Sep 25 2008
Survival of the Fittest
The radio plays.
I roll over on my bed and glance at the satellite alarm clock which rests on my desk. It’s 11. A fuzzy song rings through the air from an SF jazz station. I wonder if the writer of the song realized it would be nearly impossible to enjoy the sounds emitted from the instruments. I stand up, my feet hanging to the floor and rub my eyes with a cold palm. I look over in the mirror and see myself looking at myself. My normally straight and perfect blonde hair lays in an untidy mess upon my head, my blue eyes are surrounded by blood-shot veins and the normally bright colors are lost in redness. I reach up and run my hand through my hair, stand up, and push the “off” button on my alarm. I stand for a moment in silence. I have almost forgotten what it sounds like. I grab my fake prescription glasses and place them on my face. I remember telling a girl that they weren’t prescription, and her asking me, “then why do you wear them?” I look at her, a grin of amusement hanging on my face, and say, “for the same reason you wear those earrings, that necklace, and that pound of makeup.” I remember the look of shock on her face, I recall with clarity how much joy that shock brought me. I grab my bac-pac, my wallet, and my cell phone, then walk out the door.
My feet carry me down a tight hallway, into the dorm lobby, and outside the sliding glass doors. I feel as the air dances around me, I hear the sound of leaves rustling in the trees above me and smile at the thought of the two as dance partners, using the sky as their ballroom, elegantly two stepping throughout the trees. The movement seems so natural and beautiful, its swiftness and smoothness brings me joy.
I look forward and watch a girl, easily triple my weight (which honestly isn’t too hard to do), walking up a set of stairs. She moves slowly, her fat feet stomping each stair as her stubby fingers grasp the handrail in support. She gets halfway up the stairs and stops to catch her breath. She is sweating like she just ran a marathon.
I jubilantly bound up the stairs, skipping two at a time and cutting through the air like the razor. I surpass her fat figure but am careful not to glance at her. I make it to the top of the stairs in seconds, no ounce of fatigue in my body. I slowly look back at her as she leans over the handrail in pure exhaustion. I turn my back and continue to class.
