This wasn't because I was not smart, but because my parents told me where I had the option of going.
They took a map of Indiana.
"This," they pointed, indicating the great state of Indiana, "is where you can go. You can go all the way up here to Valparaiso, or all the way down here to Evansville. You can't go to IU or Ball State because those are party schools. You'll fail out. And we can't afford Notre Dame."
With my options severely limited, I decided that efficiency was the best route, maintained a solid B+ through high school, and resigned myself to two more years in the crappy Midwest. (I struck a deal with my parents that if after two years I had an A average, I could transfer elsewhere.)
Our church had a "Catholic College and Career Fair" showcasing colleges from the region. My parents conceded that it would be OK for me to attend an out of state (Ohio) college, apparently, as long as there were priests there.
(Because priests make it all better I guess.)
We went from table to table picking up various brochures, until we came to St. Mary’s of the Woods. It didn't take a lot of deduction and reasoning skills do determine the following:
1. These were nuns.
2. The nuns were in the woods.
3. Therefore, the situation was not conducive to meeting hot college guys.
"Have you given thought to St. Mary’s?" asked one nun, as we passed by.
"Um no, I sorta had my mind set on Xavier[1]," I said.
"What are you going to major in?" she asked.
"I'm undecided," I replied. "Maybe communications or something I guess."
"We have an excellent communications program," she said. "We also have eleven different sports teams from track and soccer all the way to field hockey. Last year our girls went to Florida to compete over spring break."
"See," said my dad. "You could try something else. They have a rugby team. That looks fun!" [2]
The sisters realized they had my dad's attention, and now it was time for the selling point.
"Many of our girls choose to stay and attend graduate school and then choose a life in the sisterhood at the seminary."
I almost choked.
"It's OK-" I began.
"So what you're saying," my dad interrupted, adjusting his glasses to look at the brochure closer, "is that you take her at age 18 and she starts on the nun track? You have a nun track!"
"Well, many choose a vocation in the-"
"Ha. Sign her up!" announced my dad, taking out his wallet and throwing down his Visa.
After that, I conceded that I'd settle for a mediocre in-state school. Since it had 100% acceptance rate, the application was one page of:
Name:
Address:
High School:
Do you want to come here? Yes/No
Due to my lack of enthusiasm, I waited until the last minute to go to registration, so I had to attend the one a week before school started. Since I had decided to join the cross-country team, I had to go so I could attend the NCAA eligibility meeting.
Three days before I was supposed to go down, I realized I had a problem.
I had broken out in a horrible rash. Little red bumps covered every inch of my being with more appearing by the hour it seemed. Some of them looked like pimples, but they kind of itched.
I tried ProActive. I tried AcneFree. I tried bleach on my skin. Nothing was working.
I cried and cried.
“I look like a whale with leprosy!” I said, simultaneously pinching my stomach fat and rubbing my itchy knees.
“Let's just go to the doctor,” my mom suggested.
“No! Doctors are scary! She'll just tell me I'm dying.”[3]
“We can go see Dr. Sampson. She's not scary.”
Fine, I pouted. Dr. Sampson was my parents’ friend and a pediatrician, and I somehow didn’t visualize myself dying in a room with elephants painted on the wall.
Dianne and I sat in the waiting room amongst the germy little brats and their parents. She also shared a waiting room with an Ob-Gyn office. When I walked in, I saw one of the many bitches from high school who, on multiple occasions had called me unattractive using such clever monikers as "Zorka-orka-whale." On a good day, she ignored me. Maybe she thought my lowly social status was contagious- like the Indian Untouchable caste. I sure as hell hoped my leprosy was too.
I got up, walked over and sat directly next to her, smirking.
"Hi Ann, how's your summer going? Ready for college?"
She turned and looked at me, a wisp of her perfectly straight hair never even coming out of place.
"I'm not going to college," she said.
"Why not? Did the sororities reject you already? You're binging and purging skills not up to par?" (My current situation had brought out a bitter and sarcastic side of me).
"Jon [her ass-hat boyfriend] and I are having a baby. He's going to State, but I'm going to stay here and work."
"Ha!" I said, half laughing, half snorting, giving the kids in the room a run for their money in the spit department. "Isn't that cute? You're like every bad John Mellencamp cliché all rolled into one.”
She rolled her eyes.
"How did you get herpes on your legs?" she asked.
“I fucked Jon last week.”
Round One winner: Zoe[4]
After that, they called my back fairly soon. (I think one of the parents called the CDC on me.) Despite being an adult, my mom insisted on coming back with me to the exam room.
As soon as Dr. Sampson walked in, my mom started in on me.
“Look at her,” she said, pointing to my obvious affliction. “I think it's from gallavanting around with her friends all summer in those hot tubs and pools.”
“We're not swimming in a sewage tank!” I exclaimed. “All my friends' parents take very good care of their hot tubs and pools.[5]”
“Well, then you've been swimming in that sketchy lake-”
“Have not. I don't even like water where you can't see the bottom! I’m scared to step on a dead body and you know it!”
Dr. Sampson raised her eyebrows, but didn’t judge me. When your usual clientele complains about monsters under the bead, dead bodies in a reservoir seems like a legit fear. She continued to exam my diseased limbs.
“You have chicken pox.”
“What???!!!” I cried. “There's no way!” I started crying.
“Did she have it?” Dr. Sampson asked my mom.
“I don’t remember. Her sister had it…maybe she had a really mild case...”
“Well it is possible to get it twice if the first time was mild. Use some calamine lotion and stay out of the sun.”
