""Well, what kind of bathing suit are you getting?"" my mom asked me on the phone, my eyes still sandy with sleep, as I was walked late to my ""History of Rome"" class, late because I had decided to get coffee. It was only early morning, and already my mom felt the need to discuss spring break bathing suit shopping, the only kind of shopping girls don't actually enjoy with their usual unrestricted squeals of excitement, as they pick up and examine a pair of delightfully glittery heels.
""I don't know. I haven't thought about it,"" I said. ""Listen, let me call you b—""
""Because I was going to go to Lucille's and look around for you since you're so busy. You need a suit before the trip.""
Just like it sounds, this store is a boutique for old ladies, housing the kind of bathing suits one might wear if they were 90 or had unfortunate luck of having a body with an unusual hunchback and droopy boobs associated with old age. It's the type of place where old women work and feel no qualms about walking in on a shopper who's trying things on completely naked. After having a 70-year-old go to second base with me, I no longer felt the need to visit that store for anything. Ever. Again.
""Mom, it's OK, I will find time to look for my own bathing suit.""
""Are you sure? Because I just got myself a suit there and it's totally cute, it's got these—""
""Sorry, got to go,"" I said, hanging up on her before her chance to reply.
It's times like these when I feel so annoyed at even those I love most that I wish I had a severe drug problem so I could block out every annoying nuisance—from my overbearing mother to my budget-obsessed father to all the cute men who ignore me. But drugs aren't an option when you don't have a real job or a trust fund that can afford the luxury of purchasing narcotics. For those who are poor, we are forced to turn to entertainment, and if you're really poor or really nerdy and don't have a TV, there are books. Yes, I have a TV, but since the conclusion of ""The Bachelor,"" I found few programs that I haven't already watched. So, I like to read books because it allows me to put in characters from my real life, like my sex-a-licious professor or the cute guy who scoops ice cream at the Union.
I've always been a voracious reader; even when I was little, I couldn't sit through a breakfast without reading every word on back of the Cinnamon Toast Crunch box. And, even today, if I can do something where I can be reading at the same time, I will do it.
I still often read while eating, marking my pages with red-sauce fingerprints, crumbs wedged in the spine. No one ever said reading never gets dirty. Each morning, when I blow-dry my hair, I hold a book with my free hand. Sometimes I set it on the counter, using a random deodorant or perfume spritzer to keep one side of the pages down. If that sounds hard, it's because it is. But without using my precious time during my grooming routine, I wouldn't be able to finish my reading and read books about things I've always wanted to do, like live in the wilderness, take a road trip across the country and befriend a slurry of drunks or screw one of my most debonair teachers, something I'd hoped would happen before my impending graduation.
But you can only escape from the realities of the world for so long before you realize you've been completely avoiding the present. I can't escape prying phone calls from my mother or the fact that my pale skin will be burnt to a crisp on my looming family vacation. But when I go to Target to look for some piece of shit swimsuit, I'll bring my book just in case I need to escape the flimsy bikini tops and seek solace in the pants of my favorite imaginary professor.
If you read Ashley's column to escape your pathetic life, you should see a therapist or e-mail aaspencer@wisc.edu.
