Column: Summer, start your engines
(04/11/03 4:00am)
Summer, start your engines.
Use the fields below to perform an advanced search of The Chronicle's archives. This will return articles, images, and multimedia relevant to your query. You can also try a Basic search
7 items found for your search. If no results were found please broaden your search.
Summer, start your engines.
"You're so different now," sighs a high school friend. She's fingering my Lacoste tank and perusing my purses. "Dear Lord," she mutters, "Longchamps." She looks sad, and betrayed. "You've become such a prep," she says, accusingly.
Sometimes walking down the path feels like slow motion. You see a shape across the way and something deep inside of you cries, "Run!" It's him; it's her; the one you know quite well - and don't know at all. For five hours, or six, or 12, you tangled. His watch was on your desk; her skirt was on your floor; in the morning his face was covered with your mascara and she was wearing your high school track tee. When the sun was down, they were the only ones in the world, but now the path is packed. He passes The Loop, she hits the arch, their eyes catch. Her hand dives into her Herve bag, as if she wants those fake Gucci glasses. He's suddenly interested in the Freewater banner, like Harry Potter is really important. Ten inches away, she surrenders.
*She's not your average girl from the video. The phrase "blow-dry" is not in her vocabulary. She doesn't go tanning. Her track pants are her second skin. And although she's familiar with the salad-and-water diet, it's because she feeds that stuff to her pet rabbit.
The bookstore is swamped. I have to trample two international students to grab Global Peace and the American Way, and I almost take someone's eyes out while reaching for The Miracle Worker. As I gaze longingly at A History of 20th Century Footwear, I feel a quick tug on my tote.
The women of Room 302 have a rule.
I am standing in the Lobby Shop with two girls. They are stick-thin, stick-straight, and sticking to the magazine section. "Look," says one, holding a Maxim to her chest like a shirt she wants to buy. "I'm getting this body by Christmas." She taps the bikini-girl cover with a fingernail.