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When young women move in packs of eight or more, with anorexic blonds leading the way (pressing the less-than-skinny into service as “rear guard”).
When you see athletically mismatched couples running together, the result of conversations that must have gone something like this:
Flabby Boy: Um. Yeah. Of course! I, uh, run all the time. (Shoes. Did I bring anything other than flip-flops?)
Buff Girl: Great! How about Saturday night? (That’ll get me off the hall, and if it’s dark people won’t be able to tell he’s a dork …)
Flabby Boy: Sure, that’d be great. (I hope she puts out quick. I haven’t run since that presidential skills test in 7th grade, when I puked on the second-to-last lap.)
Buff Girl: 9 o’clock? (Oh, I’ve got the perfect outfit. I hope his cute roommate sees me.)
Flabby Boy: Great! (Dude, I *love* college! It’s exactly like I saw in that movie…)
When on Thursday night, girls in impossibly impractical shoes — and with nary enough clothes between them for one good outfit — block up metro escalators by standing to the left.
When on weekends, shell shocked parents lead miserable looking children around Target buying those last minute essentials, like toilet paper and granola bars.
Boy, I miss college.