COLUMN: Speeding into tomorrow

From Lisa Levenson's, "First Person," Fall '96 From Lisa Levenson's, "First Person," Fall '96It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas, everywhere you go?" Ordinarily, I would wholeheartedly support this synthetic season-changing, since Christmas Eve happens to be my 21st birthday. Not so long ago, Thanksgiving marked the start of the Christmas and Hanukkah shopping season. Big Northeastern cities like Philadelphia and New York had big holiday parades hosted by television anchorpeople with big hair and big smiles. Then everyone went to the biggest mall in the area and spent big bucks in the spirit of family togetherness and stimulation of the American economy. It's not like that anymore. These days, it seems the 1980s "rat race" has returned with a vengeance. We're in a species-wide hurry to get on with what we're doing before age or exhaustion or the end of the century catch up with us. Maybe I'm exaggerating slightly. But think about this: I walked into CVS the day after Halloween, expecting to get some good deals on bags of candy not snapped up in preparation for a flood of trick-or-treaters. To my surprise, all that remained of the Halloween aisle were a few wire baskets filled with drooping Saf-T-Pops and deflated circus peanuts. The rest of the store had been wholly converted to a Winter Wonderland, with shelves wrapped in red and green paper and trimmed with gold and silver tinsel. Drug stores aren't the only ones working to make sure the average American consumer continually feels about three seasons behind. I hear the University may soon begin decking out Locust Walk in seasonal white lights from November to March to promote holiday cheer -- and, perhaps unintentionally, improve safety. Then there's cruisewear, which usually hits the department stores in December and January, when most of us are a) too flabby to think about trying on bathing suits and b) too cold to think about shedding the layers covering up our flab just to squeeze into a tiny piece of Spandex. And don't forget the Gap, with its three collections per season (none of which match in any way, shape or form, forcing you to buy more than you ever intended or can afford). The store on campus was showing corduroys in September, when the mercury threatened to stay at 85 for the conceivable future, and it'll probably begin pushing T-shirts and shorts when we're trying to shovel out from Philadelphia's first 1997 winter storm, if not before. My mom used to explain this phenomenon by referring to the fashion industry's concern for its customers' happiness. Showing clothes multiple seasons too early was one way to remind us that if we were displeased with weather or styles of the current season, we wouldn't have to wait too long for it to change. (Of course, this strategy also means that by the time you can fit into that loose, flowy sheer chiffon shirt you purchased in January, you are supposed to be wearing stretchy opaques in the deep hues of summer berries. Oh well. Bring your credit card receipts when you go out with friends, and you can prove to anyone who gives you one of those "You are so hopelessly behind" looks that you were in style -- once.) Undoubtedly, there are times when you wish and wish for the days to pass faster -- so that you can get your driver's license, register to vote, have your first legal beer. But then you find yourself in your last year of college, facing the rest of your life, bewildered by the number of options that lie ahead and unsure which road is the one less traveled by, the one Robert Frost said made all the difference. One of your friends gets engaged in November and begins planning a wedding for June. Another friend, your age but married with two kids, is due with a third three days before her college graduation in December. All of a sudden, you're ready to do whatever you can to throw the world's transmission into neutral so you can catch your breath and stop the spiral of time. Of course, you'll realize it's all for naught when you wake up December 1 to pink hearts in store windows, white lace doilies at restaurants and red-lettered signs proclaiming "Only 75 days until Valentine's Day!" What to do? Give up and go buy some cruisewear. It sure beats the mid-winter blahs, and for just a moment, you'll have that pesky calendar under control.