I have a 3 on my chest right now. Not a "III" or even a "three" but a 3. It's not a tattoo or a brand or even a drawing on me when I passed out on my friend's futon (Sharpie art...).
The only reason for my new mark: Karma is a beach.
Over Spring Break, I sauntered to Miami Beach in search of a fun time and to regain my good ol' Florida tan. Naturally, I — a born and raised Miamian — wanted to brag to my northern friends that I was at the beach while they were stuck in dreary 50-degree weather. A picture message or two later, my mission was accomplished.
Because I did not want to end up as red as Rick Pitino's face, I had to put some sun screen on. I sprayed my arms and back and legs and shoulders and feet and face and toes and neck and ears. Someone forgot to tell me, though, that I needed to a) hold the spray bottle further away or b) rub in the sun screen. Thus, I was 0-for-2 on those accounts and paid the price for my streaky spraying.
A couple hours in the Florida sun later and the damage was done. I had a white streak parting the red sea on my chest, coincidentally shaped like a 3 (or a "Z", depending on how you look at it).
Or was it a coincidence? Maybe it was a sign that I was the fourth member of the Holy Trinity? Maybe it was a sign that Dwyane Wade is the best player in the NBA? Or maybe it signaled that I am the second coming of Dale Earnhardt (other than Dale Earnhardt Jr., of course)?
Instead of a sleek, socially acceptable, even-keel tan, I had the Mississippi River pictured on my chest. It looked as if someone had snuck up on me and graffiti'd my chest with white spray paint. Had I not noticed a snake chilling on my chest while I was laying down?
The moral of my story can be summed up in one word: Do-not-flaunt-to-your-friends-that-you-are-in-a-tropical-climate-on-the-beach-while-they-are-stuck-in-chilly-New-England.
This principle can even be applied to the hopefully upcoming spring at Notre Dame. Don't get me wrong — North Quad and South Beach are not the same, not even close. North Quad is missing a few minor details, namely, an ocean and some sand.
Anyways, when you are throwing a football outside North Dining Hall, do not remind your friend stuck in DeBartolo how awesome your life is right now (unless, of course, you're trying to keep them awake during history class). When you are playing spike ball on South Quad, hold back from telling your buddy working on a marketing project how sick it is.
I know I have learned my lesson. My chest tells me so.
(Matthew DeFranks is a freshman and is looking for volunteers to rub aloe vera on his chest.)
The views expressed in this Inside Column are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.
Contact Matthew DeFranks at mdefrank@nd.edu
