Finding the Perfect Gift

They say that it’s better to give than to receive. I’m not sure who the ‘they’ is that started spreading this heartfelt sentiment around but I’d be willing to bet that it was a collective corporate decision made by a secret society of the owners of all of the malls across the country. Or at least not a college student who doesn’t particularly enjoy shopping even when she has the money to spend, which isn’t very often. I agree that it’s a great feeling when a person opens the perfectly hand-selected gift you’ve just given them. However, getting that perfect gift to give them presents the problem for me.

Thinking up ideas of what to get people isn’t a really big issue. The problem is- the mall. I have a feeling that my personal hell is, in fact, a mall, either the day after Thanksgiving or the day before Christmas. I’ll be forced to shop forever while techno funk music with 3 word lyrics blasts from the speakers. But let’s focus on the mall portion of that nightmare. I know people who could live in the mall, whereas I am fed up within five minutes of setting foot in the main drag, let alone any of the stores themselves.

My mission while in the mall is simple: to get in and out as quickly as possible. I know what I want to buy. I would like to buy it, and then get out. No amount of friendliness from a commissioned salesperson is going to change my mind about that. There is a running (non-mall sponsored) challenge at my mall at home involving the Buckle and some way-too eager salespeople. The challenge, if you choose to accept it, is to walk at a normal speed (i.e. no dead sprints) to the back of the store, touch the wall, and walk back out of the store without being asked if you wanted some help. No one, to my knowledge, has done it yet. Or maybe someone has, and the employees had him or her ‘taken care of’ before they could tell anyone. I’m not saying they did, but I’m not saying they didn’t, either. I’m just saying that they really like selling pants in that store.

So that’s my take on shopping and why it’s my least favorite part of Christmas. Hey- sudden thought on avoiding the whole shopping scene: homemade gifts. My mom used to love the presents I made for her out of Popsicle sticks and construction paper in grade school. It’s the thought that counts. And besides, I’ll brave the freezer section of the grocery store over the evil that that is the mall and its long lines any day. At least the grocery store has an express lane.

Working Under Pressure

Here I am in my floor’s lounge at 2 am trying to think of a topic to write about in my column which, incidentally, was due at noon yesterday. I must have been extremely busy with important academic whatnot, you say, to have been forced to do my column so late. Uh, no. Not really. As a matter of fact, I’ve already written two cards to friends, watched a movie, done laundry, and reorganized my MP3 file list. None of which were the least bit homework related. Simply more proof that today’s greatest labor saving device is tomorrow.

I am what you might call a ‘last-minute’ type of person. I fail to understand why teachers assign many-paged papers weeks in advance. I don’t use the time. My best work (I keep telling myself) is accomplished within a few hours of any deadline. Maybe I would do my work a lot better if I did it earlier. Then again, maybe not. This is an unexplored realm for me, as I have no recollections of doing assignments early. I’m working with the facts I have. I don’t have the willpower to do the assignment in advance, so the threat of a deadline is the only thing that motivates me.

My concept of time must be a little shaky, too. I always think that I have more time than I actually do. That, or I have an alternate theory that I worked up one day when I had a paper due. I feel that time, as it inches closer to a deadline of some sort, is actually compressed by the pressure placed upon me. Therefore an hour before a deadline is not truly an hour. The compression is proportional to the amount of stress I am under. I also am trying to work in something about negative time. I haven’t gotten all of the kinks out, but I’m working on it.

Procrastination has many levels. This column is one of the lower ones. I’d rather watch a movie than write this column, but I’d rather write this column than take a calc test. Of course, I’d prefer to have a limb amputated than take a calc test, but that’s more of an issue of my mad math love than one of procrastination. The tiers of the procrastination triangle are possibly infinite. And if not, I’m more than happy to be the one to explore them and find out. Procrastination rules the nation!!

Making a Clean Sweep

I remember when cleaning my room used to be a horrible chore only forced upon me when I was being punished or when relatives were coming to visit. As closely related as those two seemed sometimes, either way I was made to go to my room and pseudo-clean. (i.e.-throw everything in an organized heap in my closet and/or under my bed, depending on the extent of my slobbery). Now, although cleaning is not one of my favorite things to do, it is an attractive alternative to homework. My desire to clean is directly proportional to the amount of homework I should be doing when the urge to clean strikes. It’s amazing what I’ll do when I have a calc assignment due the next day.

