Despite the lack of decent Lattes, the campus was very articulate in letting me know I was warmly welcome on its grounds. It brought to mind questions like "what was I afraid of?" and "when did I decide this was a bad thing?"
The moisture from the picnic table makes its way through my Wrangler cargo pants, past my Fruit of the Loom boxer-briefs, and sends a naturally moist chill across the canvas of my freshly showered ass. I don't remember it raining this morning.
A caravan of tiny people zig-zag and vanish up the face of that monogrammed mountain you see on all of our T-shirts. Perhaps they are so bored with life this Autumn Sunday that they need to exhaust themselves for a better view of their house. Good for them.
All the plants, labeled with their botanical surname, and all the old red bricks smell like slept upon sheets. The constant pop clack of tightly strung racket wires attacking unappreciated pockets of air imprisoned in fuzzy tennis balls makes me feel that just behind me, people are wasting time.
Somewhere between 20-713 young women walk past me, as if they are nothing more than young women. They visibly struggle to look attractive, failing for all the wrong reasons, and unquestionably succeeding quite on accident.
A social experiment.
"I like your hair."
Silence.
"How is it going?"
Silence.
"That skirt is very pretty."
"Oh, well thank you."
Things are gonna be okay.
