Thinking Caps (9)
As most exam takers can attest, the paralyzing feeling of cluelessness on consecutive “impossible” problems is perhaps the most diabolical punishment one can endure. When we casually think “I’ll save this one for later” on a midterm question and proceed to the next one only to do the same thing, the world suddenly begins closing in on us.
All too often, we are burdened by the painful necessity of good time management. Yes, we want to graduate summa cum laude. Yes, we want to attend Friday-night revelry (or, in my case, throw paper airplanes off the balcony of Asia Hall). And despite these ambitious aspirations, we naively figure we might be able to do all this and still get some sleep. We are perfectly capable, though, of managing our time—we just love to manage it incorrectly.
I spent my spring break like many of us would have, burrowing into the cosseting embrace of my bed, reveling in the absence of dining hall food and loving every lazy minute of it. But there was something more driving my emotion than just my return to a comfortable life: A strange force of wistful longing and contentment. This was my sense of home imploring me to stay.
Nestled among the ice hockey highlights and Russell Peters clips that populate my YouTube history are upwards of 70 Harlem Shake videos. I’m not the only one. In a mere 13 days, the Harlem Shake phenomenon took the world by storm, gaining over 175 million views. Yet the attraction doesn’t seem to be the neon tights, the cries of “con los terroristas” or even the snarling lion. Millions of people flocked to the Internet to watch it simply because others had, too.
According to the Ralph Lauren website, their clothes are a fusion of “classic, iconic spirit” and “reinvented personality.” When I flipped through their catalog, though, I saw that this fancy personality seemed to be bright new colors and traditional tweedy “Skyfall”-like jackets that could have come from the 1960s. Many of the items there would have probably gained appreciative nostalgic comments from my grandfather.