So I’m walking down Commonwealth Avenue this morning circa 7:30, straight through a center for awkward interactions. It doesn’t help that I am an innately fumbly, mumbly person on the verge of narcolepsy. I have toothpaste stuccoed to my cheek and a mangy case of bed head.
Oh my sweet, sweet bed. Why did I have to leave your warm cocoon? Where am I even going right now? Oh, right — 8 a.m. discussion. I need some caffeine, stat, or else my crotchety professor’s spiel just isn’t going to register. I reach into my pocket and all I find are some crumpled receipts and a smushed cookie.
“I’m gross,” I say, probably a little too loudly because the guy walking awkwardly close to me nods in agreement. I feel something else.
“What’s this? My ID? It’s been months! How have you been my dear hunk of plastic? Have you been in this coat all along? Remember the good ol’ days when we’d frolic at Late Nite?!”
The ID refuses to answer, and I shove it back into my pocket. Awkwardly close guy is now awkwardly speed-walking away. I remember I have dining points. GSU, ho!
I’m waiting to cross Comm. Ave. over by Radio Shack when I see you. You with your beady little eyes, caked makeup and five-inch stilettos. At what ungodly hour did you get up this morning?
I don’t have time to think about it. I need to prepare for our looming interaction. Should I say something? It’s been so long — the last time I saw you was freshman year, when I was holding your hair as you vommed all over that pretty little frat house bathroom. Oh, those were the days. We’d get decked out in our sparkly Jasmine Sola tops and dance on tables.
You were my BFFAE. LOLZ. You were my first Facebook friend! I just knew from the moment I saw you vomming all over Nickerson field at orientation that we’d be pals ’til the end. Come to think of it, I saw you vom a lot during our short-lived friendship. Gross. Remember that time we planned out all of our spring breaks? Junior year was supposed to be Virginia Beach. You ordered us matching gold tankinis with the word “DANK” across the butt. I still can’t quite put my finger on why our connection fizzled.
Oh no, the lights are changing. It’s inevitable now. To look or not to look? I decide to weigh out my options. I could do the standard head nod. It says “What up? I’m too busy to take my hand out of my pocket or open my mouth but I do acknowledge your existence.” I could smile and wave. It says “Hi! I like you! I love smiling at 7:30 in the morning!”
Eh, maybe I shouldn’t stretch it. There’s always the option of actually saying hello. Out loud. Hmm, this is a tricky one. What if you want to stop and talk? Honestly, I don’t really care how your little brother Gianni is doing. Although I am curious to find out what shade of orange he is lately.
I decide to not be a total jerk and choose option three — I’m going to say hello. OK, here goes. I trip off the curb as you clack toward me while yammering something at your equally annoying pal. Now that you’re this close, I can see that you finally got that tattoo. Interlocked Chanel C’s on your neck. Nice. And we have eye contact.
“H-Hey,” I stutter.
You pull out your cell phone and start pushing buttons. Did you just pull the “I’m a very important person on my cell phone” on me?! Girl, I know about that move. I perfected that move. It’s all about the peripherals. The periphs, if you will.
Wow, I can’t believe that just happened. I mean, sure, I may have refrained from the smile and wave but I never once considered pulling the cell phone on you. I guess all those semesters of keg parties meant nothing to you. Ouch. I want my Facebook gifts back.
I stumble on towards the shining beacon that is the George Sherman Union. There’s a Starbucks in there and I need to get caffeinated. I feel so hurt by your indifference. So upset, so empty, so insignificant, so — sweet, there’s no one in line at Starbucks. Oh no, here comes that guy from that elevator that time. To look or not to look?
Isis Madrid, a junior in the College of Communication, is a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press. He can be reached at [email protected].