I jumped in the pool today for the first time in almost 6 months. Back in my glory days I frequented a sorry excuse for a swim team comprised of a slew of children for the most part at least 3 years younger than me. I was just entering Middle School—the delightfully awkward years and twice a week I would splash around at the Athletic Club pool doing something that remotely resembled organized exercise.

Picture this: Buck Teeth, Cheeks as if I had been engulfed in a sick game of Chubby-Bunny, a charming little gut, the infamous “bowl” hair-cut, and to top it all off—the skin tight black and green laser striped Speedo.

I was on hiatus from my swim-team escapades and the days went by but just last year I found myself making time for the pool religiously a few times a week. There’s something about being in the water that’s different. I described it to a few people as being able to metaphorically drown my worries. No one can hear you under water. No one is there to push you. When lifting weights it always feels as if you’re fighting against these giant heavy masses but while swimming the water is your complement, just present to close off everything else in the world enable you for whatever you choose.

Needless to say I’m undoubtedly sore in little muscles I never knew existed in my body. I guess 6 months without cracking open the old freestyle can accrue its rust, but it was worth it. Of course it was worth it.

You know when you’re going to have an amazing day when you wake up pissed off. Really, I’m a generally happy-go-lucky person but this has happened before. I remember vividly waking up enjoyably with the sun shining on my face doing one of those childish full-body-reaching-out-in-every-direction type of stretches only to realize a split second later that I did not turn in a lab for my MATLAB programming class.

Well, this morning I woke up happy to realize that I forgot to submit the simplest part of an application… a 2x2 inch picture of myself most likely sacrificing any chances of being considered. I had even meticulously spent the time to decide which picture… it showed my good side… it showed I was sensitive… it showed I was strong… it showed I was dumb enough not to attach it to my application E-mail…

Yeah. Awesome.

So I did the only logical thing any self-respecting college student really could do. I called my Mom.

I was always curious to know when that kind of Mom-Calling-Phase of my life would end. Then I realized that answer was simple. “Never.” I think the day I stop phoning my mother in moments of severe emotional need is the day I become a feathered sea lion and eat Otter Pops for breakfast. (Then again, I’ve already completed the Otter Pops portion.)

To be honest, I’m lucky to have such a relationship with my parents. In that very moment of disbelief in my own sheer brilliance I could only think of 3 people I wanted to talk to and all of them shared my last name. I’m a fortunate kid to have such a family. As my mother put it, “Family is the only people who will still love you if you murdered someone… We wouldn’t really be too happy but I’d send you cookies in the mail.” (Yeah, she really said that to me. How dare you question how cool my mother is?)

So, in short, I kind of hosed myself this morning, which does happen. Back in the day I was convinced I was invincible. Basically in the 8^th grade, I thought I could never fail at anything. If you could imagine, that thought process did not last too long--probably about 2 days when I inevitably failed something. I’ve won my fair share of events; I’ve lost my fair share. I’ve succeeded and I’ve failed and in some odd way I find comfort in that. I’m not the kid at college that has been coasting his whole life who in essence is bound to fail soon enough and when he does it’s bound to suck, royally.

Ergo, yes, I did wake up this morning in one of those teeth-grinding-self-pillow-smothering types of ways but in all honesty, I have a feeling that will happen a couple more times in my life. And there’s always more chances… unless I murder someone and am sentenced to life.

But at least my mommy will send me cookies.

I discovered a new world today. The skies parted and my eyes opened to a hidden intricate medium of communication overlooked each day of our lives: Public Restrooms. Today marks a salute to “Guy Who Writes on Bathroom Walls.”

No, honestly, who spends the time to whip out his pen just before washing his hands to scribble a thought provoking inspirational phrase on the restroom wall? This guy does. The GWWOBW speaks when others fear. The GWWOBW engages in linguistic combat armed with only a meager writing utensil and an impressionable door with other challenging species when others idly spectate.

This is to you, “Guy Who Writes on Bathroom Walls.” You are a man among men. I salute you.

During last semester, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, I walked by Pappy at Faculty Glade en route to my Physics 7A lecture only to see a mother gingerly guiding her son on his training-wheel-equipped bicycle as he bobbled back and forth in the opposite direction. After months of gauging how many minutes I had left until Bear Time ran out by noticing where on my path I encountered the mother-son duo, seasons changed and my first Cal semester drew to a close. But just this morning, a new day, a new semester, I milled towards LeConte Hall and saw the same boy with a triumphant grin on his face whizzing by 30 feet in front of his mother no longer shackled down by the restraints of his training wheels…

And later that day, I found out I had pink eye…In both eyes.

I never considered myself a writer. In all honesty, I always saw English as the toughest class to make the grade in throughout the years. However, to my surprise, life without English during my first leg at college proved frustrating. It seems as though it’s moderately important to use more than just the left side of your brain for an extended period of time. For instance, it resulted in all-to-vivid moments finding myself wallowing in the wake of awkward silence following undoubtedly born-to-fail attempts to deliver a poor excuse for a joke.

Nonetheless, this blog serves as one) an outlet to refuel my right hemisphere and two) an opportunity to let some friends and family back in my home-state take a glimpse into my day to day at Cal. Welcome to my life. My name is Kevin; I still have allergic conjunctivitis, and it’s about time I got back on the bike.

Labels: pink eye, training wheels