Leggings are not real clothes and water is not a food group

(Only re-posted for an hour or so, per a request,but I promise to take it back down immediately....I promise I'm not really this hateful........just experiencing culture shock.)
So I am now in the land of the Eternal Sun.  Or, maybe not Eternal Sun, but definitely Land of Malibu Barbie, the Perpetual Cheerleader.  It's like Dante's tenth circle of hell.  I like it here, really, I do, but I'm definitely a fish out of water in some respects.  I have yet to see a girl on campus who has what could legally pass as hips or thighs.  There is an obsession with working out that is a complete enigma to me-I try to be healthy, but I figure if I can make it up two flights of stairs with a fifteen pound book bag without any vital organs rupturing I'm doing alright.  I don't know if anyone actually eats here, but I do know they drink copious amounts of bottled water.  That's a good thing, just kind of.....abnormal.  All things revolve around the arrival of 'beach weather.'  I left to go to the library the other day and saw someone getting out of her car, wrapped in a beach towel, apparently just having come from the tanning bed.  It was 47 degrees outside.  Frankly, coming from someone who couldn't tan in Africa, it just doesn't look natural for someone to have a tan in February.  It looks like an escaped extra from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.  I expect to hear someone break into the refrain "Oompa, loompha, doom-pa-dee-doo..." at any moment.  The concentration on appearance is much stronger here than where I came from.  People dress up to go to Wal-Mart.  I swear I think I saw Tammy Faye in the grocery section the other week. 


The standard uniform on campus seems to be leggings, which if you ask me are nothing more than glorified panty-hose, fuzzy boots and a t-shirt.  If it's cold enough that you need to wear faux-fur lined shoes, knock-off spandex tights aren't exactly going to keep you from suffering from Donner Party Syndrome.  Before I moved in I had my retinas seared by an unfortunate run-in with a pro-leggings-er.  My mom had gone in somewhere while I waited in the car, as she was only going to be a moment.  Sitting in the car I looked around, killing time and listening to the radio.  The parking space next to me was empty but the one next to it was occupied.  The passenger door was open and someone sporting leggings was digging something out of the floorboard.  The leggings were so tight and opaque that I was traumatized by the sight of neon orange underwear.  If I had an identical twin I wouldn't need to know that much about her, much less a complete stranger.  My mom got in the car and asked with some alarm "Why are your eyes bleeding....?!"  Okay, maybe not really, but it was close.


Then there are the surfers.  I have to admit, I've had to eat my words.  I've always poked some fun at surfers and jocks, but then again, no one has really been spared my defensive sarcasm.  It's kind of like one of Oscar Wilde's characters says, "'You would sacrifice anyone for the sake of an epigram.' 'The world goes to the altar of its own accord.'"  Anyway, some of them may be dumb, yes.  Shallow, probably.  But they still look good.  Very good, as a matter of fact.  However, you can tell their mothers no longer dress them.  Take, for instance, the guy who passed by the desk where I was sitting in the library the other day.  Either he had no idea that what he was wearing insulted the senses, or he just hasn't done laundry in a month.  He was sporting a blue, teal and purple plaid oxford shirt and a black and white vertical striped sweater.  His mother would be horrified to see him in public, I dare say.  Then my opinion of surfers was justified when, due to the lovely weather we had on Saturday, my dad and I drove down to the beach for an hour or so.  We parked in the public parking on the side of the street, right in front of a house where two young men with shaggy hair and surfer shorts (I was in jeans, a thermal shirt and a light coat) were sitting in the driveway in indoor rocking chairs with a carved wooden table obviously also meant for indoor use placed before them with a six-pack on it, drinking beer.  It was 1:30 in the afternoon.  We asked if it was alright to park where we had parked and one of them gave us an unsteady thumbs up and replied "'S all good."  We hoped he was right.


Perhaps I've just become lazy, perhaps I've just capitulated, perhaps (most likely) I just know my own limitations.  I know what I can and can't wear-I might strike it lucky and pull off Audrey Hepburn once in a blue moon, but I'm never gonna be able to manage Heidi Klum.  Looking around I often think of that scene in "An American in Paris" when the cool blonde comes out in this gorgeous evening gown and Gene Kelley says, "Wow.  That's quite a dress you're almost wearing.  What keeps it up?"  "Modesty."  If it requires duct tape being applied anywhere except the busted water pipe, it just ain't happening.  Which is why, when I was getting ready to leave and a friend said, "You know, statistics show that most people who go to grad school meet their spouses there" I thought, "Sure thing.  Let me just schedule that cosmetic surgery and personality transplant and we'll be good to go."  Well, if this is what I've got to compete with, I haven't got the chance of an ice-cube in hell.  Is it upsetting?  Occasionally.  But, my consolation is this: when I get this degree and get a job that will get me to Europe, everybody will be just as short and pasty white as me.  Solidarity, my friends.  Solidarity.  Long live Ireland!  Do me a favor and eat a Thin Mint for me, will you?