Snow, like small pieces of a pristine quilt, has finally graced Blacksburg. I awoke at 9:30 this morning to see the white stuff falling heavy outside my window. I really felt like I was home, and even now, 7 hours later we still have snow, and i delight in watching the college co-eds making snowmen and angels in the quad. It’s just so child-like, so pure. I guess I just get kind of sick of the whole collegiate, “i’m a grown up” type-deal, which infers that since you are past the age of 18, but not yet 22, you must live according to these rules:
1. Spend Friday nights like an inebriated angel - with a little drunk halo and misty eyes
2. Ask not what your college can do for you, but who at your college you can do
3. Watch Temptation Island, or Real World, or both religiously
4. Randomly make out in obvious places, such as hallways and study lounges
5. Use profanity whenever possible, as if you’re vocabulary isn’t big enough to use alternate descriptors (just because you’re in F-ing college, dude, don’t mean you can talk good)
I guess I’m an old woman, ’cause I don’t dig “the rules.” I mean the most excitement I have going on in my life, at any given time, would involve sitting in my underwear, and eating chocolate icecream while playing snood.
This “domesticness”, as I like to call it, is a bit unnerving at times. I’d like to go out on Friday nights and get all sweaty and have some dude spill beer on me, but then my Martha Stewart side says “No Hänni, you’ll have much more fun drinking berry winecoolers and watching Ren and Stimpy in the privacy of the 12X14 cubby you call ‘home.’”
And I listen to Martha, because well… it’s a good thing.