“But I have to go to college!” I explained impatiently, as if that would make the chicken pox hasten their recovery process.
There was nothing I could do.
Even though I had calamine lotion, I still had at least five days left of chicken pox. I left for college in two.
There was no way to delay. I had to be there for orientation because I opted not to go to the summer orientation. Plus, I had that NCAA eligibility meeting I had to go to.
I had to find a solution. I spent all night poring over information on the internet. A cursory glance at WebMd convinced me there was no cure, so I went into Phase 2: Cover-up Mode.
As an artist (or someone who took art classes in middle school), I understood that the only way to cover red was with the color brown. I was already fairly tan, but not brown.
What makes skin brown? Self tanner.
Since I am an old, old, lady, we did not have spray tan booths readily available. This meant I had to buy self tanner and slather it all over my body.
At midnight, I went to Walgreens and got three bottles. The bottles said I had to let it sit for four hours. I reasoned that this meant four hours later, I should apply round two, thus doubling the effect.[6] Over the next day, I put Snooki to shame with the amount of L’Oreal sunless lotion I applied to myself.
While it looked marginally better, it wasn’t perfect.
I was not going to be known at university as the spotted freak. The self-tanner was long-term, but I needed a short term solution as well. Enter Phase 3: Cover-up with Covergirl Mode.
The day we were getting ready to drive down, I woke up early to carefully apply foundation to my entire body. Since I didn’t want to use my expensive MAC foundation, I got the cheap grocery store brand.
My mom and I drove my car, stacked to the brim with leopard print sheets, leopard print comforter, leopard print bulletin board, leopard print trash can, leopard print picture frames, leopard print bulletin board, leopard print mouse pad, and zebra striped bean bag chair (Bed, Bath, and Beyond was out of the leopard print).
My mom cried the whole way down, whining about me leaving, being grown up, yada yada.
I assured her if she wanted, I would move home upon graduating and live with her until I was 35. She shut up.
After a few goodbyes, I looked at my itinerary of meetings, sessions, and other things I needed to do.
The first thing was my NCAA eligibility meeting. I got the required documents and headed to the fitness classroom.
 |
| At least she doesn't have the Chicken Pox- just Chlamydia. |
I had walked half a block and reached down to itch my leg with my right hand. I put the papers in my left, then back in my right. I reached down to get my map out of my purse when I realized my white high school transcripts were now a shade of 255 Natural Honey Tan. No way. I was melting! Literally.
I got to the center and went to the meeting room. By this time, my legs were a splotchy, streaky mess. I had tried to touch up in the bathroom, but to no avail. The more makeup I caked on, the more I seemed to sweat.
I sat down next to a girl who looked like she either wanted to eat me or rape me (obviously a softball player). On the other side of me was the most gorgeous human I'd laid eyes on. His chiseled features were like Ben Affleck's, but without the weird chin thing. His eyes were the darkest brown and his tan was perfect. Not runny and streaky like mine.
"Hi, my name is Tommy, and you are?"
I turned to see who he was talking to, but the softball girl wasn't looking his way (two girls off the tennis team had just walked in). Was he talking to me? I guess so.
"Um, Zoe," I said, trying to adjust my arms and my papers to cover my blotchy arms.
"Where are you from?"
He looked at me. Crap, what was he looking at? My scaly arms? My orange streaked legs? My increasingly frizzy hair?
I crossed my legs to my chest, trying to smooth my makeup over the scales. I wrapped my right arm around the outside of my left leg. I took my other arm and tried to hide where my makeup was starting to smear on my t-shirt.
Tommy looked puzzled, but continued talking. The athletic director came around to take our paperwork, looking puzzled at my orange transcripts.
"I spilled something. Sorry."
She just raised her eyebrows and continued walking.
Just then, I heard a familiar voice behind me.
"Zoe, you came!" Tony (a guy I met on my campus visit[8]) said, inserting himself between the big girl and myself, reaching over to hug me (and getting makeup all over himself).
“Is that a rash you have?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I mumbled, unwilling to mention 'chicken pox' for fear of mockery.
“Awwww....you break out cuz you were so nervous to come see me?”
Where did he come up with this stuff????
By this point, I was sweating profusely. I had never been around so many good-looking guys before. I had streaks of orange running down my leg and turning my white flip-flop orange. My shirt and shorts were sticking to me and was well on my way to becoming an Oompa-Loompa puddle on the floor.
Luckily, just then, the director told us all to take our seats and turned out the lights for a PowerPoint.
I managed to be one of the last to leave, so no one could see the orange thigh-stains I left on the chair.
But before he left, Tony leaned in closer to me and whispered.
"Even though you got a rash, and look kinda orange, you're boobs still look great."
Well then, maybe Snooki had it right after all.
[1]
Lies. I had never even heard of Xavier,
but their admissions rep was really, really, hot.
[2]
For many years, I think my dad thought I was lesbian due to my disinterest in
romantic comedies and high school boys.
[3] I
still refuse to be the first person from my high school class to die. I don’t want an awkward picture in the
reunion program and everyone asking, “Do you know her? I don’t know her…”
[4]
Jon eventually left her for some college girl and she wound up on food
stamps. Karma’s a bitch, huh?
[5]
Did I mention we didn’t live in the ‘hood?
[6]
Did I mention I tested out of all my college maths?
[7]
Sorta like FEMA’s emergency response plans.
[8]
And by met, I mean made out with in a dark corner of a fraternity basement.
