Monday, March 28, 2011


Here I am, 27 years old and starting the last quarter of the first year of my second graduate program, and just now coming to the following realization:

Most of my stylistic development over the last three years (read: since I met Amber Tracy and was told I was "frumpy") could have been instantly effected if somebody'd just told me earlier that Miss Frizzle is not a paragon of style.

The colors, the hair, the accessories, the educational value inherent even in her dresses . . . yes, I have admired it, wanted it (maybe even more than I've wanted to look like a librarian--the one obvious lack in Miss Frizzle is that she doesn't wear glasses).

But I think now I'm resigned to moving on.

So sorry, Miss Frizzle. It was good while it lasted.

[Note: It's not that I ever dressed like Miss Frizzle (at least not since I was 14). But I think that if I'd had an honest conversation with someone, especially about my mistaken belief that crazy hair = intelligence (which probably owes a debt to Albert Einstein at least as much as Miss Frizzle, except that his name isn't Mr. Frizzle, and really it would've been more like Mr. Fuzzle, given his hair type), I could perhaps have avoided some of my frumpiness problems earlier on.]

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