Accents

The obsession began at the age of 9. One year at summer camp, I met a counselor named Daniel, an Austrailian with an enormous Adam's apple and the bluest eyes and longest lashes I'd ever seen. With a predisposition for sombreros and the tendency to burst into "Waltzing Matilda" upon request (or without any request at all), he was the first. What followed during the next 8 years was a slew of infatuations with the international counseling staff. Some were Icelandic. Steinar, was an enigmatic ropes instructor, who gained noteriety by such antics as painting his thumbnail and wearing a Burger King paper crown on his head. Gisli was much quieter, with dazzling frost-blue eyes and an equally stunning smile. Most were English. There was Stuart, a fencing instructor who instructed his cabin in midnight raids on the girls' cabins, stealing toilet paper and putting frogs in sleeping bags. There was Tom, gorgeous and relatively soft spoken, who made me laugh by attempting (and failing) an American accent. There was Dave, as goofy as he was buff, who had his boys hike down to our camp site and sing us a lullabye. There was Paul, who ran around on the 4th of July with a British flag on his back and another one painted on his face, and WIlliam, who I later found out was Tom's brother. There was Toby... with green eyes and curly hair and an incredibly sweet personality. Toby committed suicide after leaving camp. I wish I'd said something to him. Most recently there was Chris. He's a musician, as well as an all-around wonderful guy, although he has his share of quirks. I can't really say how much I admire him. Hopefully he knows.

I'd like to say I've sworn off accents. I'd like to say I'll stop cold turkey.
Who am I kidding?