Nick Sangalis, senior, Finance, Denver, CO
I looked and saw myself. Standing there, untouched, unmanipulated. My face glowing, my hair greasy, my mouth open. I leapt into my own arms and, for once, I was the catcher.
But what I caught was a hot potato. My blossoming green eyes drew to my pale cheek, and wanted it rosier, more emblematic of the truth, pain, and joy they felt lay beneath. Dots of red tainted that rosy vision to the point of obscurity. Countless hours in the bathroom, working, contemplating, desiring, had led to this one splotch clouding my soul. If my skin were translucent, this was its smoking gun. I scowled, loved, and placated for what felt like an eternity (but, then again, what moment honestly lived doesn’t feel like infinity?).
My hair gleamed in the light, and not in the way models’ do as they bounce it effortlessly down a haphazardly constructed lining of several hundred feet, millions looking on (some from the future). It shined with the hatred of 3 un-showered days, 3 days of contemplation, friendship, and potential enemy-building. I combed my hand through its forest, hoping it might make me forget my lack of cleanliness. Shockingly, for a moment, it did, and my hair was transparent.
I crouched down to push-up, all the while hating the curvature of my shoulders that a handful had complimented me endlessly on. I squeezed my pectorals and hoped to explode from the limiting ground, clinging to willful denial of its effectiveness or lack thereof. I wanted to shoo away the glass in one mighty heave. But I was left with my face in a ball of carpet.
My face, my shoulders, my hair; all three hated me, and loved me, and yearned for my affection.
I refused to listen. Until now.
And all because some stupid piece of glass showed the opaqueness within.