IMPASSE

My spin instructor played George Michael in class this morning, which brought back a very intense memory.




During my first year of college, the snotty, big-haired nursing students in the adjacent dorm room blasted the “Faith” album in its entirety three times a week as they got dressed for their 8 am class.

Since I had erred on the side of sanity and intelligence and signed up for later classes, this ridiculousness regularly woke me up out of a sound and occasionally hung-over sleep.

In other words, not only was I being roused against my will, but by some of the crappiest music known to man and God.

I asked them very nicely if they could keep it down, but they repeatedly (and snottily) insisted it wasn’t loud enough to wake me up. We had reached a dramatic 18-year-old impasse.

So one night (well, one very early morning), my gorgeous bestie and I came back to the dorm from an evening out, no doubt from some sophisticated soiree (it’s also possible that we were slightly tipsy, because college), and we had our revenge: we turned the speakers towards the wall and blasted The Cult.

One of my speakers was never the same, but the big-hairs got the picture.

In retrospect, I probably could have dealt with the situation in a slightly more mature fashion.