To the Dartmouth Community: I'd like to publicly apologize for an offense that I committed last winter. Hopefully this confession will ease my troubled conscience. This is a gruesome story and is not intended for the faint of heart.
Late one night, I crossed the Green, and as often happens, I needed to spit. Normally, when this need compels me, I spit forward, so that I can see that I'm not spitting near anyone. However, this fateful night was particularly windy. Being an experienced spitter, I deemed the wind too strong and decided not to spit directly in front of me, lest my spit be blown back into my face. Remember, it was dark and windy, so there was no way I could see peripherally nor hear anything rustling beside me. By the time I turned my head to the left and saw a dark figure no more than a foot away from me, it was too late. I spit on the shoulder of some girl wearing a pea coat.
I realize that she was walking so close to me that it must have seemed intentional, but I assure you it was not. As she flailed her hands and her whimpering turned to hyperventilation, I wiped off her coat with my hand and apologized, but she seemed too traumatized to notice. I think she was an '03. And then, as if the story couldn't get any worse, the obvious humor of what had just happened dawned on me, and I began to laugh. I didn't mean to deepen her wound, but come on, it was funny. Overcome with laughter, I apologized once more and hurried home to share this beautiful story with everyone I knew.
I enjoyed recounting the tale to my friends almost as much as I enjoyed imagining the humbled '03 cry to her friends about her sullied coat. It's not that I was sadistic or anything. It's just that at the time I believed that there were two separate spheres of existence, that all of society could be divided into two groups: the carefree and fun-loving souls who spit and the herd of sheep who wear pea coats.
To me, spitting is an ultimate expression of freedom. Someone who spits doesn't care about personal appearance or social constraints. Now, I respect that some of my friends think spitting is disgusting, and so I don't spit in front of them. But when I'm alone or with stronger-stomached friends, nothing brings me more pleasure than unburdening my sinuses in the way nature intended -- skillfully transforming phlegm into a tight lugi with little or no extraneous saliva. Furthermore, spitting allows the rebellious punk inside each of us a brief clash with The Man. With one simple gesture, a spitter can silently scream, "God bless America!" and "F--- the system!" all at once.
And then there are the people who wear pea coats. These people think that the similarity between the words fashion and fascism is just a coincidence. The pea coat typifies the world of fashion -- it is cute, restrictive, boring, and it matches everything. I'll be the first to admit that I have no fashion sense, but I know a uniform of conformity when I see one. The only thing I like about pea coats is when people wear them and ride bikes across the Green, they get that little splatter of mud up their backs. I don't mean to be critical of fashion people, because all of my friends have pea coats, and my friends are cool people. But people who wear pea coats are people who choose to be a part of the oppressive world of fashion, and these people, dear readers, would never spit.
So you can see why my encounter with that lone '03 was more than an entertaining story. It was a metaphorical confrontation, the worlds of phlegm and fashion colliding in a gorgeous celebration of carelessness and social deviance. Though it was unintentional, I had spit on a pea coat, and secretly I was pleased. I proudly considered this encounter a triumph, proving me an enemy of fashion and a hero to spitters everywhere.
Then one day I woke up and realized what a phony jerk I am. How arrogant and presumptuous of me to judge people for what they choose to wear. Isn't that what I hate about fashion? I recall a time when I borrowed a pea coat to wear to Christmas mass, and I wore that coat simply because it matched my dress. And now, as I go through a wannabe-punk phase, I long to wear a wallet chain and ripped t-shirts, the uniform of nonconformity. I have seen the enemy, and it is I. My hypocritical judgment of that innocent '03 was as irresponsible and misplaced as my phlegm upon her shoulder. For that, I am truly sorry. Next time I'll look before I spit.
