On Jan. 2, the day I was set to fly to Boston, Spike, my fish of four years, met a tragic death. The snails, my father explained to me, had begun to eat away at his discolored and weak body, and my dad was forced to flush his limp carcass down the loo. Originally named Edmund during a phase of my life when I became rather obsessed with Lear, he was a burgundy beta with a ferocious temperament and a rather remarkable fondness for Chopin. Perhaps what was most disturbing about his passing is that my parents attempted to conceal it from me, ridding of the evidence silently in hopes that I wouldn't notice his absence from his gallon-sized bowl. I was after all quite anxious about returning for my sixth on-term at Dartmouth and anything, they feared, might push me over the edge. My parents have heard the accounts of already washed-out juniors returning for yet another on-term and of their subsequent emotional trauma and irreparable psychological damage.
"The Suicide Six" is a rather daunting trademark name for this period to which I am returning, and, coupled with another glacial and disheartening season of snow and gloom, I wonder if Dartmouth and winter together will be the death of me. Like Spike, my body turns wan with the chill. Winter in Hanover is characterized for me by a dull feeling of simultaneous numbness and nausea. Sluggish and lifeless I nap most afternoons away, imploring my God, the glowing and ever-radiant spirit of one Mr. Wayne Newton, to illuminate the College on the Hill for just an hour so that I might be rejuvenated and once again happy.
On campus tours, perky and jaded guides inform prospective students that winter is a time to devote more attention to one's studies, through reading and more introspective activities. This may be true, but in the process I have found that these behaviors, commonly associated with hibernation, also lead one to develop so-called "cabin fever," which in turn leads to an overwhelming desire to escape the chill. In the process, students may consume awe-inspiring quantities of intoxicating and warming fluids. Indeed, the alcohol does wipe away a bit of the pain, epitomized most clearly in this term's festive Carnival weekend, when beginning in the early morning, students heat their blood with a shot or two of something tasty and continue on into the sub-zero hours of darkness, attending sporty revelries as sobriety permits.
When I first looked at Dartmouth, I made a promise to myself that I would only winter twice in Hanover, conveniently arranging my D-plan to avoid exactly what I am inflicting upon myself -- the lethal four-pack. My sentiment at this point in my Dartmouth career is exactly the same as that of old Spike, may he rest in peace. I am sagging and dilapidated, held by the tail above the porcelain bowl, wondering whether I will swirl and sink to my death -- or perhaps I will swim and survive to see yet another spring that eventually comes, however slowly.
It is with this sentiment that I offer the following morsel of sage advice to those who still have the liberty to manipulate their schedules: Choose to travel to warmer waters if the sight of polypropylene makes you woozy. It's not too late. Do it for your sanity, for your health and for your life.
As an addendum, I received the following correspondence from my father this morning:
"Dear Krissy,
"I am pleased to announce the acquisition of Clark 'Sparky' Griswald -- a young, vigorous, chartreuse beta to fill the recent vacancy created by the unexpected departure of 'Spike' Todd. Although unclear as to Spike's current whereabouts, it has been widely speculated that he went undercover, some say to join the Navy Seals in the worldwide fight against terrorism. Sparky was most generous in praise of his predecessor saying, ' I only hope I can contribute to the team for half as long as the Spikester -- he was a true superstud.'"
Leave it to old Dad to inject my existence with a little optimism. But perhaps he is right. Instead of letting death, the cold or this school get me down ... why not laugh? Because after all, he was only a fish, it is only nine weeks of my life, and there really are a lot of things to love around here this time of year. My challenge to myself and to all of you out there is to embrace the term for what it is, to survive, and most of all, to find some degree of personal warmth -- whether that be in the vision of Wayne Newton, a pull from the bottle or the memory of a fish.
