June 16, 2003
Mary-like-Jane
Mike is downstairs beating his truck with a hammer in order to get rid of a dent. There is something rather paradoxical about this.
It's been a long day. My little excursion to Miami turned into the Business Outing from the Seventh Realm of Hell. Upon first arriving, I was mildly comforted by the familiar streets, and the memories of racing up and down them to and from class, jeans soaked to the knee in the frequent rains, backpack over-full with more miscellaneous materials than actual college school books.
Exactly 16 seconds later I remembered exactly why I hate Miami.
Yuppies. Everywhere. In their fucking SUVs making frantic left turns, cutting off traffic, going 25 in the 35 MPH zone, parking in every damn available spot including the one you saved by placing a rather conspicuous collection of your belongings in.
But I'll get to that.
So I immediately realize that I have come on a most inopportune day: Freshman Orientation. How was I to know? First things first, I drive uptown to the library, only to have the librarian look at me like I am a damn fool. My books are late, I have fines, they reported me to a credit agency. I received nothing in the mail, and I am informed that this is my problem because I never gave them my address.
I think, as a business, prick, that's your responsibility?
I didn't say that. I should've. Instead I meekly paid my fine and thanked him.
He's still a prick.
I drive to the CAB building for the only semi-satisfying experience of the excursion, my meeting with the financial aid counselors. They are their usual Ice Queen selves, but are helpful, in an upper-class-degrading-gaze sort of way. Hopefully I have finally gotten that matter in hand.
On to the Shriver Center. After perusing all the parking in the vicinity and finding not a single unoccupied spot, I park illegally, leaving a note underneath of my windshield wiper: "I am running into Shriver Center to sell my books. I am not here for orientation. Please don't give me a ticket. I can't find anywhere to park."
Run in, only to be told by the only visible employee in the bookstore that he doesn't know how to buy back books. No one does, that is, except for the woman who so conveniently happens to be at lunch. She'll be back in a half an hour, would I like to wait?
I almost start to cry.
Run out, finding, to my surprise, an open spot roughly ten feet from where I am currently not-really parked. I stack my books and my purse in said spot, and sprint to Spartacus (the truck). In the 25 seconds it takes me to drive over to this spot, someone else has parked, over top of my stuff, and is walking away. I shout for the gentlemen, who looks at me like I am crazy.
"O, is that your stuff?" He asks, only to later say, once he has returned it, grease smeared, "Does this mean I have to give up my spot?"
Fuck, no, fucker! Keep it! I don't want to park anyway! I'd like to drive around for another fifteen minutes and maybe I can get into an accident and one of you yuppie fuckers can buy me a new car!
I finally find a spot in Bachelor, walk back to the Shriver Center to wait around for Lunch Lady to return. Wait. Wait. Pick out a Harry Potter agenda that I'll certainly have enough money to cover once I sell my books, a mere 10.95 for wizardy goodness.
When Lunch Lady finally returns, she scans each of my four books.
"That's nine dollars."
"Nine dollars!"
I kid you not, this was two hundred dollars worth of books when purchased. They would, apparently, have been worth more if I had sold them at the end of Spring semester. Gee, thanks for letting the student body know. What a true self centered Miami spirit.
It was two hours that felt more like eight. In addition to all of this, it didn't help that my waning confidence was nearly all but snuffed out by the familiar prototype of the Miami Girl. I felt instantly foolish in my pleated skirt and princess sleeves, my Mary-like-Janes and gypsy earrings. Who was I anyway? Not a size six. Not a sorority girl. Not a blonde, not even a brunette with appropriate auburn highlights and coloured contacts. I wasn't even wearing foundation, for the love of The Almighty Cover Girl.
It's just sad, that's all. I'd been feeling pretty in my new collection of skirts and my wild curls. I realize now that it's not a new found confidence, just a change of environment.
I feel like I've gained weight, too, which is more than likely the most psychological difficulty of all. What do I do, however, to combat these feelings of supreme ugliness?
Drink chocolate milk.
astera at 11:26 p.m.