Dear Whomever who decided that giant nylon/polyester purple sacks and black diamond-shaped caps should be standard graduation attire,
Way to ruin it for everyone….
Sincerely,
Sarah
Honestly aside from the excitement that is the final stamp on a college career, there is much about the process that is frankly a process-the millions of ceremonies, the speeches, the long and tired calling of names, the flocks of eager family members going camera happy, the bottlenecking, the crowds, the caps and gowns, I stress the caps and gowns. Sorry to be a negative Nancy here, but let’s be realistic. Graduating = Awesome. Graduation = Giant Ball of Chaos!>!?!
My Grievances with attire:
The gown was purple. Purple is not my go-to color.
It didn’t breathe.
It didn’t show off my girlish figure (read: potato sack)
It didn’t feel pleasant to touch.
It smelled like the plastic sack it had been sitting in.
The cap was a bit small though I measured according to directions.
It was wobbly and unstable atop my head.
My shiny gold hassle weighed more than my cap.
I had to use bobby pins to secure the damn thing and even then the slightest jolt and BAM.
Hat hair is ugly. Add in 94% humidity Voila, sex bomb status!
As soon as that baccalaureate ceremony was over, I rushed outside, got a few pictures taken, for the ole scrapbook, and then I tore off that silly costume like I was ripping into a sack of Halloween candy. 5 seconds or less, y’all.
Of course two hours later, post dinner feast, I was itching to put the purple robe back on to camouflage the post-dinner belly I had going on. As it turns out graduation gowns are lovely hide-the-bloat wear. When you’ve taken down the house in the eating arena, no shape is no problem. Of course, full-on feasting of Peruvian fare at a neighborhood favorite, Pio Pio, was worth the slight tightness of my blouse. I ordered ceviche mixto and a side of maduras and as always enjoyed a handful or two or french fries and a few bites of rice and beans because I can never stick to what I order alone. I must get my fork in everything or the meal feels incomplete. I wasn’t the only one eating with a passion; the table enjoyed their various dishes. I know the tender roast chicken was a hit; between 5 people not a single little scrap was left on the bone. Our table looked like the boneyard in The Lion King, carcasses and all.
We washed it down with a little architectural tour of the Meatpacking District, followed by two giant slices of New York cheesecake in Times Square where we almost saw Ricky Martin and a few rounds of after hours bowl dancing (an invented style of bowling in which each turn at the lane necessitates a free-styled dance routine intermixed with the actual bowling of the ball). Bowl dancing is, by the way, a great cardiovascular exercise that I DO NOT recommend after a hefty slice of cheesecake. Of course I only realized this in retrospect from my current position in my bed where I lay with a bit of a tummy-ache, the tell-tale sign of a night of TOO much fun, the surefire signal of a job well done.
Quotidienne Moi 