Lockers are an undeniable part of school life. They're supposedly useful, because you can throw your books and things there which saves you from carrying five hundred pounds of stuff, but then you have to consider all the problems that come along with it.
Like the lock. Of course you want to lock your locker so no one breaks in and steals your iPod (though why you wouldn't merely carry your iPod around with you in your purse or backpack or whatnot is beyond me), but is it really worth the hassle? I have a long history of forgetting my locker combination at random points. It doesn't matter if I've opened it forty times that morning, by afternoon I probably won't remember the numbers. Then comes the awful period of time where you can't get to any of your books and your teachers tut-tut at you and mark you down for not being prepared and the little gremlins taught you with their sing-songy voices - oh. Yeah. That last one might just be me.
But really, the biggest problem of lockers would have to be the fact that they are just so long and thin, you're tempted to just see if you can fit in one. I mean, I can't see why stepping into something with a remarkable resemblance to a coffin would be appealing, but it just is. It's one of those mysteries of life that ought to be answered in those books for little kids, along with "Where do the dust bunnies come from?" and "Why is Mommy grouchy for a week once a month?"
I, of course, am wonderful at resisting the temptation. I can walk down the hallway and glance at people slipping into lockers and closing the door, and merely smile and walk one.
No, I lied. I thought it would be an epic idea to see if I could fit in one while my friends watched, so I slipped inside and hunched over a bit and lo and behold, I could!
"Close the door," I said excitedly.
My friends exchanged a look (in hindsight, this should have been a warning sign) and then said slowly, "Suuuure," before closing the door.
"Wow!" you could hear my muffled voice exclaim. "I really can fit!... Okay, I'm ready to come out now... Guys?"
Showing posts with label bad decisions. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bad decisions. Show all posts
Bad Decisions Part 1
I have a bit of a history when it comes to bad decisions. Now, I don't mean getting drunk or high or pregnant, but more like... well, you'll see.
Bad Decision #1: Ordering Clothes. While shopping online is convenient, I've always preferred shopping in person. Sometimes that pretty sweater actually makes you look like a fat, colorful elephant, and sometimes "size 2" means "size 8" (and vice versa), so I find it important to try everything on first.
Unfortunately, I do not always have this luxury. If you've read this blog for a while, you know I love math almost as much as writing and that I compete seriously in many different contests. The math team I'm on often requires wearing specific t-shirts for these competitions with our school name and logo and such, so it comes to the dreaded question: "What size do you want to order?"
Generally, I'm a small. But for some brands, small means that they're made for dwarves. Tiny dwarves that use thimbles as coffee mugs and my inhaler as an ocean. (I do find them there sometimes, wearing bikinis that only they and models could ever fit in.) In those cases, I have to get a medium.
The thing with ordering, though? You don't get to check. Most of my friends who are a small as well just take their chances and get a small. But not me. I'm paranoid. I can't order something knowing that there is a possibility the hem of the shirt will float somewhere around my belly button, and so I get a medium.
And it turns out that "small" means "large", and guess what "medium" means? Not just extra-large but extra-extra-read-all-about-it-large. It turns into a freaking Snuggie.
The t-shirt's collar, designed to hug your nose or thereabouts, showed cleavage on me. Or it would have if I actually had anything there. (Thanks, DNA.) The end of the "short" sleeve drooped a couple inches past my fingers, and the hem, rather than hovering near my belly button, hung out with my Converse sneakers.
My friends skipped around in their slightly baggy t-shirts while I trudged several yards behind in my racy muumuu. I mean, math t-shirt.
I'll write about bad decision #2 next Tuesday, so look forward to reading about my misery!
Bad Decision #1: Ordering Clothes. While shopping online is convenient, I've always preferred shopping in person. Sometimes that pretty sweater actually makes you look like a fat, colorful elephant, and sometimes "size 2" means "size 8" (and vice versa), so I find it important to try everything on first.
Unfortunately, I do not always have this luxury. If you've read this blog for a while, you know I love math almost as much as writing and that I compete seriously in many different contests. The math team I'm on often requires wearing specific t-shirts for these competitions with our school name and logo and such, so it comes to the dreaded question: "What size do you want to order?"
Generally, I'm a small. But for some brands, small means that they're made for dwarves. Tiny dwarves that use thimbles as coffee mugs and my inhaler as an ocean. (I do find them there sometimes, wearing bikinis that only they and models could ever fit in.) In those cases, I have to get a medium.
The thing with ordering, though? You don't get to check. Most of my friends who are a small as well just take their chances and get a small. But not me. I'm paranoid. I can't order something knowing that there is a possibility the hem of the shirt will float somewhere around my belly button, and so I get a medium.
And it turns out that "small" means "large", and guess what "medium" means? Not just extra-large but extra-extra-read-all-about-it-large. It turns into a freaking Snuggie.
 | |||
| Actual photo of me next to the t-shirt. |
The t-shirt's collar, designed to hug your nose or thereabouts, showed cleavage on me. Or it would have if I actually had anything there. (Thanks, DNA.) The end of the "short" sleeve drooped a couple inches past my fingers, and the hem, rather than hovering near my belly button, hung out with my Converse sneakers.
My friends skipped around in their slightly baggy t-shirts while I trudged several yards behind in my racy muumuu. I mean, math t-shirt.
I'll write about bad decision #2 next Tuesday, so look forward to reading about my misery!
