This past week I saw three girls wearing skirts without tights and almost cried. To others, bare legs might signal the imminent arrival of a glorious spring; a well-earned respite from blizzards, hypothermia, and unflattering parkas. To me, the rising temperature only means that I now have to start shaving my legs more than once a month. Part of me feels like I should protest the patriarchal leg hair double-standard and throw away my razor in a gutsy statement for gender equality, but I signed an online petition protesting the use of Photoshop in Seventeen Magazine like a week ago, and there’s only so much protesting a girl can do.
OUTGOING: The honeymoon period
For the first month of the semester, I had it all. I read readings; I breezed through problem sets; I kicked up my heels at Wednesday night Toad’s. Yale and I were in love, and blissfully so. But if Nicholas Sparks has taught us anything, it’s that there can only be so many kisses in the rain before things take a turn for the dismal. Midterms are Yale’s very real way of telling us that love is a battlefield, and it’s not about to go about giving out casual diplomas like it’s some Wednesday night DFMO. Yale’s a catch, and dammit if it’s not going to make you work for that sexy, sexy education.
