COLUMN: Dead week begins with a dead feeling
It’s Monday, 7:30 a.m. Had my cell phone alarm not been the “Reading Rainbow” theme song I’m positive I would have thrown the phone across my bedroom – I guess I have too much respect for Lavar Burton to let out all my frustration.
I’ve never had a drink in my life, but I suddenly find myself curious if somebody spiked my kiwi-strawberry soda based on my whopper of a headache. My body couldn’t have picked a worse part of the semester to be sick for the first time.
I can hardly breathe, I have my most strenuous lecture class in 20 minutes and I’ve got my roommate barking down my neck to get my socks and Snuggie off the couch. One more mishap and I may go berserk.
This, by some divine providence, is how I start off my dead week.
So here I am, lying completely prone on my bed, contemplating if life, or at least the next three hours, is worth living. In the nearby hallway I hear the consistent rustling of heavy footsteps, shower faucets and what I think is the song “Everybody” by the Backstreet Boys.
The other five of my apartment comrades are in the hustle and bustle of morning time, as I slump lifeless, cross-eyed and miserable between the sheets on the last week of classes, giving myself every excuse not to get up.
Right off the bat it’s pretty easy to tell my brain isn’t functioning the way it ought to as I hear one of my roommates yell for someone, “Colin … Colin… .” For who-knows-what reason, I could swear he’s actually yelling “Stalin.”
Now, without any hesitation, I’m trouncing through my brain to see if I can remember all the leaders from the Allied and Axis powers in World War II, which swiftly reminds me of Mr. Medley, my high school history teacher who loved Reese’s candy bars, which brings up a conversation I had with my girlfriend in which I was accosted for not agreeing that chocolate is peanut butter’s perfect match – anyone with common logic knows that title belongs to jelly.
Luckily, before things get out of hand, my train of thought finally gets cut off as I try to gather my thoughts again.
The bad news is it’s interrupted by my roommate coming back in from the shower, and he forgot his towel. Now I have a pounding headache and an upset stomach. I try my best to say something funny to ease the awkward mood but in my weakness can only blurt out, “heh heh, you’re naked.” I’m obviously not firing on all cylinders.
I sit swaddled in my own little plush, male-disgust cocoon until he leaves in a swift morning wind of nautical cologne and waffle-induced flatulence. Now I’m stuck back in square one – alone, in pain and simply wanting to not get up and go to class.
I take a moment and think through what we’re learning to see if I even need to be there. It’s on economics and we’re learning about loans. I do my best to think of how important this subject matter is to my grade but can’t because now all I have in my head is the commercial jingle “Quick Loan! When you need it fast, you know where to go. Quick Loan!” I’m never listening to the radio on a two-hour drive to Tooele again.
My head starts pounding again as I realize I’m simply a Detroit Red Wings jersey away from feeling just like Cameron Frye from “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.”
I only have one string of hope: if I can make it through this week and the next I have three solid weeks of no books, no lectures and no walking on an ice-capped campus in worn out Airwalks just begging I won’t eat cement. This, coupled with the fact I can randomly smell bacon cooking, is all the determination I need.
I grab the upper frame of my bed, do my best “Braveheart” impression and scream triumphantly and begrudgingly pull myself on my feet, not realizing I unconsciously screamed the word “pimple” and everyone within a three-apartment radius heard it.
I throw on some deodorant, a pair of pants and a half smile, grab my backpack and make my way to class with seven minutes to spare – secure in the knowledge that true heroes never take a day off, especially not business majors.
There, friends and sports fans, is my dead week tribute to you. Best of luck with finals, don’t let anyone touch your soda (seriously, bad things happen), and until next semester, I’m signing off.
As soon as I find some ibuprofen.
– steve.schwartzman@aggiemail.usu.edu