The red X's on my calendar have been accumulating, and that means the day I've waited months for is almost here - WINTER BREAK! There seems to be a general consensus on campus that we're sick and tired of being sick and tired. And dammit, we all deserve a break - even that one sluggish guy in my class who snores and drools in class and once woke himself up with his own loud, lingering fart.
I've got a great break planned - a little Tampa Bowl Game action, a lot of Food Networking and most importantly - time traveling.
I don't know about you, but middle school was a high point in my career, especially near Christmas: I'd have red and green rubber bands on my shiny braces, my hair was just growing back from the semi-lesbianonic haircut my mom insisted I get in the summer and I was recently given permission to shave my peach-fuzzed legs. I liked a boy in my class who would hold my hand, tell me I smelled like cookies and not hit me all that hard when I stole the Kit Kats from his lunch bag. He came to watch me play in my basketball games and bought me a Beanie Baby for Christmas. I frequented the local teen center dances all winter and had a lot of BUDiZES on my buddy list. Looking back, I really don't see how life could get any better.
Every time I go home for a break, I recreate this magic by regressing to my former 12-year-old self. All of a sudden it's cool to crimp my hair, douse myself in body glitter and call my grade school clan from a land line. Before they come over, I bust out my old *NSync posters, blow-up chairs and tear-stained yearbooks with hearts (and later devil horns) adorning Clint Simkin's picture. My girls come over and we hold what we call eighth grade sleepovers"" in my basement, complete with Backstreet Boys sleeping bags and prank phone calls that usually result in someone peeing on a piece of furniture.
At these ""eighth grade sleepovers,"" it doesn't matter so much what we girls talk about it, with the topics ranging from family to new love interests to the recent mistakes we made while drinking and biting our TAs. All that matters is we consume at least 18,000 calories over the course of 24 hours, and that the Backstreet Boy's Millennium CD is on hand and ready to be played.
After throwing back several Hi-C juice boxes, my friend Khrista and I have a ritual: We decide to literally become larger than life. We take turns rolling each other up in blankets and then shoving our bundled, bulky bodies in the largest clothes we can find in my basement, usually something we wore during the fat years (think sixth grade).
Once we begin to resemble human engorged marshmallows we push play on the jumbo boom box. Nick Carter's scratchy, pubescent voice fills the basement as ""Larger than Life"" begins to play, and my friend Leanne videotapes us as we shake our pillowed bellies and perform our own artistic rendition of this classic ballad (you may or may not find evidence of this on YouTube).
During that moment there's serenity. There's no such thing as MG&E bills or exams for classes I've never even heard of.
When I was younger, I couldn't wait until I was old enough to drive, kiss, drink, wear a leather jacket, smoke a cigar and be a professional cheese connoisseur, preferably all at the same time. I wanted to make my life just like a 90210 episode or an Aerosmith video starring Alicia Silverstone. Instead, my life is more like a marriage between ""I Love New York 2"" and Paula Deen's southern home-cooking show.
But now that I am older, even if it's just one night, I like to pretend. And when I look at my friends hanging out in the same basement we first played truth or dare in, I know it's more than enough to get me through another semester.
Ashley is going to miss her new friend Jack Cosier when he graduates this week. If you'd like a shoutout, e-mail aaspencer@wisc.edu.
