. His bulging backpack indicates that he's already invested in his studies, and he exudes leisure with his scuffed sneakers, cargo shorts and white T-shirt. His only faux pas? His unfortunate choice of headgear - a beaten-in fedora - plastered to his forehead with perspiration. He squints as the sweat rolls into his eyes and stands sadly at the crosswalk while cars slow down to see if he will cross or not.

"Liberal Arts Lenny." His eyes are red and puffy, his hair swirling as if he just rolled out of bed. He sports some jeans dotted with self-worn holes and the T-shirt of some band you're not cool enough to recognize. Surprisingly, he seats himself at a bench opposite of you and pulls down his mirrored aviators.

Instead of watching the fresh bodies undulating past him, he stares directly at you. Or at least you think so. You can't really tell.

For a minute, it crosses my mind that I should be concerned about the Chick-fil-A grease sliding down my chin. But hey, all is fair in the new semester people-watching war, and I'd rather be judged for an indiscretion about some artery-clogging chicken breast than my own breasts.

Continue Reading:  « Previous12