Ah yes, the requisite task that comes with switching your place of residence, especially on a college campus. No, I'm not talking about taking your Jennifer Love Hewitt posters off the wall. I'm talking about moving, moving, smiling, damned moving. That cursed process in which you pack up your life, take it with you, lose a few parts along the way, and generally unfold it in rumpled but satisfactory condition in your new setting.
If you are moving to, say, a fourth floor room in a building that was constructed before the marvelous invention of the elevator was a twinkle in its father's eye, then you may have some problems. Coincidentally, I went through that very same trial recently. It was worth it, of course, to be reunited with Jeff Two and "Iron Mike" Philpy, my old roommates, especially after having my ID stolen by a thieving friend of one of my random roommates last term. However, when lugging tremendous boxes up four flights of stairs, one becomes acutely aware of one's own mortality, especially the possibilities of death by excessive perspiration, death by hernia, or death by first tumbling backwards, then going ka-thumpity-thump-thump on your ass, landing hard on each step successively closer to the bottom, and finally having a box land on your prone figure and crush your skull.
If, miraculously, you are able to reach your room, you must be prepared to face the fact that the room might not be as you expected. Philpy and I, upon first entering our summer domain, discovered that, in fact, there was no half-bath in our room, but instead three closets for our convenience. I have pondered at great length why ORL lied through their teeth about there being a half-bath. I find three closets to be an unsatisfactory substitute. There is a public bathroom directly across from us, happily; perhaps ORL became confused about the complex differences between a "private half-bath" and a "public bathroom." ORL also made their lie even more extravagant by saying there was a fireplace in the room, which there is not; however, that's not as important an omission, considering the fact that it's sweltering summer. On the positive side, I have a very large, kick-ass window next to my desk, and the window in the bedroom has a fun little ledge on it. I may sit on the ledge and lob projectiles at ORL employees passing below. What fun awaits!
When you and your roommates have all of your belongings strewn about in the middle of the floor, another importance phase begins: the bargaining. This is an ultimately crucial moment: this is when you stake your territory in the room. As Philpy and I were the first in the room, we claimed both of the desk areas that were near windows. Vardaro, the later arrival, was therefore confined to the desk with a less scenic view; namely, that of two walls. However, this less-than-congenial soul was placated by the fact that he got the bottom bunk in the bedroom. I must ascend to the top bunk each evening without the benefit of a stepladder, a risky task indeed. Even more hazardous, though, is the act of jumping down from the bed in the morning. The first couple of days, I was filled with dread at the acrobatics involved in leaving my lofty nest, and gave serious consideration to a life of being bed-ridden.
Once you are settled in, the much-loathed task of unpacking is set before you. I had arranged everything in satisfactory order, when I discovered a few days later that I had forgotten three boxes down in the trunk room. Where does all this stuff come from? Surely all this junk is not crucial to my existence? Still, every female visitor to the room exclaimed the same thing: "That's all you guys brought?" I am given comfort by the fact that however burdened by excessive possessions I may be, a girl will always have to carry around twice the crap I have in order to survive.
And survive we will -- throughout the hot summer, Gile is home. Sure, the humidity causes cable wires, calendars and posters to peel off the wall. Sure, I have to climb four flights of stairs to get to my room, the equivalent of Mt. McKinley in my concept of exercise. Sure, I haven't got the promised half-bath. But it's home.
