On the first day of this term, as I listened to my Econ 1 professor go over the syllabus, I realized that I was going to die. Not because the logic of economics is beyond the grasp of my humanities-geared mind, but because a virus was twisting my organs -- just like a little alien with a personal vendetta against the human race.
I had broken into a sweat, and my breakfast was rioting in my stomach. Not wanting to pass out in front of my classmates, I frantically whispered to my friend, "I gotta get out of here -- watch my bag" and stumbled onto a couch conveniently located on the second floor of Silsby.
Now if this had been high school, I would have celebrated at such an indication of illness. The slightest of coughs accompanied by the slightest of fevers demanded intense recuperation, and I would tragically lie on the den couch all day watching "The Price is Right" and "Fantasia." Yet this is college, and illness is evil; if I'm going to miss a class, I want to do so in a state of absolute perfect health.
When the Powers That Be created evil, they must have been specifically thinking of dorm bunk-beds and 10-week terms. After crawling home from my first triumphant day of classes, I only wanted to lie in my bed; but there is something very terrible about climbing into a top bunk when you can't even stand up straight.
And the bunk-bed horror factor only increases if your stomach suddenly has an impulse to commune with the toilet. Fortunately, I had already emptied the contents of my stomach outside East Wheelock, when I threw up in front of three friends (I'm going to spare you the gruesome details). But if I hadn't already puked, I at least have a bathroom in my quad and don't have to stagger down a hallway to reach one.
Puking was not such a horrible concept when I was little kid. I'm not saying that it was ever pleasant, but five-year-olds aren't expected to clean up their own sickness. You do your best to aim away from the living room furniture, and then Mommy carries you back to bed while Daddy breaks out the all-purpose 409 cleaner.
I guess taking care of myself when I'm sick is one of those pesky little aspects of maturity. My cousin Emily who attends Oberlin has her own theory about maturity. She told me that although she is 21, she's only about 75 percent adult. I like that theory, and between you and me, I never intend to be 100 percent adult. Right now, I'm at about 45 percent. My newly acquired ability to do my laundry accounts for about the first 20 percent, and the rest comes naturally from being 19 -- i.e. I can hear the word "cleavage" without laughing.
I'm also beginning to understand why adults call college "the best four years of your life." It's maturity minus the maturity part. Quite a wonderful concept as far as I'm concerned. If college really forced us to be mature, I would have lain in my bunk that first night back at school and ridden out the illness. Yet when my healthy roommates left for dinner, I suddenly became desperate. I had apocalyptic visions of dying and my roommate Shialing finding my cold corpse on the bunk. It was right about then that I called Safety and Security and requested a ride to Dick's House. A motherly doctor poked me a bit and drew some blood. When she suggested that I spend the night at Dick's, I quickly answered, "Yes, please, thank you." If she had tried to send me back to Wheelock, I would have screamed and chained myself to the drinking fountain.
Some of my peers already can't wait to graduate and "start living." No thanks, I'm already living. So long as there is the threat of little aliens invading my stomach, I do not want to rely solely on myself. I intend to take these four years as slowly as possible and enjoy every moment of my watered-down maturity.
