Miami’s campus on Monday mornings and Uptown on Saturday nights are starkly different environments. I guarantee students are having significantly less fun walking to their 8:30 a.m. classes than standing out on the patio at Brick.
I went back to my mom’s hometown of Rockford, Illinois this weekend for my late grandfather’s estate sale. As I was sorting through his closet, I was captivated by cabi hats, brightly colored blazers, fisherman sweaters, bomber jackets and other clothing items that seemed to cover every range of fashion from the last five decades.
In my house, back home in the suburbs of Chicago, there’s a room off to the side of the staircase on the second floor. We call it the Secret Closet, but it’s neither a secret nor, really, a closet.
He stares in the mirror, his friends waiting in the next room as he gets ready for the night. His eyes fixated on his problem areas, such as the second chin forming around his neck, the tiny fat on his lower belly, the line of pimples on his forehead and the puff ball in his hair that never likes to stay straight. He flexes his arms so they look less like twigs, and sucks in his gut so the fat does not show. Then he gets dressed.
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