I have no concept of ‘keeping a room clean’. My system allows the room to descend to maximum mess and then cleaning it all up. With the zero maintenance I perform, the room will soon reach a new low. A few weeks ago, my room hit this stage. I’m a pretty tolerant person, but the level my room sank to was unbearable even to me. The hair on our floor could have been made into a toupee that would have been the envy of the entire Hair Club for men. Dust piled in plush layers under the beds. Dirty dishes piled like abstract art filled our sink. Random possessions were scattered everywhere. And my roommate and I had homework looming in our assignment notebooks. It was time to clean.

We started on the dishes first, not realizing that there is such a thing as ‘too much dish soap’. It was like that episode of every sitcom where someone puts too much soap in the washing machine. Or maybe that was just The Brady Bunch. Our sink isn’t very big and apparently bubbles are repelled by the drain. Our dishes ended up very clean, and one of the shower stalls ended up full of soapsuds we had transported there in a pitcher.

Next we needed to shave our carpet, but we settled for one of those dustbuster on a stick things that we borrowed from our neighbors. It did pick up the hair and even gave us some more airborne dirt when we tried to empty it, thanks to the spring-loaded bag. We found enough dust to make a sweater out of, if you’re into weird stuff like that. We aren’t. It went in the trash.

We moved furniture. We organized. We even cleaned that gross place under the sink that most people try to hide with a garbage can. Three hours later, our room was clean. We admired our handiwork, then went into another quad to hang out so as not to disturb our newly created utopia of cleanliness.

Sadly, this was three weeks ago. Eventually we had to come back from the other quad and actually live in our room. The room is once again returning to the depths of messiness. I’m not worried. Finals week is coming up, and I feel the urge to clean coming over me just thinking about it.

Accenting your Speech

College is supposed to be a time of new experiences. A time to be exposed to the different and the foreign to what we are accustomed to. My friends here at school come from all across the country and supposedly, they all speak English. Sometimes, however, the different speech patterns and accents we bring with us make it barely recognizable as such.
In fact, I once tried to convince some kid from Tennessee he had a funny Southern accent for about two hours, including numerous examples and a demonstration of his accent.

Fortunately for you, I have few if any oddities about my speech, and the ones that I do have are perfectly acceptable and barely noticable. Just to get that straight.

My roommate, for example, is from Minnesota. I figured I’d start with the least noticable and work my way up. (If you disagree, just remember that my accent or lack thereof is considered absolute zero in terms of normalcy. And I used to live in Wisconsin.) So anyway I guess my roommate considers me normal because one night we stayed up until 3:00 AM with me teaching her to say ‘bag’ instead of ‘bay-g’. It was quite intensive therapy, and apparently though she still regresses, we muddied her accent enough so that her sister made fun of her this summer. Yup, I like to make a difference in people’s lives.

The weirdness doesn’t end there. I know a certain person (not mentioning names but you know who you are, buddy) from a certain East coast state (which may or may not be New Jersey). I don’t know if it’s just a New Jersey thing, but remember the Micro-Machines man from those old commercials who would talk so fast he was barely comprehensible? Right. This New Jersey resident talks so fast she makes him sound like Ben Stine. And in addition to trying to make my brain function fast enough to understand her, she also throws in her own creative pronunciations of words like ‘arnge’ and ‘wudder’. I’m writing them phonetically so you can learn them too. An interactive column all because Hooked on Phonics worked for me.

Living in such close proximity to everyone, I’ve noticed that accents are contagious. Like one of the fun viruses that are floating around campus, I’ve been picking up little bits and pieces of other people’s accents. I don’t know if blended inheritance applies to the way we talk, but by the end of my four years here it’s more than likely that all of my friends and I will talk exactly the same.

Keeping in Touch

How many of you have an Instant Messager screen name? No, don’t raise your hand. You’re reading a newspaper and I can’t see you. I’m willing to bet most of the campus would recognize that familiar little ‘ding’ that means someone wants to distract you from whatever you happen to be doing online. It’s free, and the best way I’ve found to keep in touch with my family and friends away from school. And besides, it’s free.

Supposedly there’s a new version out that lets you actually talk through your computers. I haven’t tried it yet because I can just imagine how disastrous it would be on my academic career. I know I’ve been on IM too long, though, when I hear that ‘ding’ in random places, like the Union, or in class. That’s when I know I’ve got to find an alternate way to talk to them for a while.

