Snow snow go away, come again when it is Monday
Here we are, in the middle of yet another blizzard that conveniently locates itself on a weekend so that we miss no work. I am therefore cheated out of a sweet 3 day weekend due to the capriciousness of weather. Hookers.
At any rate, I went to see a VMI basketball game today with my dad. When I was planning what to wear, I was thinking: it's just a basketball game. Don't overthink it and get too fancy with all my nice new businesslike clothes. So I wore jeans, tennis shoes, a solid t-shirt, and a track jacket.
I realized my mistake as soon as I got into the car with my dad, and he had on khaki pants, a collared shirt, and a sweater. Oh, right. VMI. They are military there, or if they are civilian, they are at least business casual. Plus, my dad KNOWS people. I will have to shake hands with other people, most of whom will also be wearing khaki pants. Some of whom will have uniforms on. All of whom will be over the age of 50. Double hookers.
It wasn't a big deal until halftime, where my dad went to hang out with the other alumni who donate to the school. There were all these people who were respectible, well-to-do, and here I was in my track jacket. I concentrated on standing up straight and keeping my hands out of my pockets. My dad wandered off to talk to people he knew, and I was left alone.
"Son, are you thinking of coming to VMI?" I hear. What? Oh, it's a man next to me, speaking in the clipped, measured tones of a man who knew how to press pants. "I'm somebody someone, class of '53" he says. Or something. I was instantly intimidated by all the thousands of push-ups I knew he had done before he was my age, and probably could still do.
"Um, no, I'm already out of college," I manage to mumble in reply. I'm sure I sounded like a punk kid with no respect for myself, authority, God, country, capitalism, George W. Bush, and the fine Commonwealth of Virginia. I felt 17 and awkward and didn't know what else to say. I played with the zipper of my track jacket and then caught myself and put my hands in my pockets. Then I caught myself and tried to stand up straight.
"I thought you looked too old," he said, and immediately I ceased to exist in his world. He turned to the kid next to me, who was 18, accepted to VMI, and played football. There was talk of how much you need to weigh to play middle linebacker.
Go Big Red? I love VMI, the campus, the uniform, the town, the Battle of New Market, and the stadium. I even was slightly interested in the marked increase in girl cadets (but naturally not nearly as interested as I am in my beautiful and smart and fun girlfriend. Duh.). I really like the basketball coach. I will definitely go see some games with my dad next year. But next time, I'm going to puff out my chest, shake hands more firmly, look people in the eye, and wear khaki pants.
Look at those snowflakes. There's a lot of them.
At any rate, I went to see a VMI basketball game today with my dad. When I was planning what to wear, I was thinking: it's just a basketball game. Don't overthink it and get too fancy with all my nice new businesslike clothes. So I wore jeans, tennis shoes, a solid t-shirt, and a track jacket.
I realized my mistake as soon as I got into the car with my dad, and he had on khaki pants, a collared shirt, and a sweater. Oh, right. VMI. They are military there, or if they are civilian, they are at least business casual. Plus, my dad KNOWS people. I will have to shake hands with other people, most of whom will also be wearing khaki pants. Some of whom will have uniforms on. All of whom will be over the age of 50. Double hookers.
It wasn't a big deal until halftime, where my dad went to hang out with the other alumni who donate to the school. There were all these people who were respectible, well-to-do, and here I was in my track jacket. I concentrated on standing up straight and keeping my hands out of my pockets. My dad wandered off to talk to people he knew, and I was left alone.
"Son, are you thinking of coming to VMI?" I hear. What? Oh, it's a man next to me, speaking in the clipped, measured tones of a man who knew how to press pants. "I'm somebody someone, class of '53" he says. Or something. I was instantly intimidated by all the thousands of push-ups I knew he had done before he was my age, and probably could still do.
"Um, no, I'm already out of college," I manage to mumble in reply. I'm sure I sounded like a punk kid with no respect for myself, authority, God, country, capitalism, George W. Bush, and the fine Commonwealth of Virginia. I felt 17 and awkward and didn't know what else to say. I played with the zipper of my track jacket and then caught myself and put my hands in my pockets. Then I caught myself and tried to stand up straight.
"I thought you looked too old," he said, and immediately I ceased to exist in his world. He turned to the kid next to me, who was 18, accepted to VMI, and played football. There was talk of how much you need to weigh to play middle linebacker.
Go Big Red? I love VMI, the campus, the uniform, the town, the Battle of New Market, and the stadium. I even was slightly interested in the marked increase in girl cadets (but naturally not nearly as interested as I am in my beautiful and smart and fun girlfriend. Duh.). I really like the basketball coach. I will definitely go see some games with my dad next year. But next time, I'm going to puff out my chest, shake hands more firmly, look people in the eye, and wear khaki pants.
Look at those snowflakes. There's a lot of them.
posted by Justin at 11:23 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home