sparkles and subtlety

I'm sick. bleh. It's just a cough and I'm on a z-pack and all will be well, but for the time being I'm just a little less than thrilled. It's ok though I've been able to lounge today and miss class and even though I have a fair bit of work to do it will be done at a leisurely pace from the comfort of my covers and all will be well.

I spent this weekend visiting a friend who attends Bucknell University. I didn't get to see too much of the school, or Maroon 5 for that matter (but that's another story) but it was great to see my friend and have a change of pass from the chaotic Vassar humdrum. I know that seems like a gross oxymoron, but I think it's true. Vassar is alive with activity. There are the proactive students and the chronic stress baskets scurrying about as if the apocalypse were at their heels. (speaking of which I saw 2012 this weekend. it was entertaining, but dumb) Anyway, it seems like there's constant rotation of events and work and parties and activity that eventually start to mush together into the same old thing every week, and thus you get humdrum out of chaos. Sounds like a creation myth, doesn't it?

My, oh my! Look how we've deviated. Back to the story, which I must confess isn't as much of a story as it is a vehicle for the possibly the greatest one-liner I've ever heard in my life. So, I'm in Lewisberg Pennsylvania. It's cute. It's no Poughkeepsie, but it'll do. We park in town and mosey into what can only be described as a pack rat's wet dream. It was a sprawling dingy metropolis of various antiques and crafts that would make anyone's grandmother weak in the knees.

Now, antiques aren't my thing (although artifacts are. Go puzzle that one out.), but I did come out of the ordeal with a fantastic purchase. Nestled in the corner of christmas knick-knacks station was a shrine dedicated to the women of the Red Hat Society. Among the broad red rims and purple flowers and feathered accessories was one lone simple baseball cap. Of course, in order to catch my eye there had to be something special about this cap, and indeed there was. The brim was a rich purple, the rest, a saucy red, and the whole damn thing was covered in sequins. Delicious.

I placed it on my head, stomped over the register and with a grin on my face contemplated my great fortune to come upon such a treasure. As I fidgeted in line, I played with the cap and invented a full host of ingenious ways it could be styled for any occasion. You could flip the brim for some hipster appeal, or wear it backwards for street-cred, or even off to the side to signify that you're just that cool. I even concluded that it could be worn inside-out for a more subtle effect.

Of course, each of these discoveries was vocalized and demonstrated for the sake of the entire market, and upon vocalizing the most demure way to don my gay apparel, the woman behind me in line leaned in, parted her sagely lips, and noted, "When you like sparkles, there's no such thing as subtle." And I'll let that speak for itself.

the Trouble With Light-up Shoes

Oh goodness! I can't believe that I didn't blog once in October! I've actually been in something of a production rut. Between Fairy Tales, and Composition, and even a bit in the Misc. I just haven't been putting out work like I was in September. I blame it on October break.

Break always throws me off. I think the combination of midterms coming up against blogging and finding some me time just really throws the world off balance. I'd been so good about all of my classes and my extra curriculars and then Break has to pop up and mess everything up. So, that is my excuse and I'm standing by it. In the mean time. Enjoy what you're getting, because I haven't been feeling like a very committed blogger lately. I'm sure it's just a phase.

Alright here's a small anecdote that's been festering in my brain for a while. It was an average Friday or Saturday night. It was during that awkward phase where the weather was warm enough for TH parties to be conducted outdoors. So there was just this throng of people congregating around a picnic table lazily watching beer pong, but mostly complaining about how bad the parties have been these year. I can't disagree with that sentiment, but that is neither here nor there. I was doing the rounds looking for familiar faces, when to my delight I made eye contact with a friend, don't ask me who, and made my way over to him/her.

So far, so good. There was a party, a slight buzz, and I'd found a friend. Things were looking up. Now the crowd was pretty thick and I began the stilted journey from my position, through the masses, and towards my mark. This was not terribly offensive. Standard weekend fair really, so I began to wade through crowd employing the gentle tactic of placing a hand either on a shoulder or a lower back as I mumbled an apology and sidled on through. This common strategy for moving forward through the masses was going smoothly, and I was almost out of the mob when suddenly I feel a shove.

I could hardly believe my senses. My first reaction was to look for a hidden friend who had pushed me in jest. But there were no such friends to be seen. Then I figured some asshole was giving me shit and I began to foam at the mouth thinking of how I could turn this into a battle for the forces of tolerance and equality, but that wasn't the case either. It was just some stupid bitch who couldn't wrap her mind around that fact that people may need to get by you when you're standing comatose in a crowd on a weekend night at a party. Of course all of these thoughts came at a rapid fire pace, so as I turned I reached out to grab her by the ponytail, reign her in, and give her a little lesson in party etiquette, but my hand came back empty. She was gone.

In hindsight this story isn't very exciting, but in the moment it seemed entirely blog worthy. I have no idea who this girl is, and I think this is just one of those memories that has real staying power. She'll always be the one who got away.

Now onto the section that harkens to the title of this post.

I'm sorry to take things in a bathroom related direction again, but some of my best thinking and funniest moments occur in those hallowed tiled halls. I've always loved to sing in the shower or drape my towels in creative ways indulging my inner fashion designer, and I think these are relatively common practices, but I may be traveling off the beaten path when it comes to toilet seat philosophizing.

The image of the armchair philosopher is pretty firmly engrained in the mind of the modern academic. It is an idealization of the thought process fully equipped with mahogany paneling, towering bookshelves, and a crackling fire. Unfortunately I've only ever been able to nap in such an environment. Instead the sterile (wishful thinking, I know!), slick, surfaces of the bathroom are the perfect stimulants for mental activity. There’s something about the tranquil communication with nature that makes for a stimulating environment. The second my tush hits the seat, my mind races off, traveling and branching and exploring the infinite amount of things that there are to think about. It’s as if the secrets of the cosmos are at my fingertips, but it’s usually over before I discover anything quite so momentous.

My latest bout of such epistemologically enriching puzzlings led me to the conclusion that being "the kid with the light-up shoes" is not always easy. I hardly doubt that you’ve already come to this conclusion yourself. Being a celebrity is something that can only be understood by a lucky few. I have to maintain an image, remain intangible, but still be relatable. Get it? Now, I don't mind being recognized. Some people were simply built to be public figures, but the previous statement may need some refining. I don't mind being recognized in public, on the streets, at the deec, in an airport, anywhere really... except the bathroom. As I contemplated this very thought while perched upon a throne of porcelain, I couldn't help but noticing that both of my shoes were glowing at full brightness. It’s not easy glowing green when you’re in the middle of a private moment. This meant that anyone who entered the bathroom, nosing around for a vacant toilet, would know exactly who the funny noises in the last stall from the left were coming from. I'm sure you can imagine why this is troubling.

As much as I love attention, there has to be a limit. I cannot abide feeling as if I’m under scrutiny every time I go to the bathroom in glowing sneakers. Things get particularly embarrassing when I forget to turn the light on. It’s like a washroom disco. Now, I know that I could simply turn them off, or wear different shoes to the bathroom, or no shoes at all, but despite any potential embarrassment, I am first and foremost true to myself. I love my shoes. I love the way the their glowing green light dances on the tiled floor, and I can’t be bothered to care if you know how regular I am. I am the kid with the light-up shoes, and If that means that means losing a bit of privacy, then so be it! Flush!