All of the greatest artists, authors and musicians endured hardship in their lives. And somehow each cultural contributor has managed to turn strife into poetry. The best art seems to come from these people - people like Van Gogh, Hunter S. Thompson and 50 Cent. This makes me feel devastatingly normal, as the hardest thing I have endured is a two-day hang over.
Call me sick, but ever since I was a little child, I have always wanted to have some sort of disease. I've always wanted to be different, stand out and warrant attention - or better yet, medical treatment.
It may seem strange, but everyone has at least thought about it. Wondering which of your friends would come to the hospital if you got into a car accident, which would send you flowers and who'd steal your boyfriend after you became a paraplegic.
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My obsession with the incurable and irreversible may be traced to the wonderful Make-a-Wish foundation. When my friends and I heard about children who sipped virgin daiquiris with celebrities like Jonathon Taylor Thomas, spent long weekends sunning in Disneyland or played wheelchair basketball with Michael Jordan as pre-death favors, we naturally felt cheated.
Suddenly we didn't want suburbia and sprawling lawns. We wanted glitz and glamour, unlimited supplies of Barbie dolls, *Nsync on speed dial and a guest appearance on ""All That."" Of course at the time, we didn't really understand these ""lucky"" children had to endure excruciating pain prior to their fully financed trips to the moon. And we certainly didn't know about mortality yet.
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I wish I could say I have grown up and realized how lucky I am to be relatively normal and healthy.
I no longer want a debilitating disease to achieve my life goals. Instead, I'd like something more useful, like hypergymnasia.'""This is the ""disease"" that causes people to work out compulsively. It's a blessing if you ask me.
When I got back to school this year, I told myself I needed to catch this disease. So I started what was, for me, somewhat of a rigorous workout schedule. But I soon realized just routinely running on the treadmill wasn't enough - I needed what that girl in the stretch pants next to me had - motivation, a really cute pink sports bra and an unhealthy addiction.
Next week, I was at the gym, working on my fitness while everyone normal was home in bed, when I devised a plan. I came to the conclusion that hypergymnasia might be communicable - if I could come in contact with the right bodily fluids, I would soon be pleasantly afflicted.
So instead of wiping down any of the sweat drenched machines, I licked them clean. I befriended people with unusually healthy bodies and stole their socks, and cooked them for dinner with my skinless chicken breasts. I ""accidentally"" gave a girl in my kickboxing class a bloody nose - and gladly offered my open-sore covered hands as a makeshift Band-Aid. They don't look me in the eye when I go to the SERF anymore.
But working out wasn't emotionally scarring; it was making me more normal. I felt happy and had more energy. It wasn't making me more creative, I still couldn't paint or rap, and when I spontaneously picked up musical instruments, I couldn't play them. All that work, and for what, a half-dozen pairs of delicious, delicious socks?
Maybe the painfully average don't have as much experience to draw from, but there is also something to be said for a calm existence. So maybe I didn't catch the disease I had hoped for - but I'm still going to be a little self-destructive just for the sake of being interesting.
If you found this column interesting despite Ashley's good health e-mail her at aaspencer@wisc.edu._
