On Navigating Cuffed Jeans During Winter

When I first arrived to campus, I urgently tried to assimilate to Brown’s culture.  I didn’t want to stand out as an obvious newcomer within the idiosyncratic microcosm of College Hill.  I wasn’t bold enough to get an asymmetrical haircut.  I wasn’t educated enough to chat about social constructs over dinner at the Ratty.  So I was left with the easiest option: cuffing my jeans.

Exposing a mere inch of my ankle made all the difference.  I felt like a Victorian-era rebel, daring to show off a whopping 1% of my salacious skin. More importantly, I finally felt integrated into Brunonia.  Fall was glorious.  Accepted by my peers, I flaunted my ankles with pride.  But winter was, in fact, coming.  As the temperature outside plummeted, continuing to cuff my pants became more and more challenging.  Despite the frigid winter air blowing on my vulnerable ankles, I wasn’t about to relinquish this desperately-sought sense of belonging just because it was a little bit chilly.

I persevered with my cuffed pants and bold naiveté into November. But as Thanksgiving approached, my ankles betrayed me. I should have listened to my friends who had experienced winter before as they warned me of my folly. Instead, Mother Nature taught me a lesson… via frostbite.

I somehow tottered all the way across campus to health services on my useless, frostbitten legs. Sitting in the crowded waiting room, I glanced at my miserable companions.  The room was littered with used tissues and empty bottles of NyQuil.  The flu-riddled souls heckled me as I explained my predicament.  I found solace amongst the several other victims of cuffing-induced frostbite, who were waiting for their ankles to be revived as well.  I could have sworn one of the nurses muffled a giggle as she treated my wound, which fittingly resembled a giant teardrop.

As punishment for my hubris, a nurse wheeled me back to my dorm room through the Main Green so that literally everyone could see my in my pathetic state. I remained a hermit for a week, bedridden and mortified. When I re-emerged from my confinement, I still struggled to not cuff my jeans. Old habits die hard, after all. But I still needed to cover up my bandaged and scarred ankles. Ah, but there was a simple solution after all.  Socks.

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