So, how's school?", asks my dad's cousin's friend of a friend, whose name I cannot remember. As another year of college comes to an end, returning home for the fraction of the year that is otherwise known as my "permanent mailing address" means that my "college experience" will be the subject of small talk from my parents, high school friends and family acquaintances that know nothing more about me than the fact that I am pursuing a degree in something terribly interesting at some accredited institution.
What I did this semester... hmm. Condensing the past year's experiences into a few sentences had always been difficult for me, especially when I haven't seen these people in months and when so much has changed around me and within me in such a short time. What I did this semester?
I need something new, something ingenious to wow the masses of what I have been doing with my parents' tuition money.
What my feet did this semester -- now, that would make a really interesting column.
This semester, my feet have been to Chicago, Illinois and to the Janet Jackson concert.
They had a blast in the mud of Movin' On.
They have been painted pink, stepped on, propped up, stuffed into shoes and stubbed.
Most importantly, they justify my height. My feet have been terrified, forcing me to use shower shoes in the dormitory shower. My feet do not like the confines of nylons.
You are probably wondering, why feet?
They facilitate the growth of fungus, they are hairy, they smell and they are big. Because of my feet, I am generally a klutz.
I hate them, sometimes, for making me trip and fall when it is most important that I not trip and fall.
But feet are a metaphorical work of art that, through experience, have learned how to express themselves by always taking that step forward, even when my mind and body lacked direction.
They maintain my sense of reality, my drive toward a goal, while a mainstay of my self-expression.
Feet are work of art, from tarsals, to metatarsals, to phalanges. These physical marvels cannot cannot sew, or play the piano, or type, but they love to take a walk on the wild side.
Like heartbeats, the rhythm of my feet on the pavement breathes life into my step during a run. Music takes its best form through the movement of my feet in dance.
My outlets for expressing myself have taken their best forms through my feet.
Feet have been constant instigators for change, as they have necessitated the need for nail polish and created the shoe industry.
Finding shoes that are comfortable, yet maintain some principle of fashion, is a constant challenge to fit in, yet stand out. It is for this reason that women, such as my mother, need entire shoe collections -- shoes for the many demands of life.
If the shoe fits, wear it. My feet have taken great pride in fitting in with my outfit, while making a statement of their own, even if they are only recognized by Mike the mailman and his "nice sneakers" sign.
It seems, though, that you can spend $100 dollars on the latest fashion, or no money at all and go barefoot. Feet have an excellent sense of reality, sensitive to the textures of the things we often fail to notice: tickling, the cool, wet grass of a dewy evening, and the sand between my toes.
While my feet haven't been to the beach this year, I can picture my footprints in the sand, something like the Penn State blue and white paw prints. Each impression one step closer to making my mark on the world, opposed by the constant, crashing of waves of adversity: steps toward tomorrow, all symbolized by my feet.
Penn State is big on diversity, as it should be. If you wanna talk about diversity, we could talk about feet. Feet are quite a unique part of the human body in more than just a footprint: big feet, small feet, high arches, low arches, wide feet, narrow feet, and the people with a longer second toe. Even though feet are not exactly the most attractive feature, I must love them anyway. They are a part of me, a unique part of me.
Recently, my feet have been a bit sore from the challenges of the semester's end.
As the weather becomes beautiful, the last thing I want to do is study and the only thing I want to wear are sandals.
Driven by the prospect of the freedom summer will bring, the revolution to "free the feet" from their incarceration spreads in the form of flip-flops to platforms attached only by a between the toe string.
But the shoes cause blisters and calluses, a painful reminder of the challenge of staying on task despite the beautiful weather.
While most people spend their hours of writing for the Collegian about things that people actually care about, such as the president, feminism, suicide bombings, or anything else that actually affects our lives, I tend to write about perspective.
Today's topic is feet, explaining my perspective of college according to my feet, moving forward with each step of experience. Expressing myself through my feet as a physical marvel, the activities they make possible, and the shoes they sport is working towards making my mark, my unique footprint, on the world.
My feet have a sense of reality that I am often blinded by: constantly moving forward towards a goal, sensitive to the surrounding world.
I can't say I will really answer, "How is school?" according to what my feet have done this semester. A creative mind is a dangerous thing. With meetings, rehearsals, workouts, exams, concerts, and thousands of other events bouncing through my head as potential responses, I will probably simplify my answer to just "good."
