Days Are Days
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Days Are Days

Sometimes we forget the small things

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Days Are Days
A Modern Hippie

Someone should have warned us that life isn’t easy. Back in the days of Dora-cut bangs and bright eyes taking in the world, making the most out of each new day seemed effortless. A time where finding the leftover empty box of Wheat Thins meant a fun new project to design with my new 42 pack of Crayola crayons. To kids, days are just days. The only real decision being made was if you want to be a princess or a cowgirl, the day itself stays the same. I wished I could have kept on my cowgirl hat for the day ahead of me.

6:05 and I was fast asleep. 6:12 and subconsciously unaware of the annoying buzzing sounding through my pillow. 6:30. Still sleeping. Finally, I peeked through little slits to glance over at the brightly lit numbers reading 6:47. Registering that I was, in fact, very late for school, my body flew out of bed, only to be brutally awakened when I got doused under the icy water the shower left for me. Finding no clean shirts to wear, I continued my raid for clothing in my brother’s closet, where he promptly yelled at me to, “Get out!” After slapping some light makeup on my face, the mirror showed me a small little figure swallowed up by the navy fabric of a shirt that was not her own and a not-so-carefully arranged mess of soft brown hair on top of her head. Throwing my papers and books into my cute leather backpack, I dashed out the door deprived of my daily strawberry waffles alongside an absent lunchbox. Knowing my brother was right behind my tail, I turned the key making my Jeep roar to life just as he climbed in.

Approaching parking spot number 342, the spot across from me was already filled, forcing me to have to back into my spot, taking up more energy than it typically would with my usual pull-through method. Running into the school, with my backpack slapping against my back, I make it into my classroom just in time to take the practice test for Anatomy class before 8 o’clock. The rest of my day monotonously ticked by, packed with assessment after assessment. Spanish, AP United States History, AP Language and Composition, Anatomy. As each class came, sequentially, I spilled out the information I had crammed into my brain onto each exam. Hearing, “Go live the dream, Saint James,” over the ignored announcements meant I was ready to speed back to Overland Park for my dance class. Aside from everything else in my day going absolutely perfectly without a hitch, my phone still sat patiently locked up at school. Not wanting to be late for yet another event today, I decided to retrieve it later tonight after dance. With visible salmon pink cheeks and a face dripping with sweat, my car took me back home, only for me to leave once again, on another trip to Saint James Academy for “Back to School night.”

Before I left, my mom stopped me: “Why are you so late?”

Hesitantly, I answered, “I’m not? I came straight home after dance...”

“Eat dinner,” she demanded for no reason, “we have to leave ASAP.”

“I don’t have time, I’m just going to change and then we can go. I was going to drive myself!”

She insisted on saving gas, so while I passed her the keys, she handed me a bag of turkey lunchmeat and some cucumbers for my nourishing dinner.

Strolling into the familiar brick building, flashes of navy, crimson, and stark white blurred past my vision, and I self-consciously peered down at my Nike shorts and T-shirt. I spotted house captain (and boyfriend), Roberto, walking by and flagged him down.

“Why did you tell me not to wear my uniform? Now everyone is wearing their uniform except me and it’s actually so embarrassing.” I groaned.

Putting his arms up defensively, he sensibly apologized, “I didn’t know you were helping run it! I’m sorry.”

“No one ever listens to me. Today has been the worst.” Giving him a joking shove, I sighed, and began walking to my locker to grab my phone.

“Ahh Mr. B, my favorite person!” I greeted my house mentor.

Mr. Bomhoff let us into the room, parading his holy coffee around and turned on the lights. The parents sat and pretend to laugh at our corny jokes, almost as if they were back in high school themselves. Once we finished our presentation, I decided to go home. Since my mother had forced me to take her, I didn’t have a way of leaving after I had done my part. I grab a ride from Roberto, and that was the best decision I could have made.

Strolling over to his silver van, droplets of water plop onto the tips of our noses. In my head, I sarcastically thought, “Really, what a great way to end a perfect day,” but I put my thoughts away in my personal container. Flickers of olive and hunter green leaves, barely visible behind the curtain of falling water, passed by the window, as I began to rant to him about the story behind “the worst day ever.” Twenty minutes passed, and I didn’t realize that my caramel colored house is sitting in front of us. In that moment, with the constant beat of the rain singing a soothing song, and in the presence of my best friend, the rain washed away the day.

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This article has not been reviewed by Odyssey HQ and solely reflects the ideas and opinions of the creator.
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