We crossed over the turnpike and my body shifted in the taxi as we rounded a corner. I ignored the scratches made in the back of the seat, 'boston sucks', and turned down the window. My eyes lifted towards the sun and I saw, in all its billboard glory of bold black letters and a snow white background,
Marc Jacobs
81 Newbury
oh yes, I picked the right city.
Or at least, that's what I thought. My thoughts were nervous but hopeful as the taxi took us to the Hyatt, only a 15 minute walk across the BU Bridge [one of the few places in which a plane can fly over a car driving over a train moving over a boat] from my soon to be home for the next four years. With minimal energy, I was thrust into orientation amongst a group of people who I would be reluctant to call my friends. The rest of the week would be spent touring the city of Boston, listening to countless lectures on things such as safety and payment plans, and 'bonding' with my new acquaintances in the tight quarters of the subway and the classrooms where we completed placement tests in more than stressful environments. As ready as I was to leave after soaking up the agonizing phonetic variances between the soft curls of the south and the bostonian accent [read: "car keys" is pronounced as "khakis"], I couldn't wrap my head around one miniscule detail.
Where are the pretty people?
I know I'm a judgmental bitch from time to time. Everyone already knows that who has been introduced to even an inkling of my personality or has read my latest blog rants. But high school and the south in general have given me unreasonable expectations about beauty. I figured that in a big city like Boston everyone would be morphed by the subliminal and not so subliminal messaging of the media promoting to a great extent the idea of anorexia but not limited to designer underwear or even our vocabulary. Obviously I was not regarding this phenomenon to bear the equivalence of my high school where babies popped out with sublimely sculpted faces and 100 bucks tucked in their diapers but I assumed that diversity was a pretty thing.
However, I couldn't have assumed farther from the truth. As I was split from my parents and shoved in a banquet hall with a portion of my future classmates, I was slapped, rather punched, in the face by the shockingly accurate definition of 'diversity'. It was, in fact, very diverse. Who knew? My naive view of the world was smashed to pieces through the progression of the day as I intently scanned the crowds from acne to beer gut to a large percentage of social misfits. I didn't believe I was being prejudiced because in no way was I belittling their self-worth, intelligence, or disposition. All of the people I met were quite friendly, which is normal to find in an environment where everyone is scouting out for a security blanket. However, it was in plain sight that the physical attributes of the people around me clashed with those below the mason-dixon line.
For the first time in my life I was struck with how royally screwed up my environment and attention to the media has made me. It went beyond a shallow nature and a tendency to judge. I had crossed over into an inherent political incorrectness. I am psychologically fucked up if I refuse to converse with a human being who may happen to be physically... shall we say, unfortunate? Furthermore, it's sad to think that my happiness depends on the aesthetics of one's face. I should also mention at this point that I fully recognize that I'm sure as hell not a conventional blonde bombshell but nonetheless, I have certain attributes that can win someone over apart from my personality. And although I'm secure with my body, enough so to flaunt it when desired, if I looked differently I think my personality would change. First impressions are very much based on what we look like and subconsciously we are more likely to want to converse with a prettier person. I feel, in a way, it makes us feel more secure with ourselves to know that an attractive person is talking to us; we are their focus of interest if only for a few seconds. So if this has some grain of truth to it, is it possible that the only reason I'm secure with myself is because I have had the backing of a pretty population all of my life?
I stumbled on this question for a lengthy amount of time while simultaneously cutting conversations short and participating mindlessly in group name games. Fortunately, I met a girl from Romania who was not born and raised in the North [jackpot!]. Oddly enough, she was quite pretty in her bohemian chic. After much pleading to the rents to skip the evenings activities, I lost and was forced to join again with my familiar group. I tagged along with a group of people, including my new bohemian friend, to a local burger restaurant in Harvard square. The seven of us slid into a booth and I somehow found myself squished in between a barely understandable foreign exchange student and a nymphomaniac. Between the grunts and the moans I couldn't find a word in edgewise and frankly, I didn't want to. That is until the table was thoroughly molested by the words of our very own sex fein. While waiting for our food to arrive, the girl to the right of me who was no exception to my recent discovery insisted that everyone go around and name three things that they are addicted to. I had never heard of this game... but participated anyhow. The girl pointed to me [notice the name games did not do much for my memory] and I began to stutter.
Me: "Ummm, I don't really know what I'm addicted to? I guess, okay, well I like music, John Mayer! Yea, I love him. Umm, [giggling uncomfortably] I love reading and I love writing, there we go."
Nympho: "Cool, okay you're up next", pointing to a scraggly guy sitting across the table from me.
"Mmm, I like the Red Sox, big fan. I love sports in general and burgers!
After everyone had pumped out three things, the nympho took the stage.
Nympho: "Okay, my turn! I enjoy watching the Red Sox too! I enjoy playing music. And I enjoy.... booty.
[insert open jaw here]
Unbeknownst to me, "booty calls" was apparently polite dinner time conversation. I realize the term "polite" is to be used liberally amongst a group of upcoming college freshman but there's no doubt that the topic of conversation went to the extremes of an 'ice breaking' game. As the table sat speechless, Miss Booty continued on about her satisfaction that she had gotten some last week so it was all good! Thank goodness because I was beginning to think that she was a prude...
After being thoroughly doused in verbal STD's I spent the majority of last day of orientation sitting in the comfort of Starbucks. I peared out the window and sighed with relief; this was the first moment I'd been able to get away from everyone and everything. My eyes glazed over the "T Train" as it rolled past and admired the Victorian styled Commonwealth Hotel across the street. Within seconds of this "spectacle de la rue" I became fully aware of the fact that it was only when I was by myself that I felt like I belonged. I knew it couldn't stay this way but I longed desperately for the soothing accent of a boy from the south and a worn baseball cap tipped forward. is that too much to ask? At this point I'm thinking my best bets are to abstain from sex or become a lesbian but given that neither of these options are in my line of desire I'm thinking I'll just have to dig my head out of society's ass. As my fellow southie said when I called him, my voice deep in sadness and expletives, "people are people". So while I may have to adjust to the culture shock of less than agreeable faces and unexpected greetings of penis whiplash, I will survive.
Side note:
DON'T READ IF YOU'RE EASILY DISTURBED BY THE FEMININE REPRODUCTIVE SYSTEM:
The crimson wave has hit and I need meds. Can I blame my untimely bitchiness on the monthly mayhem? I don't think so but I feel like my uterus is housing a rhino so I really don't care. Have a nice day.
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