Common App Essay
By Frances Bluming (NYU Steinhardt / 2030)
I am in Washington Square Park with my mom. It’s sweltering, as we are in the peak of a New York summer heat wave. Sweat drips from my socks into my brand new Adidas. I'm nervous because I'm about to start a two-week program with The School of the New York Times (and because I’m starting college applications), but I’m also excited, knowing that I’m about to cross a life-changing threshold.
The park, of course, is packed with only interesting people living totally interesting lives. I push through the intimidation that accompanies this (false) thought.
I’ve spent the past few hours photographing everything- an older man in a muscle shirt nonchalantly feeding birds from the palm of his hand, a little boy crouching on the ground with a big red “76” on the back of his shirt, friends tanning on the grass, people in different stages of love.
Two very nice, stylish girls politely approach us asking if we’d be interested in answering some questions entailing our personal workout routines for their fitness brand. One is tall in an ankle-length black dress and chunky accessories. The other is dressed similarly, but shorter and quieter than her friend.
Before the tall girl finishes her question, my mom says, “Sorry, I have cancer at the moment, so I don’t really have a current fitness routine.” (Full disclosure: my mom dislikes public surveys even when she doesn’t have cancer.)
Panic strikes and the tall girl instinctively puts both hands up in the air, profusely apologizing before vanishing and heading out to find more willing participants. Her friend whispers a sincere, “Thank you,” before also peeling off.
I would have happily answered their questions despite having no legitimate workout routine (besides taking lots of walks and having spent most of my life being a dancer). My mom takes a beat and asks if her response was mean, to which I reply that it could have been interpreted that way, but hopefully they understood where she was coming from.
I sit with this thought for a while before telling my mom that I actually do feel a little bad for the girls, who are now keeping their distance, always about thirty feet away from us. She looks at me with wide eyes and says I should tell them that I’d love to answer their questions- that my regret is a sign I should act on. I'm embarrassed, but she taps my shoulder and says, “I said that to them, you didn’t." I get up and start running to the girls, passing the bird man and the 76 boy on the way.
I am almost to them when my right foot gives out from under me and I slip—Looney Tunes banana peel style—into a middle split and a massive pile of very fresh mud. It covers the entire right side of my body, seeps past my brand new shoes into my socks, and saturates the rear end of my skirt. The 76 boy looks at me with his mouth agape. The girls are gone. The entire park seems to stop and stare except for the bird man, who couldn’t care less (and is still feeding the birds).
I look toward my mom and erupt in laughter as I peel the stuck skirt off of my legs and walk back to her. She’s laughing too.
It feels like the dawn of a new age. Ironically, I’ve never felt more stable in my own shoes and ready for any/everything.
If I could find the girls from the park that day, I would tell them that I do have a fitness routine:
“I stay flexible and keep my sense of humor.”
I would then tell them to feel free to share this with others, because I’m pretty sure everyone—sometimes—needs to be reminded of it.
