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Eight or 10 young women were standing around outside Dairy Queen, laughing, gossiping, making plans for the year ahead. They’re sophomores and juniors in college, probably. They’re athletes and orientation leaders. They were telling stories about last Year’s orientation, slowly eating ice cream cones and Blizzards, enjoying the hot evening.
One of them left, and another called out: “Bye Lauren!”
A second chimed in: “Bye L Dog!”
Then: “I’m calling her L Dog now.”
A third girl pipes up: “Can I be KDubs?”
It takes every bit of restraint for me not to turn and yell at her, tell her that you can’t give yourself a nickname. I don’t.
I pay for my ice cream and leave.
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