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Wednesday, May 4, 2005


There are many things that I will probably miss about college. One of those things are skirts - skirts and the girls that wear them.

Girls wearing skirts in the the early spring were always a pleasant reminder of the warm weather to come. Even if I was too numb from drin- er, studying all night long, girls in skirts served as a heads-up that a brighter day was yet to arrive. Once the summer drops skirts are in seemingly endless supply. Even that girl that isn't supposed to be wearing skirts wears one. As they eventually become a standard during the warmer weather skirts provide a much needed distraction from the lecturing professors during those hours-long summer session courses.

Then the fall rolls in and the shift in focus moves away from the skirt as more and more students wearing Illini sweaters and jogging pants begin to resemble shapeless blobs of soft cotton.

But then out of nowhere come the skirts in the winter. Nothing says party-time like a group of like-legged girls in line for a bar and huddled in a circle with their hands buried in their armpits and knees wobbling to and fro, their high heels clattering against the ground like the hooves of a horse that's ready to run. It's the middle of December and girls still want to take off more and more clothes in order to compete with other girls. More power to them. I tell myself that it must take a lot of courage to wait fifteen minutes en queue shivering to death outside of a bar while being subject to the myriad catcalls and craning necks of all the drivers, passengers, bikers, and pedestrians creeping by at a suddenly slower pace. It's even better once inside the bar. All the drunk guys constantly slobber over the exposed legs and those that aren't drunk yet double-up on the shots. Either way they want to strap on those beer goggles a little tighter or still need to get the courage to approach the girls and slobber a little bit closer.

"They're either really brave or really stupid," I told my roommates as we began to suddenly drive at a slower pace past a group of skirted girls in line at Clybourne's. I'd like to think that they're a bit of both - kinda like the rest of us.

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