I get a guilty pleasure out of poisoning my friends (and myself, by association). Spending two days in a Whistler chateau with 16 loosely-associated university students cements my confidence that I'm not associating with any closet Hongers: gallons of white pasta, alfredo sauce, trans-fat laden Costco cookies and breaded fish, frozen quesadillas, Mr. Big ice cream bars, full-fat cream cheese, tubs of gummies, Lays, hot chocolate, and the remains of at least ten chickens must be a tab's worst nightmare, and I'm glad to say we all partook to excess. (I mention all this because I don't remember events, per se -- I remember food.) Someone once told me that being Honger was a state of mind, not a genetic fact, and after my mini-vacation with 16 CBCs, I tend to agree.
The white Impala in our driveway with the Texas license plates made me stop and think, though -- how well do I know these people? This Whistler ritual started with our CSP 2001 "Senate" (a.k.a. kids who thought putting together an annual yearbook and having lunch together was the definition of socialization), but these days, we're spread out across 3 different faculties and too many programs; in all honesty, I see most of these people once every three or four months. In theory, this gives us more stuff to catch up on. In reality, I find myself holding my breath all the time. What do eight months of exam cramming sessions and "collective" work on assignments three years ago entitle each of us, anyway? I mean, look at this poor guy -- I only know him through a CSP friend, and he doesn't deserve what I put him through.
I'm the odd one out thanks to my major, aspirations, That Boy, and a line of logic that has me cheerfully giving up a day of Whistler skiing for backcountry showshoeing and cooking up disgustingly huge amounts of pasta. I don't envy them my company, even if it's sporadic and infrequent! But such are all my friendships. We can live our lives, suffer through Gangs of New York, Michael Douglas movies, and 3 viewings of Finding Nemo, ski together once a year, and still be throwing snowballs at each other two years after we all went our separate ways.
In a way, I'm glad friendship doesn't have to involve hours of emoting in coffeeshops and having a cellphone glued to the side of my face, despite what my entire economics class seemed to think. It's cheaper, more aesthetically pleasing, and surprising than that.
The white Impala in our driveway with the Texas license plates made me stop and think, though -- how well do I know these people? This Whistler ritual started with our CSP 2001 "Senate" (a.k.a. kids who thought putting together an annual yearbook and having lunch together was the definition of socialization), but these days, we're spread out across 3 different faculties and too many programs; in all honesty, I see most of these people once every three or four months. In theory, this gives us more stuff to catch up on. In reality, I find myself holding my breath all the time. What do eight months of exam cramming sessions and "collective" work on assignments three years ago entitle each of us, anyway? I mean, look at this poor guy -- I only know him through a CSP friend, and he doesn't deserve what I put him through.
I'm the odd one out thanks to my major, aspirations, That Boy, and a line of logic that has me cheerfully giving up a day of Whistler skiing for backcountry showshoeing and cooking up disgustingly huge amounts of pasta. I don't envy them my company, even if it's sporadic and infrequent! But such are all my friendships. We can live our lives, suffer through Gangs of New York, Michael Douglas movies, and 3 viewings of Finding Nemo, ski together once a year, and still be throwing snowballs at each other two years after we all went our separate ways.
In a way, I'm glad friendship doesn't have to involve hours of emoting in coffeeshops and having a cellphone glued to the side of my face, despite what my entire economics class seemed to think. It's cheaper, more aesthetically pleasing, and surprising than that.