There’s always the old stand-by of mail, and we all know how I enjoy the U.S. Postal Service and their bags of postmarked joy. And if you get creative though, you can even spice up mail. Once I sent a friend of mine a letter in an airline vomit bag (unused, of course. What were you thinking?) I can only imagine the looks on the faces of the people who delivered it.

Then, of course, there’s the phone. Expensive, yes, unless you have relatives who express their love for you on the holidays in the form of phone cards. I don’t think I’ve had a phone bill yet this year thanks to them. Only problem is that annoying recorded voice warning you that you’re about to be cut off. “You have one minute remaining. Please say good-bye now, and then speak in short, 3-word sentences in hopes that you will not be [click].”

E-mail is great, as long as it isn’t in the form of a lame chain letter. Nothing says “I randomly clicked your name in my address book so you could get this piece of impersonal garbage” like a chain letter. I mean, what.

It’s not hard to keep in touch with your family and friends while at school. It’s simply a matter of – wait… I think I just heard and IM ding… somewhere… I’ll finish that thought next week. The phantom IM-er is back and wants to talk to me!

Time After Time

Fall back, spring forward. I mean, what? Personally I think daylight savings time is a pretty pointless ritual, relevant only to those who enjoy mind games and living in near perpetual darkness. I remember learning the gist of it in seventh grade social studies class but the reason has since been forgotten. Something about farmers, I think. Because that makes sense. Corn really cares what time of the day it gets picked.

Early evening classes with daylight savings time are the worst. I go into a lecture when it’s still daylight out. After the lecture, which most times already seems like it went on for a month and a half anyway, I leave the building and step into complete darkness. There went the rest of my day. Only thing to do now is homework… okay, so maybe not. But class is not exactly my ideal way to finish out the day. I mean, I could be watching the daylight savings sunset- or, a movie. Whatever.

My mom did call me though, to remind me to set my clock back. About 3 days later. As if I wouldn’t have realized it by then. I’m used to being late for stuff, but I think I’d sense a pattern if I was repeatedly exactly one hour late for everything. I’m bright like that.

My mom told me I should have ‘saved the hour’ until the next morning. So I could wake up and then be relieved because I didn’t really have to get up… “Aw man, I have to get up and shower… no, wait! I can sleep for another hour! Oh, thank you daylight savings time!” Please. I’m never that coherent on any morning. Most mornings the numbers on my digital clock confuse me.

I don’t even know why my mom remembered that most of the world has daylight savings time. You see, she’s in central Indiana, which, I learned, seceded from the whole daylight savings time club. How is that allowed? Do they allow half memberships? I enjoy the whole ‘gaining an hour’ thing, but I’m not so keen on losing it again in the spring. Can we just do that first part? Every year we’ll fall farther and farther behind the rest of society. About a quarter of a century and they’ll lap us. But that’s okay. Daylight savings time is not a race. I don’t think. I don’t know, I just know it has something to do with farmers. Maybe it’s like a tractor pull. I don’t really understand the point of those, either.

You've Got Mail!

I hold my breath as I peer into the darkened cubicle, hopeing against hope to catch a glimpse of something other than empty space. Do my eyes decieve me? Is there something in there? I pull out my keys and in one daily-practiced move, the tiny mailbox door is open to reveal… stop. Look at yourself. You’re on the edge of your seat, living vicariously through another person’s ficticious account of possibly getting mail. If so, you are officially mail deprived. And I don’t think there’s a 12 step program for that.

Last year, when I was a freshman, the mail situation was improved. First of all, it was the first year away from home, so my mom was bound to miss me and send me something. Me being the oldest child, it was a novelty to send stuff to someone at college, although it wore off quickly. Plus, last year my roommate and I shared a mailbox, effectively doubling the chances of the box having mail in it. Even if it wasn’t for me, it was still pretty exciting to see that freshly delivered envelope waiting to spread its sealed joy to whoever’s name adorned the address label. Regardless of who the letter was for, if I made it to the mailbox first, I was the one who got to triumphantly carry it up the stairs: postmarked proof that the outside world knew we existed.

This year, though, I’m on my own. If there’s nothing for me, there’s nothing at all. And campus mail the fliers that everyone gets don’t really count as true mail. No stamps on those – they’re quasi-mail. Bills only count for slightly more. Sure, someone cares that you’re alive, but only because they want your money. Letters are always exciting, especially when they contain cash- er, news about your loved ones. But the ultimate holy grail of the United States Postal Service on college campuses across the country are – you guessed it – care packages.

