(no subject)
Need for Speed
Anyone who spies me on campus likely doesn’t keep me in their view for very long, because I am a notorious “fast-walker.”
I’m sure you know the type. When waiting at a light, they manage to inch toward the front, and then make sure they outpace anyone around them while crossing so, ultimately, they’re leading the pack by several yards. They weave in and out of the crowds on the avenue or in front of busy buildings, grazing you with their purses and backpacks but, before you can respond angrily, have already dashed fifteen feet ahead of you.
In this modern, work-a-day world of appointment books and palm pilots, it makes sense that Type-A individuals like myself would naturally develop a tendency to speedwalk. Think about it - I’m competitive, I’m very busy, I’m perpetually a little late for class, and I had a double espresso and a handful of metabolic enhancers for breakfast this morning - don’t meander lazily in my way unless you care to become intimate with the underside of my Puma trainers.
I can only imagine that I look incredibly funny sometimes because of my habit, striding through Ackerman Plaza at a frenetic trot, book bag in tow, pushing my way through throngs of addle-paced students, clopping down Bruin Walk like a frenzied bull in Pamplona.
Some fast-walkers are sort of rude and push into others, and them I do not appreciate. But many of us are decent folk who just don’t like to walk at the pace of the person in front of us. For a fast-walker, that pace can be unbearably slow -- and at UCLA, where more than likely it’s some airhead on a cell phone causing the people pile-up, our natural instinct is to hurry on ahead.
The only thing funnier to watch than a person, conditioned by instinct to power on ahead of everyone else, is two of them. I used to think I was a rare breed. But the other day, having managed to scoot up to the very front of the curb, while crossing the street onto campus and bolting ahead, I noticed a girl in my periphery, looking straight ahead and charging forward as well. I trotted a few quick steps to make sure I was ahead of her, but then, with darting eyes, she cut through a corner and emerged several feet ahead!
This created an interesting situation, because I certainly did not want to acknowledge that I was trying to beat her at this phantom race. To admit to something so silly would be ludicrous. However, an unspoken competition commenced, and gripping my book bag, a high-energy song blaring in my ears, I hastened and pushed ahead, hopping the curb and forestalling her advancement. I was not about to be only the second-fastest person - it’s a matter of pride.
She then did a merry skip, feigning a natural instinct to briskly catch up and pass me a few steps. Well, that just boiled my clams. Of course, I aimed to trump her efforts immediately, and “lightly jogged” a couple steps -- oh, you know, just a little jog, right past the newspaper stand and inching right in front of her. Neither of us looked directly at each other, but through the narrow slits of our eyes, we glared.
Then, all hell broke loose. Still, though neither of us acknowledged that it was what we were doing, we briskly power-strode past each other, neck-and-neck, hurrying around obstacles, secretly cheering when she’d get caught behind a large group and noticeably scowling when a trashcan blocked my way. It became clear that one of us eventually had to lose. But, my classroom was in sight! I skittered ahead at the last minute, and then turned to enter the room. The girl spun her head around, her feet still whisking her off into the distance, giving me a final angry glance before disappearing.
Had I beaten her, won the showdown? I think so. I laughed evilly to myself, praising my deft skill -- and then it hit me, as I looked around and watched everyone else, sauntering patiently up the hill, chatting and smiling.
I just raced some girl onto campus, and I am probably the lamest person in the world. And now, every day, I leave a few minutes earlier, because I can’t bear to face her again. It’s like an awkward hook-up - how am I supposed to act if I see her? Embarrassed? Apologetic? Boastful? What could be worse than having behaved so childishly about winning a footrace?
Oh, that’s right. Losing it!
Anyone who spies me on campus likely doesn’t keep me in their view for very long, because I am a notorious “fast-walker.”
I’m sure you know the type. When waiting at a light, they manage to inch toward the front, and then make sure they outpace anyone around them while crossing so, ultimately, they’re leading the pack by several yards. They weave in and out of the crowds on the avenue or in front of busy buildings, grazing you with their purses and backpacks but, before you can respond angrily, have already dashed fifteen feet ahead of you.
In this modern, work-a-day world of appointment books and palm pilots, it makes sense that Type-A individuals like myself would naturally develop a tendency to speedwalk. Think about it - I’m competitive, I’m very busy, I’m perpetually a little late for class, and I had a double espresso and a handful of metabolic enhancers for breakfast this morning - don’t meander lazily in my way unless you care to become intimate with the underside of my Puma trainers.
I can only imagine that I look incredibly funny sometimes because of my habit, striding through Ackerman Plaza at a frenetic trot, book bag in tow, pushing my way through throngs of addle-paced students, clopping down Bruin Walk like a frenzied bull in Pamplona.
Some fast-walkers are sort of rude and push into others, and them I do not appreciate. But many of us are decent folk who just don’t like to walk at the pace of the person in front of us. For a fast-walker, that pace can be unbearably slow -- and at UCLA, where more than likely it’s some airhead on a cell phone causing the people pile-up, our natural instinct is to hurry on ahead.
The only thing funnier to watch than a person, conditioned by instinct to power on ahead of everyone else, is two of them. I used to think I was a rare breed. But the other day, having managed to scoot up to the very front of the curb, while crossing the street onto campus and bolting ahead, I noticed a girl in my periphery, looking straight ahead and charging forward as well. I trotted a few quick steps to make sure I was ahead of her, but then, with darting eyes, she cut through a corner and emerged several feet ahead!
This created an interesting situation, because I certainly did not want to acknowledge that I was trying to beat her at this phantom race. To admit to something so silly would be ludicrous. However, an unspoken competition commenced, and gripping my book bag, a high-energy song blaring in my ears, I hastened and pushed ahead, hopping the curb and forestalling her advancement. I was not about to be only the second-fastest person - it’s a matter of pride.
She then did a merry skip, feigning a natural instinct to briskly catch up and pass me a few steps. Well, that just boiled my clams. Of course, I aimed to trump her efforts immediately, and “lightly jogged” a couple steps -- oh, you know, just a little jog, right past the newspaper stand and inching right in front of her. Neither of us looked directly at each other, but through the narrow slits of our eyes, we glared.
Then, all hell broke loose. Still, though neither of us acknowledged that it was what we were doing, we briskly power-strode past each other, neck-and-neck, hurrying around obstacles, secretly cheering when she’d get caught behind a large group and noticeably scowling when a trashcan blocked my way. It became clear that one of us eventually had to lose. But, my classroom was in sight! I skittered ahead at the last minute, and then turned to enter the room. The girl spun her head around, her feet still whisking her off into the distance, giving me a final angry glance before disappearing.
Had I beaten her, won the showdown? I think so. I laughed evilly to myself, praising my deft skill -- and then it hit me, as I looked around and watched everyone else, sauntering patiently up the hill, chatting and smiling.
I just raced some girl onto campus, and I am probably the lamest person in the world. And now, every day, I leave a few minutes earlier, because I can’t bear to face her again. It’s like an awkward hook-up - how am I supposed to act if I see her? Embarrassed? Apologetic? Boastful? What could be worse than having behaved so childishly about winning a footrace?
Oh, that’s right. Losing it!