You totally want to vote for me again! It’s EASY! Because you can vote DAILY until July 6, at which point I will stop shamelessly begging you. Also: you can make me do shit for you if you vote for me. But not BJ’s. Because THAT would be weird and uncomfortable.
Many, many years ago, before I was Your Aunt Becky, before I was Mrs. The Daver, and before I was mother to my three crotch parasites, I was Super Student Becky Overachiever, Esq. One night, I packed up all my shit into my friend Scott’s purple Neon and we drove off into the sunset. Or, more accurately, to my new school.
Yes kids, that’s right: Aunt Becky Does College.
A sunny fall afternoon, I sat on a bench outside of the science building where I was catching a quick smoke while listening to my well loved copy of 40 Oz To Freedom on my discman (that’s what we had before we had iPods, kiddos), enjoying the cool breeze from Lake Michigan and wondering if I had enough cash to grab a bottle of vodka after class. Some things, they never change.
I’d noticed that a slim, neatly dressed guy had sat down while I smoked–this was also back in the days before people mandated smoke free benches–but hadn’t thought beyond that. I looked about, stubbing my butt out on the concrete, craning my neck to see if I could see what time it was.
I didn’t want to be late for Calculus as my raging bitch of a professor (her name was Dr. Funk. Which, honest to God, is the coolest name ever for the world’s least pleasant person. Let’s just say I’d still kill for that name.) hated me. Finally, as I realized that I was in the one spot at school WITHOUT a clock nearby, I noticed a large Swiss watch on my bench-mate.
I took off my headphones and asked the guy what time it was.
“It’s 2:45,” he informed me, with an accent of indiscriminate origin. He paused a moment as I nodded my thanks, “Or how would you say that? Quarter to three?”
“That works,” I smiled at him.
He stuck out his hand to me and introduced himself, “I’m Matthias, nice to meet you.”
I shook his hand and replied, “I’m Becky, nice to meet you.”
In that matter, Aunt Becky met Matthias.
Matthias, it turned out, was from Switzerland–my earlier snobby summation of his watch had been unfailingly spot-on–and was, just as I was, new in town. Although we had no classes together, we quickly fell in as fast friends, and were often in each other’s company.
(As though you don’t have anything better to do)
Pashmina, her roommate, Matthias and I were all sitting in Pashmina’s room, eating shitty Chinese food from the place down the street that you could spend $5 and get food for a week (you’d also get acute GI distress for that $5 but hey, we were young) and Matthias started in on Why Europe Is Better Than The States. It wasn’t as though he didn’t care for the states–he did–but same way that I find the whole WC/sink-in-another-room thing odd, he found many of our customs equally strange.
Namely, the fact that our school, even with it’s billion and a half dollar tuition, didn’t have a Polo club. Matthias was outraged, and even mentioning that we were in the city where horses didn’t exactly roam free, could dissuade his bewilderment.
So, he the next thing he suggested was that we start our own Polo club.
I have to backtrack a bit, Dear Reader, so that you understand who he was talking to.
While I personally love a romp at the gym–hello endorphins–I don’t much care for competitive sports, especially ones that involve balls being thrown at my face. See, I don’t win, I’ll never win, and although I’m not a sore loser, being The Loser gets old after 20 or so years.
Pashmina is and was back then a swimmer by nature, which, like the elliptical, is a sport best enjoyed alone. Besides, even then (she’s still one of my best friends), I knew how frighteningly competitive she was and there was no way in hell I would compete with her for anything.
And honestly, the only sport we’d get picked to play on back then would have been a Competitive Smoke-A-Thon.
If that doesn’t clear it up for you, let me try this: remember The Wedding Singer? At the wedding when Adam Sandler mentions the “mutants at table 9” and the camera pans over so you see a table full of gangly weirdos?
We were the table 9 of sports. So the prospect of putting us on horses and doing whatever it is that you do in polo was absurd at best.
We each agreed immediately.
This was how I became Vice President of a polo club at age 19.
Part II will air tomorrow.