Opinion: Grow up and go HAM
The real world is for the birds — or pigs
Published: Monday, December 2, 2013
Updated: Monday, December 2, 2013 20:12
I pride myself on my love of obscure music. Due to excessive exposure, I have even instilled a decent musical taste in my very sassy and very obese guinea pig. But when I get in the car, all bets are off. The pop station goes on, the radio volume goes up, the windows roll down and all self-respect immediately vanishes to hide among the fast food bags on my floorboard.
If you have ever seen a girl in a white Hyndai Sante Fe rocking out her interpretive “Call Me Maybe” dance, I’m sorry. Also, you’re welcome. Because let’s be real, my car dancing skills
I listen to Top 40 stations almost exclusively on my way to class. This usually only involves a slight amount of guilt and a large amount of steering wheel drumming, but recently, disaster struck in the form of Colette Carr’s new song, “HAM.”
In her song, Carr talks about getting together with a bunch of her lady friends and going, going, going, going “ham.” This apparently must be well funded and involves a bit of bopping about and the removal of clothes. I think there is also ice cream.
I spent the entirety of my ride in distress. What in the world did this mean? Why was she “going ham”? What drove her to that? The best explanation I could come up with was she was a young, rebellious Jewish girl who had decided to break Kosher and eat some bacon.
This wasn’t right, but it was a
As soon as I got to class, I opened up Urban Dictionary and searched, “going ham.” Because this is an (Aggie) family newspaper, we’ll pretend it means, “going hard as a mother-flipper.” Or fandango. Or maybe flatulence. Pick your favorite “F” word and go crazy.
I was ashamed. Not because of Carr’s language. I couldn’t really give a flippin’ flatulence about that. I was ashamed that I was so far behind on my pop culture knowledge that I had to run to Urban Dictionary in order to understand the songs on my radio. It was then that the truth slapped me in my fandango-ing face — I am getting old.
This is serious. One day, you’re looking up song lyrics on the Internet, mildly concerned you’re losing touch with your generation. The next, you’re 50 years old and making your teenage kids uncomfortable as they crawl into your pelican-puke green minivan, asking them about some word a bless-his-heart kind of kid just yelled at you.
I’m terrified of getting older. I graduate some weekend in May, the very same weekend I officially meet the real world — the one full of horrifying things like mortgages, balanced diets, matching clothes and fabric softener. This past Sunday, I realized I’m going to have in-laws some day. That’s another entire family to disappoint with my psychology degree during federal holidays.
I am frankly not cut out for a real-world kind of life. Engineers and hard science students have crunched enough numbers and drawn enough diagrams to crush their souls into a 9-to-5 box. But I can’t even make myself wear shoes to class. There’s no way I want my entire life to be described by a tax form.
I might be frightened of getting older, but there is one thing that scares me more than anything else possibly could — becoming boring.
I have no desire to give up dancing to trashy pop tunes in my car. I just plain don’t want to grow up to tell my theoretical future children to make their beds. In fact, I still don’t even know if I’m sold on this whole “college thing.” I’m still honestly considering running away to the circus, though I’m not sure anyone would be interested in my “Glorious Guinea Pig eats her weight in sociology notes” act.
That is why I say we rise up and change the rules. If we band together, we can change the definition of adulthood. “Say no to minivans and ties with cartoon characters on them,” will be our rallying cry!
Actually, that’s not very catchy. First item on the agenda will be to assign a rally-cry committee.
We can do this. Those of you graduating in December, you go out there and get things started. We are young and virile and they will put up with our antics as long as we keep paying into Social Security. Let’s go HAM. Or at least eat some bacon. I’d settle for that.
Jessica Smarr is a senior psychology major and copy chief for The Battalion