COLUMN: No paradise for the lonely
I don’t know about y’all, but oh man; it’s good to be back.
Seriously, it’s true. I couldn’t be more relieved to be back in the shoulder-bumping, alternative-lifestyle infested land plot that is the Utah State University campus. Everyone’s scuffing boots, almost scheduled coughs and consistent whining about Steven Tyler being the new American Idol judge is sweet music to my ears.
In fact, I may be a little more excited to be walking in a sea of people than usual. This could be because of my admiration for the Verve’s “Bittersweet Symphony” music video, but something tells me it is most likely due to my personal, and insurmountably boring excursions last week.
It was lonely, quite lonely, straight-out-of-an-Emily-Dickinson-poem lonely. A sickening collegiate-level cross between “I Am Legend,” “Home Alone,” and several Ben Folds Five songs that began with the relief of having the apartment all to myself and ended in a mild state of insanity and hideous looking facial hair.
I should have seen it coming when I pulled into my apartment’s unplowed parking lot. I carried three suitcases, a backpack, two pillows, suits on hangers and my black cowboy boots up to my place – I wasn’t a big fan of making two trips to my car and up three flights of stairs in the bitter cold. I tumbled inside and plopped onto the couch.
Somebody left a giant lump of meat thawing in the fridge for three weeks, causing it to smell like a mix of death and Amy Winehouse’s back hair, but nonetheless it seemed to be the start of a relaxing, peaceful week of sleeping in until noon, eating my own weight in rice-a-roni and spending five hours a day in a desk for a math refresher course. Not a terrible trade for a little time for Steve.
This all played out well for me until day three, when I finally looked at my phone and realized nobody had texted me for almost four days. I’m 22 years old, I can only let my hanging out tank ride on fumes for so long until I, like most my age, begin to have withdrawals.
I did anything I could to occupy my severe case of boredom. I did push-ups, read all of Hamlet, watched 15 minutes of Jersey Shore, Facebook-stalked seemingly everybody, found a hidden passion for the song “Rock Lobster” by the B-52s, purchased half a refrigerator’s worth of generic sodas from a nearby vending machine with change I found under the couch, I even started a lip-syncing boy band.
I tried everything, and every endeavor made me all the more deranged. I’m positive I was only a dead dog and self-personified mannequin from honestly losing it.
By day six I was a medical case. I hadn’t slept in two days and I wouldn’t have been shocked if I had drunk my own urine at some point without realizing it. Sometimes leaving a single man in his 20s home alone is almost as dangerous as leaving your iron on in the boiler room.
I had just gotten finished watching ESPN-NEWS for the eighth consecutive time, throwing tennis balls as hard as I could at the living room wall and pretending they were landing in New York City and I was Orson Welles reciting “War of the Worlds,” when I heard the front door screech open.
I shot onto my feet and hid behind the front wall – I’m dead serious – as I cracked the living room door open and looked down the hall to see my roommate Joseph walk in and plop his bags to the ground. He stared at me for a moment and said, “What’s up?” I peered deeply at his face and stood silent for 20 seconds or so, all I could get out was “you … you’re here,” in a half raspy voice.
Finally my week alone was over. By the grace of something not of this world I was blessed with a gentle, exuberant, pale-faced peer with whom to share my thoughts, desires, random anecdotes and possibly a two-liter of Fresca. I couldn’t wait to take my well-needed comrade along and find some sort of adventure to bring this monumental week of solitude to a close.
We watched Sports Center, and then went to bed.
Yep, it’s good to be back. Best of luck this semester – remember to stay sane, and be sure to listen to the B-52s. Trust me; they’ll speak to you.
– steve.schwartzman@aggiemail.usu.edu