Spring has finally arrived in the City of Brotherly Love. I know this because I took the #23 bus home today and the southbound route crosses through Temple University’s campus. Temple, being an institution of higher learning (albeit one for which I have very little regard), was replete with bare skinned undergraduates: a girl in a tank top lounging on the grass, a boy in shorts waiting line at the grease trucks, a t-shirted couple strolling hand in hand without the slightest concern for the fact that it was, in fact, only just above freezing and therefore not exactly t-shirt weather.
Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but smile. I remember when I was in college. It took very little—very little indeed—to get me to strip down to my cropped tights and sundresses. I stuffed my winter coat into the storage tote under my bed as soon as possible, which is probably why I got sick every spring (and probably why the Temple students I saw from the window of the bus will be lined up in the nurse’s office tomorrow morning.)
Being 25, however, I now know better. Which is why I was rather surprised to find myself tearing into my summer clothes as soon as I got home and heading for my afternoon cup of coffee wearing a denim skirt and a simple long sleeved t-shirt. I ordered my first iced beverage of the season (just in case I wasn’t sufficiently susceptible to pneumonia already) and admired my new “spring” look in the mirror behind the counter.
In my haste to shed my winter layers, however, I forgot to throw an extra outfit into my dance bag—an outfit, say, that would have been appropriate for my teaching my usual roster of evening classes.
Despite having spent the past 22.5 years of my life dancing, I hate dancewear. I hate leotards, I especially hate tights and despite that I’m rather fond of my new “active wear” tops, I’d still rather dress like a civilian if given the choice. (This would explain why, during college, I generally changed outfits four or five times a day and lived with a huge mound of not-quite-clean-but-not-quite-ready-for-the-wash clothing piled at the foot of my bed.)
I didn’t have time to go home again before going to work and something told me that my boss wouldn’t be particularly pleased by my showing up to teach in a denim skirt (especially seeing as it’s slit was rather… generous). Halfway across the Walt Whitman Bridge, however, I had a flash of inspiration: I would just have to buy myself a new outfit!
Fifteen minutes (and fifteen dollars later), I had a new “active wear” top and a pair of leggings, courtesy of the junior department’s clearance rack at Kohl’s. I spent the next two hours rearranging my long sleeve t-shirt around my hips to conceal the fact that I’m actually too long-wasted for leggings from the juniors department and cursing myself for having succumbed to yet another bout of spring fever lunacy but still: it was fun while it lasted.