Campus mail envelopes are sub-atomic particles of affection when compared to the amount of love-in-a-box a care package contains. The contents of the box barely matter. I know people who would be content with a package containing five bucks, some packaging peanuts, and an blank Zip disk. Then there’s the people whose mothers send them homemade salsa or chocolate chip cookies. Fortnuately, my roommate has one of those salsa mothers, and my mom’s one of the cookie types. So even if the daily mailbox ego maker or breaker ends in tragedy, I can drown my sorrows in the spoils of care packages past. Care packages… the gift that keeps on giving.

**This article may be sent home, hopefully inspiring a reply. Remember -pity mail is better than no mail.**

Pick a Major, Any Major...*

Other schools call it ‘undecided’. Valpo calls those students with no definite ideas on their future careers ‘exploratory’. Such a nice little title. Brings to mind images of leisurely spelunking in brightly colored caves, looking at pretty rocks or something. And that was fine, freshman year. Little did I know that this exploration had a deadline, at which point it the lights are suddenly snapped out and it becomes a frantic, screaming search for the right path out. Ha. Well, maybe I over dramatized that a little. But really, with all of my friends discovering their callings in life and snapping up majors two at a time, I don’t know what to do.

I admit, it’s not an entirely hopeless situation. I do have some ideas of what I don’t want to do, so I can pretty much rule out some things, like entire colleges on campus. For instance, if you’ve ever heard me sing the praises of calc, you’d know I don’t want to be an enginerd. And if you’ve ever heard me sing at all, you’d know that I have no aspirations of a vocal performance major. Business is just not for me, and besides, I don’t think I’ve ever set foot in Urschel. I don’t like blood or hearing people in pain so there goes pre-med. I like computers but not enough to be able to converse with others in binary. And from what I’ve seen, nearly every scientific field requires its participants to have a haircut that was laughed at even in the eighties. I just can’t win.

So, what about these individualized majors I’ve heard about? Are they just an urban legend? I heard about some guy who had an individualized major in- get this- creativity. What is that about, and how can I get in on it? I mean, picking an aspect of your personality to major in sounds like a pretty sweet deal to me. “Yes, I graduated with honors with a major in sarcasm with a double minor in extroversion and spontaneity.” Super. I hear they are hiring those sarcasm majors right out of undergraduate school. They’re second only to creativity majors.

In a perfect world, I could major in espionage with minors in pyrotechnics and handwriting analysis. No one would question me or look at me strangely when I told them this. They do now. Just trust me on that. In that perfect world, they’d only smile knowingly and perhaps ask if my concentration was international or domestic. Maybe I should rethink that. You can’t just go around telling people you’re a future spy. You never know who is going to major in evil with a specialization in evil nemesis-ness.

But if this ‘perfect’ world was really perfect, I suppose there would be no evil, thus creating a viscous circle which brings to mind my severe dislike of philosophy and the reason that major has been discarded. So for now lets just say my cover-up (wink, wink) major is biology. Strictly on the DL, of course. So I’m off to get my declaration of major form signed by the bio department. Plus, I have a haircut appointment at Cost Cutters. A good spy knows how to blend.

*This article is being posted under the assumption that I cannot receive any more crap about it than I already have.

It's Not Junk, It's Free!

It’s amazing how attractive something can become when it’s free. “Who on earth would ever use that combination can opener/hairbrush? What? Free, you say? Can I have two? I think my roommate would want one, too.” Not that I buy things I need, either. Even the phrase ‘on sale’ isn’t enough incentive to convince me to buy something anymore. There’s bound to be a way to get it for free, and with two dollars in my wallet to last me for who knows how long, I am bound and determined to find out how.

Food isn’t a real problem, as long as something good is being served at Jester’s. And with the magic of meal cards it’s like I’m getting it for free anyway. I seem to forget that I paid almost $800 at the beginning of the semester to put on this card, and for all intents and purposes it’s free food. “Hey, everybody! Chicken sandwiches on me and my mystical plastic card!” The only possible trouble is if nothing good is being served.

Short of hoping for a candy-throwing parade to come through downtown Valparaiso, not much can be done. Perhaps for an amateur, anyway. I, uh, HEARD of some clever individual who managed to score free food at an engineering picnic. Apparently she had a friend who was a legitimate engineer, so she tagged along and used her amazing acting prowess to transform into a freshman engineering student. A few choice phrases from an actual engineering friend and the façade was nearly foolproof. “Man, Physics 141 is really killing me.” “GE 100 is so boring…” And suddenly I was a freshman ME, enjoying a free hamburger and glass of Dr. Thunder (yum…) and shmoozing the profs. Maybe I should be a theater major instead. Well, maybe if they have picnics.

