This is what I looked like going to high school every day: a polo, black skirt (tied with a hair elastic on the side so I could wear it lower), an undershirt that did not match, argyle socks and a pair of Doc Martens I have owned since 2002. For thirteen years, I wore a uniform. For thirteen years, I never had to dress myself. Henceforth, on my first day of college I neared an anxiety attack over what to wear to class because I did not know what all the kids were wearing in those days. (Note: I loved wearing a uniform. If it was still socially acceptable for me to wear one, I would not even hesitate for a moment.
When you grow up in Beverly, you spend most of your nights sitting at a park/cemetary and wandering around the neighborhood. You're assumed to be a "Bev-rat":
Bevrat [behv-rat]; noun: A person from the Beverly/Morgan Park neighborhoodFrom these descriptions, one would gather that a born and raised Southside girl would typically have an edge to her--a fighting spirit learned from years of competitive sports and running from the Chicago Police. Typically, this would be true.
who spends their time doing hoodrat things with their friends.
Unfortunately for me, I am not typical.
I would like to tell you that I got this black eye from playing a contact sport. I would like to say "You think this is bad? You should see the other guy!" I would like to say that I'm a tough Southside girl who doesn't take lip from anyone.
But let's remember...I sing show tunes, Irish dance, and was the last picked for the Illini Union Board Musicals baseball team (yes, that's right).
It was my second to last night of being in Champaign, IL and having my own apartment. Naturally, I wanted to go out with a bang!....clearly, when the Big Guy upstairs decided to answer my prayer, I was not specific enough in my request.Direct Quotes Regarding my Black Eye
After a raucous night out with my musicals gang, music prodigy best friend, dance best friend, and myself went back to my apartment to continue the evening. While in my apartment, I had a sparkling moment of clarity: my true calling in life was to be a gymnast.
Mind you, I've can't even do a cartwheel.
Let me set the scene for you:
Dance best friend is standing in front of my coffee table. I am standing about 4 feet behind her. Music Prodigy best friend is sitting on couch, facing Dance. Without notice, I run through my living room and jump on Dance's back, using her as a vault (naturally). Dance ducks, clearly jarred by the fact that a Mary Lou Retton poser just leaped through the air and tried to use her as an inanimate object.
I am now tumbling through the air like a gazelle that has just been poached. Within milliseconds, I skid face-first across the carpeted floor and barrel into the leg of my coffee table, landing on my left eye.
As I lay there, positively certain that I have broken my neck, I quickly forget this has happened. That is, until the next morning, when I awoke to my friends staring at me and simultaneously stating, "YOU LOOK GREAT!"
Guess what? I didn't look great. I looked terrifying.
I think I'll need a little more training before the next Olympic games.
"It's not so bad!"-Aaron Kaplan
"Holy Shit."-Gas station attendant at Mobil on the corner First & Green
"You flew through the air beautifully. YOU WERE FEARLESS."-Lauren Welton
"DID YOU BEAT SOMEONE UP IN A BAR?"-Kath (my mother)
"What did you do...5 rounds with Tyson?"-Jake, my brother's best friend.
