Op-Ed
Oh My God, Are You Wearing Jellies?!
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Awkward Turtle
Awkward Turtle
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My alarm was set to play the 69 Boys’ masterpiece “Tootsee Roll” at 7 a.m. My breakfast consisted of three bowls of Wheaties and a warm-up lap around the house. My Walkman already held my own Lifetime Original Movie soundtrack: Jock Jams Volume 1. And my yellow Smile Jesus Loves You lunch box contained a Powerbar, an All Sport and a note from Mom that read, “Either come home with a victory, or don’t bother coming home.”
It was Olympic Day, and utter domination was in the air.
Whether you knew it as field, spirit, or derby day, everyone was aware that, on this day of days, future Marines, potential collegiate athletes, and would-be Juvi regulars were encouraged, nay, ordered to release the dragon* of their aggression on future software technicians, potential jazzercise instructors and would-be TXA majors, all under the pretense of “school spirit.” It was eight perfect hours dedicated solely to the glory that was prepubescent meatheadedness. And I was one Scottie Pippen memorial tattoo away from blue-Gatorade-perspiring jockhood. (*Copyright: Sisqo)
Olympic Week began when schools divided into factions led by nine-year-old militants who lived and died by the laws of Darwin and Machiavelli. A good three inches taller and marginally less intimidating than our Russian janitor, I was a shoo-in for the Gold Team’s captain. I had just been kicked out of gymnastics for being too tall for the bar, tap and jazz for unprovoked “violent behavior” and the YWCA for punting a basketball after a bad call. (Whatever, it was a league rule that you couldn’t block shots. Look, if you want to cuddle, go to Build-a-Bear. My business is winning. And ruining your self esteem.) So I was on the hunt** for some vengeance. (**Copyright: 06-07 Cornell Men’s Wrestling slogan ... yes, I did have your half-naked poster in my living room. Nice abs.)
The competitions were designed to test all aspects of athleticism: speed in the 40-yard dash, hand-eye coordination in the egg toss and teamwork (or, depending how things go, general disregard for your teammate’s wellbeing and the ability to drag deadweight) in the three-legged race.
Sure, the prize might have been manifested in a king size bag of Skittles, but for some of us — specifically those who used hair mascara as war paint — it was greater than that. This competition was about glory, a year’s worth of bragging rights and the taste of Skittles sweetened with the tears of a seven-year-old who couldn’t run as fast as me. (Note: this may seem mean, but I guess she shouldn’t have worn Jellies on Olympic Day, right Caitlin? Go back to the tydie station. Your direction changes are pathetic.)
Here’s a general rule of thumb: if a girl has a bigger car, tricep and libido than you, she was probably an Olympic Day first-round draft pick. See, the week before Olympic Day, captains had to choose their teams, and normal guidelines of popularity were forgone in the pursuit of the perfect team. Suddenly, the extra Snack Pack Matt’s mom always packed didn’t make up for the fact that the pudding was hampering his acceleration. Susan’s nude sprint across the playground was forgotten for her porn-like flexibility and monkey-bar dexterity. And, let’s be honest, Big Nate doesn’t have to be able to read to throw a beanbag the length of four football fields.
I feel, as a culture, we’ve gotten away from what is really important. Tests, GPAs, LSATs … this is all pretty much bull. The boardroom, the courtroom and the weight room all come down to the same standards: intimidation, tact, dexterity, dedication, and even a little squat max. That’s why I’m sending this letter to Cornell President David Skorton:
D.J. Skizzle (we’re tight like that) —
Let’s be honest, no one really cares about half the classes Cornell offers. Let’s get prepared for the real world. I propose adding the following electives, based on the teachings of Olympic Day:
THE EGG RELAY. Arts and Sciences.
Competitors utilize balance, speed and spoon-handling capability in order to maneuver around little cones while balancing an egg in a spoon. The final consists of a cross-campus egg relay. Let students practice the week before, but glue the egg to the spoon to ensure they have a false sense of preparedness. Come finals day, sit back and watch both the eggs and the students crack under unforeseen pressure. Welcome to Cornell; practice test, anyone?
Three Education credits.
THE JELLYBEAN COUNT: Cals/Hotel.
I get it. The kid who was good at this on Olympic Day was the future test-curve ruiner who had spent the rest of the day eating grass and chugging Hi-C to keep his sugar level up. Classes will consist of watching as socially inept number crunches spit out their guess about how many Jelly Beans are in a big jar. Students enrolled in this course must learn to cheer, and immediately forget he existed. Lesson: Later in life, Jelly Bean counters will all work in cubicles and receive minimal pay for their vital contribution to your company. This class teaches that a little bit of social acceptance and a couple jellybeans will keep him satisfied.
Two AEM or Hotelie credits.
MEGAPHONE TAG: Arts and Sciences
In this class, upperclassmen give each freshmen a plastic megaphone and instruct them to tag the other freshmen. The megaphone has no real use in the game, it simply acts as a catalyst to violence. The results would be similar to a thunderdome-esque fight to the death.
Lesson: Sometimes, it just feels right to hurt people.
Four Psych credits.
THE BASEBALL TOSS.
Look, if the professor hands you little orphan Annie, a baby seal, or Mandy Moore, you chuck that shit like 200 feet. We grade on a curve.
Lesson: You don’t have to do your best, you just have to do better than everyone else.
Requirement to Graduate.
Kisses,
Shannypants.
Shannan Scarselletta is a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be contacted at sscarselletta@cornellsun.com. Awkward Turtle appears alternate Wednesdays.
Thoroughly enjoyable. Keep
Thoroughly enjoyable. Keep up the fabulously awkward work.