Now when it comes to unnecessary free stuff, nothing beats the Career Fair. Honest, I went over out of a heartfelt interest in my future career. Not seeing anything overly interesting, I proceeded to rake in the freebies. I now have enough pens and highlighters to last me well into next semester and two foam can holders. Two flashlights in case of a power outage, a quarter holder necklace, and some weird bendy rubber snakelike thing from BankOne. I even managed to get a genuine metal Slinky. Admittedly, my roommate and I had to walk by very slowly and speak quite loudly of our undying love for the metal toys before the woman asked us if we each wanted one. Really? Us? Well, yeah, okay! Thanks! Subtlety is the key. After we completed the circuit we hurried back to our dorm room and spread our loot on the floor like kids on Halloween. Free stuff as far as the eye could see.

So the moral of the story is: free stuff is cool, spending money is not. I haven’t bought a CD in who knows how long thanks to Napster, got a free Bible from those old men who were hanging around EVERY exit to EVERY building on campus, and snagged some free postcards from the art museum to send to my friends. Once I find some stamps that the post office didn’t cancel the first time, I’ll send ‘em right out. It’s not cheap. It’s creative.

Swifter, Higher, Stranger!

Ah, the Olympics. A time for all the nations of the world to come together in good spirited competition. A chance to showcase our best athletes and hopefully bring home the gold. And also, a chance for my friends and I to bond together in the lounge, “doing homework” amidst the background noise of the seemingly never-ending stream of events from Sydney to the fourth floor Memorial lounge. Events like… soccer, foozball, and grand championship lawn mowing. Well, okay maybe not some of those. But with all the events, who can keep track?

Yesterday I watched this weird bike race that looked like it took place inside of a cereal bowl, the walls were so slanted. And the guys biking wore these (warning: oncoming sarcasm) really neat spandex body suits and their feet were strapped into what looked like mini-straight jackets to the pedals. Good thing they practice a lot so they don’t tip over or something. I don’t see them getting up on their own like that.

So while they strap their feet into the pedals their trainer (or whoever that guy is) acts as a human kickstand, holding the bike up. And then comes the game face. The French guy looked like an oxygen-starved fish under approximately 42 G’s. I think he expended more energy gettin’ his game on with that face than he did through the rest of the race. The race itself was hard-core weird. They went so slow at first and I didn’t see a real finish line. They just passed each other twice and stopped. All that training for two laps around a cereal bowl and a fish face. Hey, whatever gets you the gold.

But we didn’t tune into NBC at 7:00 on the dot for that. Nor for the swimming, although that was quite enjoyable. May I extend a heartfelt curse to whoever invented those stupid performance enhancing body suits. I’d settle for the swimmers swimming that much slower to have the money spent on more underwater cameras instead. But I digress. No, the real reason we tuned in was the men’s gymnastics. Sounds girly, you say. Well, perhaps, especially when they’re doing splits and flitting about on the floor exercise, waving their hands to and fro.

But look beyond that… in the distance lies…the rings. The rings are a wonderful sport for the spectators both here and in Sydney. Although probably more so for us… yahoo for strategically placed cameras.) I mean, I’m sure it’s great for the athletes too, and fulfilling to be able to excel at that event. As soon as the rings were shown on the screen, the room was instantly silenced in respect for this awe-inspiring event showcasing male muscle- er- raw gymnastic talent.

The Olympics is a time for the world to unite in goodwill and humanitarian stuff. Besides, the winter Olympics aren’t for two whole years, and if I thought the new swimwear was bad, the skiiers’ outfits will be nothing but disappointment. So until then, may the spirit of the Olympics be present in all of us. And maybe since I wrote about mens’ gymnastics, the Torch staff will rustle up a picture of Alexei Nemov on the rings to go with this article. Here’s hoping.

Been Hangin' Around This Town...

Let’s face it: if you’re reading this edition of the Torch, chances are the weekend is coming up or already here. Which begs the question, what are your plans? If you’re stuck with no ideas of what’s fun, don’t worry. I have a feeling that it’s kind of like a tradition here at VU, students milling around aimlessly up and down dorm hallways eternally asking whoever is listening for suggestions on what to do that night. And as I’m sure you’ve noticed, the ideas are not flowing freely from their lips.

