Senioritis, Syphilis, and Spandex: Closing Out My Semester
By Alex Johnson | Photo by Lauren Matz
My senior year was supposed to be one of triumphs, of new beginnings and of leasing out a new home in BU Pub. I was ready for those final months to be nothing but chill vibes—just me, my cigar, my class-skipping, and maybe a few day-drinks. Although I did recently begin the uncertain path of knighthood, I can’t help but fear that I need one more year to fit it all in. One more year to make everything right. But somewhere along the way, I found myself on an unexpected detour. The last few weeks have felt like a fight for my life (academically), matched only by the battle I’m currently waging against something much more painful: syphilis.
Just like how the crunching leaves represent seasonal change, the crush of realizing leather and wet (double meaning) don’t mix represents a season of change in my life and mind. You know that feeling when a song like “Sticky” plays on the radio and suddenly you’re awake at night, thinking about how much you crave something that, in hindsight, might not be all it’s cracked up to be? Yeah, that's where I’m at with Sex-Friendly Fabric.
That’s when I met you…my OTP.
My 40-something-year-old professor rockin that salt-n-pepper-thang “lost” his wife’s spandex after a mysterious break-in and robbery. You’d think a guy like that would have it all together, but I can’t complain. I found myself with a new, rather unorthodox, love affair with Sex-Friendly Spandex.
Perhaps too friendly…
I didn’t know you could get an STD from tight clothes, but here we are. Maybe if Kamala Harris had aired a PSA on the dangers of ill-fitting garments and public health, she'd have won—if not the election, at least my vote. But alas, I can’t think about that right. I’m fighting for my life as I’m trying to ignore this discharge.
I thought my senior year would be a breeze—one last lap around campus, full of swagger and last-minute assignments. Instead, I find myself on the streets of Boston, black-and-blue, battling syphilis, senioritis, and the bipolar weather that can’t decide if it's summer or fall. And every time I try to find my way out of this mess, life throws me a new curveball—like that damn spandex.
Six months from now, I’ll be five shades lighter—not just in skin tone (lightskin drawback), but also in spirit. I’ll be wiser and, hopefully, a little less reckless. I’ll walk down the street with the faintest hint of a smile, knowing I’m not the same person who wandered into this mess. Maybe I’ll even bump into you, 40-something-year-Professor, shaking hands awkwardly, while I return your foaming, STD-infested Spanx. I’ll have a laugh, maybe a tear, and a deep, fulfilling sense of peace. This season, I’ll feel like I'm in one piece—not in pieces. And I won’t need spandex to remind me of that.
But for now, let’s just say: the comeback’s real. Name one person who’s ahead of me. Must be God himself.