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The Carletonian

The Carletonian

The Carletonian

A brief ode to my glasses and the ice on the paths, the true loves of my life

Each Tuesday and Thursday, there is a brief highlight that cuts through all the drudgery of being a college student: 8:12 a. m., as I exit Anderson and speed walk to Leighton desperately hoping I will be on time for my 8:15 class. This, of course, is the ideal class time: late enough to allow for sleeping in but early enough that I don’t grow bored with the unscheduled time I have before class. And then it happens, the situation I planned and prepared for when I chose to cut through Anderson instead of braving the cold of a lovely Minnesota winter: as I step into the cold, onto the icy path outside of Anderson, my glasses fog up.

“This is true bravery,” I think to myself. “This is the feeling climbers of Mount Everest aim for as they trek up that icy hill, the reason Olympic skiers launch themselves off cliffs at the start of a jump.”

Except I am wrong. This icy path could be terrifying. I could stare at it and worry about falling, but today, I can choose not to. Today, I can make a choice to not be afraid because my glasses are foggy enough.

If my glasses weren’t foggy, I would see the treacherous ice. That might be scary because I might slip. I could fall. Then I would be late to class, and that must be avoided at all costs.

If the path weren’t icy, I might not fully appreciate the fogginess of my glasses. That would be a true tragedy, as there is nothing more beautiful than the world through glasses lenses frosted over with condensation.

But these two events come together like a Beethoven symphony and I cannot see the icy path. Perhaps I am wrong that my first steps out of Anderson are the definition of bravery. There is no need to be brave because I can see nothing so there is nothing to fear.

I keep walking.

It is slippery. I do not notice. I cannot see the ice, therefore it is not there.

And so I have my foggy glasses to thank for my adventure around the Bald Spot, past the Libe and towards Leighton. 

It is 8:14 and I am almost there. I have succeeded. My foggy glasses have given me the confidence to stumble my way down the path. My journey is nearly complete. I am a paragon of gracefulness.

I walk into the door. I had, of course, intended to walk through it. However, I miss, and walk into the doorframe instead.

Apparently, there are downsides to not being able to see.

So to everyone who saw me walk into that door (I’m pretty sure it wasn’t very many people given that it was before 9 a.m. on a Tuesday morning and it was quite cold out, but I couldn’t actually see, so I really can’t be certain):

Roses are red

Violets are blue

If my glasses are foggy

Yours should be too

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About the Contributor
Becky Reinhold
Becky Reinhold, Editor in Chief
I'm a junior Philosophy major, and I can usually be found in the basement of Anderson or wandering around Northfield. I like thunderstorms and writing articles around 2am. Becky was previously Managing Editor, Viewpoint Editor, and Design Editor.

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