Downtown Valpo is not really a center of fun and excitement (considering nearly everything closes by 6) and since the close of Hollywood Connection, nearby fun is not exactly readily available. Especially if you’re a freshman without a car. Believe me, I went through that last year, and you may as well sit in your dorm room and hug a book for all the fun you’re gonna find. Unless, that is, you get creative.

Sure, Hollywood Connection is closed. But after braving the traffic and jaywalking across Highway 30, what to your wondering eyes should appear? That’s right, a Wal-Mart, full of aisles and aisles of good fun just waiting to be had. At any time, too, because it’s open 24 hours a day. Ride in a cart pushed by a friend and compare prices, get down and get funky to the hip muzak, or search for that elusive smiley face that bounces around in the commercials, lowering prices like a fiend. Fun abounds.

Or, if Wal-Mart isn’t your idea of a good time (or it is your idea of a good time but you have been banned for riding in the carts, a distinct possibility) try Denny’s. Again, a fine enterprise within walking distance for those of you vehicularly challenged students which is open 24 hours a day for your thrill-seeking tendencies. Try your luck at the stuffed animal crane and win a scary looking stuffed creature worth about six cents for the low, low, bargain price of one or ten bucks, depending on your reflexes. Order a Big Texan Skillet in a big Texan accent. (The servers really get a kick out of that one.) Or, just kick back and watch the people who frequent this restaurant. Count the mullets. If you don’t know what a mullet is, go to Denny’s to learn.

The possibilities are endless. Denny’s and Wal-Mart are the two main attractions. And don’t be fooled into thinking you get into some secret members-only fun club if you do have a car. Having a car adds a drive-in movie theater and Innman’s bowling to your repertoire of quasi-nearby fun-to-be-had. Speaking from personal experience, last weekend I was involved in a quest for fun, and we ended up driving along dark country roads for I don’t know how long until we gave up for fear that our eyes would never adjust to the bright lights of campus again and turned back. We ended up watching a movie and then a series of haircare infomercials starring some guy named ‘Snacky’. Hey, some nights you gotta work for the fun and some nights it jumps up and latches onto your face. Go Valpo!

Sleep is for the Weak

I didn’t get up before noon one day all summer. It was great. And due to circumstances beyond my control, I was unable to acquire a job for those three blissful months. So I would go to sleep to the peaceful humming of the off-air patterns of the television and wake up to the pleasant sound of my mother telling me quite rationally that if I didn’t get up of my own volition, she would be more than happy to assist me with a Supersoaker.

Apparently, this sleep pattern was acceptable only to me and maybe a few nomadic polar bears on the southern-most tip of Greenland. But not, however, to my mother. She’s one of those up-and-at-‘em, let’s-get-stuff-done-before-noon type. I assume, anyway. I’ve never been up early enough to see it. But anyway, she’s the antithesis of me and everything I stand for, at least in regards to sleep habits. So she got a real kick out of the fact that I have two 8:00 am classes. Great, right? Get my classes done early in the day so I have time later on for my… homework. Or something.

But I digress. So I figured I’d do the cold turkey approach to getting on a so-called “normal” sleep pattern: get up early one morning, no matter how painful, survive the day, and then go to sleep at a “normal” hour. Right. Because that works. Turns out I had been saving up sleep like a camel and I wasn’t tired at a normal time. I tried this for a couple days, then gave up. I decided that if I just waited until I got to school and let my classes whip me into normal hours. Sounds reasonable. In theory, anyway.

Unfortunately, it backfired, and I have turned into a bedtime pansy. I’m tired around eleven and any homework I try to do after then just sits on the table. And the mornings are no better. Ever wake up before your brain starts fully functioning? I do. It’s really fun when I wake up for some reason or another (perhaps my alarm is going off, perhaps outside the garbage truck sounds like it is mutilating large mammals) and I look at my clock. And I can’t figure out what the numbers mean to save my life. I don’t know what those funny shaped glowing figures are or what they mean in relation to my having to stumble to class. Eventually I can deduce that I either have to get up (i.e., it’s 15 minutes before my class) or I can sleep for a while longer (i.e., it’s 20 minutes before my class).

After living both ends of the spectrum, I’ve got to side with my old sleep pattern. No confusing clocks and no classes looming in the distant morning. Maybe I can change my major to wildlife of Greenland and study abroad there. Polar Bear Sleep Habits 101 at 2:00 p.m. Now that’s my kind of class.