Why I'm not a hippie

I'm killing time now before the Chicago Friends of Israel falafel/hummus event, which is apparently at the same time as the Health Care Barbeque. I wish I were hungrier, but the nausea has not yet subsided that began about 10 minutes before my BA oral defense. It went well, honors-wise, but I learned two not-so-good things about myself: my French grammar leaves something to be desired, and I seem nervous. Both of these things, now that I think of it, I already knew. I should probably compile a list of scariest moments in my life thus far. There would be the times I was legitimately frightened (falling out of an inflatable canoe into rapids at a hippie-run, laid-back summer camp, being in Manhattan on 9/11) and times I ought to have been all laid-back and hippie-like but was in fact just a bit on edge (these moments happen every day of my life, and are thus far too numerous to, well, enumerate). This does not fully explain why I'm not a hippie. Further explanation could be that a hamburger, not pot, is my indulgence of choice, and that I really don't like those flowing paisley skirts, oh, and also that a pair of Birkenstocks ruined my feet one summer.