(based on a 37-year-old’s observations of the first week of the fall semester ’06)
If I Were a Young College Student
I would wear a sparkly black tank top with my dingy pink-gray bra straps hanging out. I would not care or notice.
For lunch I would eat a big basket of french fries with chili and cheese on them. My beverage of choice would be a Coke. Repeat throughout the week.
I would stand in the grassy quad in a cotton blouse, long denim skirt and blue-and-white candy-striped socks, rolling a ball over my arms like a hippie rhythmic gymnast. Graceful and oblivious, a quiet and lovely spectacle.
I would converse with you openly in the cafeteria about how I have gotten drunk every night since New Year’s Eve. I would also tell you that I am quitting drinking for the week because I am on antibiotics.
I would wander the halls like a lost soul and ask a perfect stranger, “Where the fuck is my philosophy class?” I would deliver no more details, but would tromp away, sighing.