Sweater Vest Thursday

It is common knowledge that at least one Thursday of every month requires a sweater vest. Most people think that this Thursday is the third Thursday, but since Sweater Vest Thursday is a fashion holiday, it really occurs more on a whim.

It's a sacred part of Thursdays (whichever one they may be). So sacred, in point of fact, that should you forget your sweater vest on such a Thursday, much like this one, you will be hated by all and shunned until that time as which you can receive one and partake in the holiday.

Thus starts my tale of daring adventure.

It was today, though probably more like yesterday now, or even the day before that. It could, in point of fact, be several days past by now, but also several years. It really depends upon the time in which you are reading about this.

But enough about Al.

It was a Thursday at some point in the past, which may or may not be recent depending upon the observational time of this writing in correlation to when this actually happened. But I can assure you, it was a Thursday. I had previously discoursed with my compatriots the previous night about the merits of sweater vests, and in so doing we came up with a holiday of right jolly fashion: Sweater Vest Thursday, that most sacred of days. We would celebrate it simply by wearing a sweater vest the day after, and enjoy the multitudinous magnificencies of our over clothing.

I discovered that night after, however, that my particular sweater vest had taken leave of reality, chiefly my room.

It still remains at large. But after washing it a few times it should got down to a loose medium.

After about an hour of struggling to obtain it, I threw in the proverbial towel and went to sleep, disappointed in my failure of living up to the expectations of the holiday which I myself had created.

The nest day provided no comfort for my folly. My compatriots, priorly mentioned, were utterly disappointed in my appearance. I realized I must render the situation better, and thus I took it upon myself to make it so.

I set out on my bicycle, with a rough knowledge of a "shortcut" a friend had told me about to get to the local Wal-Mart. After roughly 20 minutes of pedaling in what I thought was the right direction, I realized I was utterly wrong in that assumption that it had been anything close to what may even be considered "right." I preceded to pedal twenty minutes back along the highway, observing several glances from the people I had passed the first time, all befuddled in nature.

I set out the long way, through town center, around that round about, and out along the busiest highways for miles. Surprisingly, this was by far the easiest and most pleasant part of my morning foray. It was mostly downhill and while I did almost get hit by three cars suddenly turning into a diner, I managed to live through the ordeal, none the worse for wear, and arrive at my destination of purchasing that elusive garment, the sweater vest.

I took leave of my bike at a bench, and proceeded inside.

This was the most fortunate part of my day, as there was indeed a 2 for 1 sale on all sweater vests in the store. It was miraculous, a divine inception of sweet sweatered vests, all mine for the taking. I shelled out my monies, and after a interlude in which the cashier figured out how to work the new system, I received my purchase.

It is at this point in our tale where things could have, and should have ended. As you have clearly read, I had at this point in the journey purchased my sweater vest, and thus was in fine form for the day's festivities. But you see, it is rarely that I get to go out to Wal-Mart, and I had been lacking in juice in my living quarters for several days. All there really was to drink where I lived was water and Natty Light, which is to really say that all there really was to drink was water, as I do not drink, and if I did drink, I would not waste my brain cells on something as unrefined and repugnant as Natty Light.

Thus, as I took leave of the store, I saw across the highway that Wal-Mart, with all of its 100% natural apple juices, and crunch bars, and Nerf guns and the like. You see, my Nerf gun (a shotgun which had quite a nice range) had been trashed by my suite mate, and seeing as no replacement had yet been offered from him, this too was a large draw for me to obtain.

And I rarely went out and shopped, so why not indulge a little?

It is again at this point, I should remind you, when things began to go wrong when they really should have ended.

Getting to the Wal-Mart was easy. As was obtaining the Nerf gun (a maverick with a drum barrel for the darts), the 3 jugs of apple juice, and the various candies and of course deodorant.

You can never have enough deodorant.

My petty purchases purchased, I proceeded to pause at the place where the public transit should arrive. 15 minutes I waited for the trolley and whence it came I realized I had a conundrum: I still had my bike with me. The woman driving the trolley had no clue as to how to attach my bike to the front, so with much awkward effort, I wrangled the rapscallion onto the trolley.

The trolleys are rather nice in my town. They are old fashioned, a throwback to 1940's Chicago styling, and very comfortable to be transported in in my opinion. The driver was lovely, and we talked about many things that a passenger and a driver are want to talk of: the weather, my courses and credits (as she called them), where she lived, where I lived, and vague comments about children and bikes.

After a short drive, we arrived at the main hub by the theater, about a 15 minute walk or 5 minute bike ride away from where I live.

It is again at this moment when yet another poor choice was executed.

I decided to get off the bus.

I was a bit impatient after having sat at the hub for ten minutes, and figured with proper balancing of the juices in their respective bags and holding the nerf gun under my arm I could easily make it back to my living quarters. After getting the bike off of the trolley, again with awkward maneuvering, I set up my purchases upon my bike and set off.

Now, the theater is actually quite large. It houses an old train station, with railroad tracks beside it. Very picturesque. It is over these tracks I attempted to go, and it is that choice which finally pushed my up till then very good luck over board.

I crashed. In splendid fashion, sweatered and sweaty, juice flying across the tracks, my telephone being run over and lost into the rocks. I somehow managed to stay atop my bike and only came off once I hit gravel, which did not take kindly to being interrupted in the midst of all its sitting. Thus, it slid and slanted and took me down in a most sweatered and vestly way.

Onlookers will tell you that it was quite a bemusing and somewhat distressing spectacle. But I wouldn't know.

I attempted to gather my belongings and use the bags to balance them on the handle bars. But to no avail. I finally crashed again on a corner near an old frat building. Exhausted and grumpy, scuffed and with a hit upon the head from the last landing, I gave in.

I attempted to get a hold of a friend and ask them if they could come and help me, as my bike and self were not really in proper sense to be going anywhere soon. It was only after 4 phone calls, 2 texts to different people, and finally a phone call to another person that I got a hold of someone who could place her on the line with me.

What is the point of owning a cell phone and having the ability to communicate instantly if when someone tries to do so you do not? Nothing I say. What a society we live in where we have that advantage to abuse. I digress.

Needless to say, she did not want to help me. Angered, I hung up with a final "fine." Agitated, bruised, and with no means I could see of transporting my stuff, I was at a loss. I rather regret these actions and this anger, as it was not at all about the person whom I called, but rather the fact that I been so pathetic and weak.

We often find ourselves express our anger at others when it should itself be expressed at us. This is my sincerest regret that I did not do that.

I was stranded at this point.

It occurred to me several minutes later how wonderful bike locks are. Their coiling nature is very good for holding bikes to things like gates and posts. Thus I set about holding 3 containers of juice and a large box to the bike with it.

It worked almost great.

After seventeen minutes of pushing my bike across campus in a somewhat strange fashion, and after hauling all of my newly gotten nicities through the window of my room, I locked up my bike, went inside, and sat down here to write this.

Next time, ride trolley the entire time, buy less things, and above all else, do not forget my sweater vest.

Happy Sweater Vest Thursday everyone.