I am officially starting the JACOF (Jourdan Abel Carhartt Ownership Fund). The velvet pants are not going to cut it anymore. So come by 1-- Mid Mass (Colin's palace) and drop a dime or two in the JACOF bowl (not to be confused with the Chugach Powder Fund). Wouldn't it be cool if the DOC was responsible for the introduction of these 'sweet orange pieces of asphalt' (coined by Colin) to the greater Miami area?"
This call to crunchy-munchy arms was blitzed to about fifty people Wednesday night, by one of my dear friends and trippees. I was unaware of the blitz. When I first sauntered onto campus in the fall, I saw hundreds of people dressed in pants the color I always created but never meant to in third grade, when I mixed orange and brown and green and yellow tempera paint. I thought these pants, these Carhartts, were the latest fashion in town; I thought they were expensive, frighteningly new and trendy designer jeans. I thought they were for sale at Rosey Jekes. I was clearly mistaken.
Coming from urban, sub-tropical Miami, I had never seen or heard of a Carhartt. I had also never seen or heard of a tent. Or a cabin. Or, gasp, a trail. In the interest of providing fodder for family stories about the inept and crazy daughter, I signed up for rock climbing on DOC Freshmen Trips. Amazingly enough, especially to me, I didn't die. My mom was actually surprised when I called her at the end of my trip. She said, "Wow, you made it back? The odds were 10:1! I just lost twelve dollars on you."
In fact, I enjoyed myself so much that I signed up for climbing classes in the fall and began hanging around those oatmeal-swilling and scruff-kneed people. I knew that they were professional fleece-beasts and that I was only, alas, an amateur. Lucky for me, there were also plenty of other people around who, prior to arrival in town, had not been at elevations greater than sea level.
Slowly I crept outside into the woods. Slowly I embarked on forays to Velvet Rocks. Quickly I realized that staying at cabins made for a more luxurious and enjoyable evening than one spent in the River. For one thing, I was closer to campus. I now find myself drawn to Robo at least twice a day. I check blitz, I chill with cool puppies. I don't even notice the smell anymore.
So it surprised me when, at breakfast yesterday, a friend said "I'm scared of the DOC. In fact, a lot of people are scared of the DOC." This friend is a senior. I was blown away. Scared? Of the DOC? Of me? When I questioned her further, she said, no, I didn't scare her (damn -- I've been working on my powers of intimidation), but that if I was surrounded by my Carhartt-eco-mug-carabiner friends, I would. I contemplated throwing myself down a well when she said this, but decided against it. No one should be scared of the DOC croo, no matter how many days they go without bathing or how much facial hair they sport. They're always willing to help new people on trips, or me, I still need help, and teach us what to do. I do not fit the DOC stereotypical mold -- I would look inane in Carhartts and I don't even know how to open a Swiss-Army Knife. I don't own any Nalgenes, just cheap imitations. I shower every day. My socks always match. I brush my hair and my teeth. I wear skirts sometimes. And I fit in just fine with those whose idea of personal hygiene is a shower and shave before every graduation, as well as those who wear four-inch heeled sandals to class when it's snowing out and shriek when I suggest they carry their ECO-mug.
As for being scared because the DOC doesn't accept people who have no idea what they're doing, I once again submit myself as evidence. I never know what I'm doing and never will. I have proven my clumsy ineptness in many ways. I ran into Baker on my bike this fall. (Literally -- I hit the bricks with my front wheel.) I went horseback riding, once, on one of those trails where the horses know where they're going and all you have to do is sit there and enjoy the ride. My horse tripped over a root and we slid down into a ditch. I consistently skied into trees this winter. And my sledding escapades only lead to a reduction in height and an unhappy vertebra.
So I invite everyone to join me in some outdoor activity this spring. Because you can't be much worse than I am. Hike to Velvet Rocks with me. Venture on a beginning climbing trip to Rumney or into the climbing gym -- most of my friends spend their time lying on the floor, not actually climbing, anyway. Go to a pancake paddle. Blitz me and we will do something. You and me, the two of us: this is a much sought-after opportunity, I assure you. We can do anything, as long as I don't have to carry more than fifteen pounds. (Remnants of my run-in on Freshmen Hill.) My personal motto: bringing new levels of ineptness to the DOC. Help me!
