Week three (through week seven) of a Dartmouth quarter means that midterms are upon us, and it's time to come up with a new crop of excuses for why we simply cannot study. The two of us met to review the "progress" we have made so far.
We finished an 18-ounce bag of kettle corn yesterday and have little more to report. Amanda attempted to kill a fly eight times to no avail. Our editor texted us thrice about our column, and we feel truly sorry that it is three days past due. To brainstorm, Seanie asked Amanda to name one good thing she has done so far this term, and Amanda fell silent.
It would be easy for us to blame girls' rush or the Hanover plague that's going around for the work that went unfinished. Because both kill the soul. But after three years of this, everyone knows the truth. Our word means nothing. And there is truly no excuse for Amanda taking her midterm in marker on Tuesday.
To comfort ourselves, we turn to the greats. Abraham Lincoln once said, "My great concern is not whether you have failed, but whether you are content with your failure." We are not content with our failure, but at least Lincoln is concerned for us. Someone else said this gem: "Reach for the moon. Even if you miss, you will land among the stars." This is astronomically inaccurate, and we reject it.
For now, here's the midterm report of this week's What Have We Dones:
Amanda: Before rush, each member of my sorority must attend two "rush retreats" to learn the songs and dances that we perform for potential new members. Now, I'll admit my attitude toward the pre-rush boot camps could've been better, but in the end, I more or less learned the moves and words.
It's the second day of rush, and I'm in the living room of my house wearing a fur vest and a netted hat, practicing the song with my sisters. I'd claimed my spot in the back row so aggressively that they literally parted ways to let me through. But during that practice, I found myself backed into the corner of the room with no space to dance. I bounced up and down instead.
After practice, I was approached with a simple request. Could I please remove myself from the dance and stand in the kitchen?
If that doesn't seem all that questionable, I'll give background. I'm in a dance group on campus. I'm actually one of the co-directors. So when I was asked to not participate in the rush dance and instead stand by the microwave, I found myself thinking: "Nobody puts Baby in the kitchen" because if I'm referring to myself as Baby, then I've already put myself in the corner. I refused to be demoted to the kitchen. My response: no.
After a little more practice, I proved my worth. The looks I got from '16s while I danced could have been worse, so I guess that's a draw. People seem to love to talk about who "won rush," and I can tell you right now, it wasn't me.
Seanie: If you've seen me in the past week, you probably know that I have been sick. My mother says that letting everyone know when I am ill is my "M.O." Amanda confirms this. Another friend, who will be angry at me for writing about my common cold, told me that I need to stop exaggerating my symptoms. Apparently answering a call with "death is near" instead of "hello" is inappropriate.
In any event, I went through several stages of illness. During the first, my voice cracked twice per sentence, like a pubescent boy. In the next, I tried to shout to a friend across the Green and scared away a local family. In the final stage, my cough sounded kind of like the honking of a duck. It was then that I had to make a presentation for my job at a student organization.
Two minutes in, I felt the tickle in my throat. Three minutes in, I was tearing up and could feel my face turning red. Trying to fight it only made it worse. Soon I was standing at the front of the room in the midst of a full-fledged coughing fit, initially refusing offers of water, chugging the water when given it anyway, and finally trying to crack a joke after chugging the water but coughing instead.
I used to think that there was nothing worse than the feeling of embarrassment, except for the feeling of secondhand embarrassment if you too watched "American Idol" as a child, you get me. But squinting at the members of this organization between honking duck coughs, I knew my mistake. There is truly nothing worse than watching others watch you humiliate yourself. It's like secondhand embarrassment squared. You want them to just laugh to lighten the mood. You want them to flee the scene. You want them to do anything, really. Must they be so kind?
Honestly, it was really bad. I think it was actually even worse than I think it was. I barely finished the presentation, tried to crack another joke and exited the premises.
Now a friend of the aforementioned fly is swarming us as we finish our column from a sprawled-out position on the floor of the basketball courts. Also, according to Amanda, ducks don't honk.
Yours for better or worse, in sickness and in health,Lucy & Ethel
