At My Smartest, I'm An Idiot

I graduated with a BA in English from the University of Virginia on May 19, 2002. I will always carry a sense of pride for having received the Honor of Honors by graduating from Mr. Jefferson's University. But I don't remember Graduation Day because it was the culmination of my undergraduate academic career and definitively marked the end of a carefree time in my life when there had been no real responsibilities or repercussions; no, I remember it because it was the day I got the worst sunburn of my life.

It requires little or no intelligence to avoid getting a sunburn, it only requires sunscreen. Granted, sunscreen is goopy and greasy, it feels gross and it stings when it gets in your eyes. But avoiding a sunburn is not rocket science. Case in point, after Finals were over, between Beach Week, graduation parties, barbecues and going out to bars, I'd literally been drunk and often outside for three straight weeks but still had not gotten a sunburn. I don't mean “literally” in the contemporary misuse of the word, either. I actually mean it. Assuming the human body can process about one drink per hour, by my calculations I'd consumed more alcohol in that three week span than it is biologically possible for my body to have processed in that amount of time. Thus, I was literally drunk for three weeks, just like everybody else, and I still didn't get sunburned. Because of these weeks spent partying, on the morning of graduation, it didn't seem dumb or odd or alcoholic to wake up at 6am to go drink screwdrivers.

I wore jeans and a button down under my graduation gown. It meant I had limited space in my pants to carry necessities like keys, a wallet, cigarettes, a lighter, my cell phone and sunscreen. I wasn't willing to wear cargo shorts because there was a young lady I was hoping to impress and somehow I thought it mattered what I wore under my gown. (See The Fairest One of All). To that end, I wore my Diesel jeans, so the pockets were as slim as the cut and space was at a premium. It came down to choosing between sunglasses, cigarettes and sunscreen. I realized I probably wasn't going to be doing much reading at the bar, so I could just wear the sunglasses and leave my regular lenses at home. That meant I had to choose between sunscreen and cigarettes. With sunscreen, I would protect my skin and my lungs, avoiding two kinds of cancer with one good decision. In fact, two years prior, I'd been faced with a similar dilemma, chose to bring my cigarettes and ended up getting sunburned. So, the correct choice was obvious.

A couple hours later the sun was really cooking when I pulled a cigarette from the pack bulging in my pocket. It was one of those days that's too cold in the shade and too hot in the sun: all day long I felt clammy and flu-ish. I may have felt sick because of the nauseated uncertainty of life after college, or maybe it was all the cigarettes I smoked and the fact I'd been drunk for 21 days. Either way, I didn't care because I had a cool buzz on and dinner plans the next night with the young lady I impressed.

There is much pomp and circumstance involved with commencement ceremonies at the University of Virginia. Graduates congregate at Mr. Jefferson's Rotunda, then walk the Lawn before taking their seats outside and listening to a speech. That year the speaker was Virginia Governor Mark Warner. I don't remember a word he said; however, during the speech, two Honorable Men in front of me shared the following exchange, which has always stayed with me:

“Dude, what's wrong with you?”
“Two 40s and a pint of Scotch.”

After the university-wide ceremony, the English Department held another ceremony, where we sat outside and listened to a significantly more articulate and meaningful speech about the importance of communication and authenticity in the 21^st Century, then received the pieces of paper we'd worked so hard to achieve. All told I probably spent six or eight hours in direct sunlight, sipping from a flask, smoking cigarettes, generally being awesome.

That night people remarked my face was red and I told them it was because I'd been drunk for three weeks and regaled them with mathematical proof of this statement. Then I woke up and saw the blister forming on my forehead, right below the spot that had been covered by my graduation cap. This wasn't my first second-degree sunburn, (see Fun With Balls and Sticks) but it was the first one on my face. By the time the young lady I connected with knocked on my door to pick me up for dinner, a blister covered half of my forehead, another was forming on my nose, a third was forming on my chin and my ears and neck were swollen and on the verge of blistering. I looked like some kind of monster. Halfway through the date, the young lady I'd disappoint immensely months later let me know the blister on my nose had sprung a leak. She gave me her cocktail napkin, “for the pus” and I felt as monstrous as I must have looked.

I'm happy to report that was the last time I got sunburned. It was also the only time in my entire life I've ever honestly thought 'I shoulda worn cargo shorts.'