You Know What Really Grinds My Gears?

If you follow my blog closely (Mom), you may have noticed that I've been on hiatus for a few months. Well, folks, I simply lost my touch. I was uninspired. I couldn't think of anything funny to say (which is shocking because I'm the type of person who finds something as hapless as birds running to be funny). The magic was gone.

Everything I considered blogging about the last few months just sounded like whiny tripe. I fear that I'm turning into a cynical, judgmental, old woman (perhaps I was already there and never noticed). I have shaken my head, decrying "kids these day" so many times, I've nearly worn out the mechanism that allows my head to shake in the first place; it's like the "Guide" button on my Dish Network remote (you know what I'm talking about).

For instance, this morning, I got all fired up because I saw a FOURTH set of butt cheeks exposed on my short walk across campus. That's right: I have seen FOUR sets of butt cheeks in approximately 10 days. I'm not even OUTSIDE on campus that much, and that's nearly one butt cheek every day, which might be more than I see my own butt cheeks. No, Grandma, I was not being mooned like that time you and Grandpa stopped at a rest stop during a road trip and there was some wacky man bathing outdoors (is that the way the story goes?). These are young women whose shorts were SO short that I could see nearly two inches of butt cheek over that fold that distinguishes the leg from the butt. I recently learned that this is called "neathage." And no, these were not girls out at bars on the weekends. It was not Halloween. These were not volleyball players coming back from practice in their spandex short-shorts. These were young women walking to CLASS, in the middle of a WEEK, during the DAY time. Heavy, heavy, heavy sigh. Garrumph.

This is the kind of stuff I'm talking about: these are the rants that I nearly post on my blog every few days. How about the girl with a custom, monogrammed car cover for her VW Bug in the sophomore parking lot? Or the girls on the shuttle who didn't know what an urgent care was? And don't EVEN get me STARTED on black stretchy pants with cowboy boots! When did black spandex tights become acceptable to wear with any sort of top, not just workout tops? And you know what cowboy boots say to me, girls? They say FFA. They say 4H. They say farmer. My dad owns cowboy boots like the one's you're wearing. I've checked, and not many of you come from rural areas where the primary industry is agriculture.

Which leads me to ask: Is it happening? Is this how I know it's happening? Am I turning into a crotchety old lady? Is this it? Is this when the tides turn? Is there an elixir or a training or a self-help book to keep this from happening? I don't want to be judgmental. I know these girls are nice, intelligent, well-meaning girls, and I know that people have probably seen my butt cheeks on a few occasions (feel free to call me out in the comments; I know it's happened) and that I've made some questionable fad fashion choices (Hellooooo, do you remember gauchos pants?). Bottom line: I need help.

So until I have something nice to say, I guess I'll say nothing at all. I'm purposefully on the lookout for the good in humanity, which I guess is the second step of my 12-step program for CA - Cynics' Anonymous. But let's not skip step one: 

Hi, my name is Emily, and I'm a cynic.

Peace, love, and those stupid cowboy boots (that I'll probably own in two months, anyway, and eat my words)--

Emily