HE SAID:
The Blacksburg summer was delightful, and you all have ruined it. Well, I only halfway mean that. I certainly liked parking in your reserved spots, walking the centerlines of empty roads home from bars, and the silence that replaced dying animal grunts from roided hulks at the gym.
But really, I'm jazzed for you to host out-of-control parties and, maybe more importantly, prepare for me that coma-inducing turkey sandwich at Blue Ridge Barbeque or that infant-sized burrito at La Cantina. (I'll leave the ABP tomato basil bisque soup to the daintier population).
With those joys in mind I've biked to campus these first few days. Rides that have been, for the most part, terrible.
The past few months I've been able to glide freely down Kent Street like Meg Ryan in "City of Angels," except I did it with my eyes open and didn't hit a logging truck. Herds of students at crosswalks now turn to me wide-eyed, reacting like I'm a Scud missile seeking to dismember them. They try dodging and juking like Clinton Portis, managing only to make it awkward for everyone within a 10-foot radius.
You are hurting the situation. I have brakes. We can work together.
I've ditched the bicycle for short strolls between classes, and oh, how the lost newbies have provided some solid comedy. They walk confidently only to lurch to abrupt stops, confusedly spinning around like Jennifer Love Hewitt in "I Know What You Did Last Summer."
"What are you waiting for, huh?!"
Well if that's your attitude, you'll get no directions from me. I'll just compliment your pirouettes. I actually had a girl ask me where Slusher Tower was.
Um. It's ... a tower.
Yes, I realize I've referenced two late '90s movies. It proves I'm ancient. The 1992-borns among us were just learning addition while Ryan Phillippe was taking hooks to the sternum.
But forget about that pretty boy. How about Virginia Tech's pretty girls?
As professors have droned through their syllabi, it's been a prime time to explore the surrounding eye candy. And as a communication major, I'm a gender minority; my courses are overflowing with estrogen.
I should be putting out the vibe, tossing winks at will and stretching in my chair to reveal the (nonexistent) gun show. But I'm no Vinnie Chase; my game is slim. Instead I've been staring in awe at that psychedelic screen saver on computer lab Macs like it's an octopus seduction dance. I wouldn't be surprised if I shook the mouse and eHarmony's sign-up page was waiting. But I've snuck in glances here and there, no doubt. The fashion scene is intense - victims of the try-hard-then-give-up phenomenon.
In the mornings, ladies hit the Drillfield like a catwalk with their sculpted hair resting just above their nearly chest-high WWE belt that grips an intricate graphic top barely covering their buns.
The only thing preventing a mooning are leggings that stop just before sandals they've clearly stolen from Cleopatra's tomb. The complex, shiny network of straps look like boa constrictors wrapping their ankles.
I'm waiting for the Hermes model that enables flight. I might actually buy some of those.
On the other hand, dudes hike up shorts that were already lying on their floor, snag a shirt from the drawer's top layer and slide into shoes closest to the front door.
Ladies will eventually follow suit, though, arriving in their middle school recreational league basketball jerseys dotted with ice cream stains from break-ups past along with baggy PJ pants tucked into - sigh - Uggs. (It's my Christmas wish for that trend to die.) Their messy hair will look like they were mauled by grizzly bears during every REM cycle. But it manages to be endearing, cute. Guys understand. Most of us aren't worth the weekday effort.
Well, the weekend is upon us, and it's time to impress. Friendships have been made and reunited, and routines are falling into place. Here's to the first round of bad decisions and hangovers. FML is waiting for your debauchery.
I remember driving down Main Street one weekend morning, and out my window I saw a girl navigating the sidewalk, cocooned in a comforter, clearly devoid of an outfit.
That was awesome. I haven't seen it topped.
Any contenders?
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.