I had class at 8 a.m. this morning.
I planned my school clothes the night before, so it was
supposed to be easy: wake up, put on clothes, leave apartment and walk to
class. I had intended to wear a pair of shoes (flats, mind you) that I know to
be uncomfortable (from a terrible night spent waiting tables in them), so I packed a spare pair of comfies in my school bag.
Thing is, I’m basically a moron before 11 a.m.
Thing is, I'm basically a moron.
Thing is, I'm basically a moron.
I forgot sunscreen, I didn’t eat anything, and my coffee mug
was dirty and I wasn’t sure I could take coffee to class anyway (nothing like
getting reprimanded on your first day with a new professor).
But Professor E was holding a hot cup of Starbucks
throughout his lecture and between staring at it, rubbing my eyes, and sucking
in my stomach every time I felt a huge, orchestral rumble come on, I felt very ill-prepared
for my second day of graduate school. Ill-prepared, jealous, stupid, and my
feet already hurt.
After class, some of my new friends and I walked over to a
local cafĂ© for breakfast. Apparently, they’d all eaten because while they
ordered coffee and toast or "just a latte," I had an omelet with a side of bacon
and a side of black beans and about four cups of coffee.
Then we went to class number two. By this time there was a
decided hitch in my giddy-up because left foot was threatening to kick that
shoe in the garbage (left foot is definitely the bigger/dominant foot). But we
made it to the lecture, and I even made it to the bathroom during the lecture
(to relieve myself from what had indeed been, upon close calculation during the lecture and while holding my pee, four cups of coffee)—a bathroom
that is either three miles from the lecture hall or which there was an easier
way to find that I don’t know about (probably the latter).
After second class, I decided to be pro-active and get my
student ID. Fast-forward to me standing in line for 40 minutes, one shoe off,
playing Sudoku on my phone and praying that my left foot wouldn’t get all
comfortable outside of the shoe and then refuse to go back in it.
(Side note: in my student ID photo I look like a fucking
hipposaurus.)
So I started walking home, finding some lovely, shaded paths
behind the main drags of campus, and attempting to take in the scenery and
pretend that I didn’t feel the need to limp. I’d gone about a quarter mile
before I realized that I’d been walking south instead of east, effectively
making my trip a good half-mile longer than it had to be. I no longer pretended
not to limp. I had to make a conscious effort not to crawl. Or take my damn
shoes off all together. But hell, it was over 100 degrees, so I knew the
sidewalk wasn’t going to do me any favors. At that point I didn’t even mind
looking like a hillbilly, I just didn’t want my feet to suffer any worse pain
than the current moment.
I kept up a brave front. I used all my old acting skills and
acted like I didn’t want to lay down on the ground and scream (yay, Theatre degree!).
I saw some neat parts of campus and cool kids in groovy clothes and people with
booths promoting their yachting clubs, crew clubs and weird Asian nerd frats.
But I couldn’t enjoy a moment of it. It felt like my left pinky toe was being
slowly sawed off my foot.
Things went on like that for about a mile before I realized,
“Holy shit. I have a spare pair of shoes in my bag!”
I immediately sat down on a curb and took my shoes off. My
left foot was bloody in several places and I had brand-new, bright-red
blisters. (I’d pre-bandaged my toes, but that didn’t help either—the blood was
dripping into my shoes.)
Blood spilling out of my unassuming flat. Ubiquitous Texan insects running for their lives. |
New shoes on, I felt moronic again. Who in god’s name
intentionally packs a spare pair of comfy shoes and then completely forgets
about them after walking for 3 miles in shoes full of bloody blisters?
I’ll tell you who: the same gal who didn’t put sunscreen on her paper-white ass before spending multiple hours in the midday Texas sunshine. The same girl who
eats string cheese for dinner because she doesn’t bother to plan or cook a
meal…ever. The same girl who will probably die of a combination of skin cancer,
malnutrition and gangrene in the next 3-to-6 months if she doesn’t get her act
together.
Maybe most importantly: the same gal who wears heinously painful shoes to school in the first place. Sigh out loud.
Maybe most importantly: the same gal who wears heinously painful shoes to school in the first place. Sigh out loud.
I’m guessing that I won’t be able to move around much
tomorrow. But look forward to butt-loads of future complaining.
*Romy and Michele's Highschool Reunion (David Mirkin, 1997).