Winterim was once only three weeks long, and those three weeks were completely torturous after freshman fall. Jan. 3, 2011, the day of our 11W reunion, seemed better than Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year all wrapped into one. We were hyper-aware of all the deficiencies of our home existence — no friends, no four-day-a-week sleepovers, no weird semi-intellectual conversations with strangers. We withered away without them, waiting for 11W like it was the only thing keeping us alive. Seanie often watched Dartmouth webcam’s live feed of the Green with a guarded secrecy that made her feel like she was doing something illegal rather than just pathetic. Amanda alternated between hibernating and eating ice cream.
We have arguably come a long way since then. At school now, we often dream of days lounging motionless at home the way we once dreamed of Jan. 3. And this winterim, in a surprising turn of events, we actually did stuff. Between us, we travelled to four states (two Hawaiian islands and three Florida Keys), changed hair colors, had surgery, began to conquer a fear of flying, learned a ton about our families, got two additional piercings, got no jobs, spent New Year’s Eve together on an island, developed an addiction to Kahlua cake and realized more than ever that the friends we’ve made at Dartmouth are lifers. So given that 2013 began with Amanda severely chipping a front tooth and Seanie waking up from a nap alone at 12:13 a.m., 2014 looks pretty golden. But that is not to say that strange and unfortunate things haven’t happened over break.
Amanda: Over break, my dad asked how I felt about taking a rogue road trip through Southern Florida. In response, I dug out my copy of Jack Kerouac’s “On the Road,” which I bought in Scotland and then did not read, packed a bag and leapt into the passenger seat.
Though we were no Dean Moriarty and Sal Paradise, we were a funny and spontaneous duo, and we did have our own set of noteworthy adventures. These included salsa dancing at a Cuban restaurant in Miami, snapping pictures of crocodiles in the Everglades, embarking on a deep sea fishing trip on a ship with a captain named Wishbone and a first-mate named Fluff and dining with strangers at an oceanside fish market in Key West (I ordered a hamburger).
That same night, my dad and I went to the hotel bar, exhausted after a long day of fishing. The bartender was a cool Ukrainian girl with magenta hair and a wrist tattoo that she admitted she regretted. Also, she was my age. Younger actually, but only by a few months. I could tell rather quickly that she took a liking to my dad. At one point, I’m pretty sure she slipped my dad her number, and after a few drinks (Dad: beer, Me: ginger ale), she invited the two of us to come out with a group of her friends. Now, I had already been out clubbing with my dad earlier that break (long story), and that wasn’t an experience I was looking to repeat. I gave my dad a look that very clearly read, “I am tired, you woke me up at 7 a.m., this is not happening.” He nodded, which I thought meant that we were on the same page. We were not on the same page.
When my dad returned to the hotel at around 2:30 in the morning, I was already fast asleep. I decided against asking about the rest of his evening, because I did not and do not want to know. My ignorance about this matter will help preserve what little remaining sanity I have. I did, however, proceed to tell my dad that he could have my blessing to remarry on one condition: the woman of choice must be older than me.
Seanie: Sometime in the past three years, my dad started referring to time I spent at home as “Occupy 34th Street.” My brothers found this hilarious and began calling me “the girl in the room,” as if I were a relative of Bertha from “Jane Eyre.” I collected so much stuff in my room I felt it was nearing the point of no return. So this winterim, I tried to tackle it.
Every time I return home, I suddenly remember the unimaginable number of half-empty middle school beauty products I have lying around my bathroom. They all have names like “Cherry Blossom Shimmer Butter — FOR THE HANDS,” as if Bath and Body Works is personally challenging you to put it elsewhere. Such a product is one of my room’s many uncovered relics, which also include a wax model of my hand holding a fake rose made at a bat mitzvah, a plaque with the words “Coach’s Award” (the award for the weak) given at the end of my basketball career and 17 extremely mopey diaries.
There is no concrete point to me writing about old junk. But now that it’s 2014, I’ve been thinking about all the stuff I’ve accumulated at Dartmouth. I’m one of those sentimental types, and I’ve started to realize that I’m scared for graduation — not only because of the joblessness and destitution and lack of direction, but because I don’t know what is going to happen to my little things. These things feel important, and tossing them out is like letting go of their stories.
We’ll stop before this sounds more like an episode of “Hoarders” and just hope that someone gets us. An FYI before we reach our word limit — since 2011, we’ve spent much time adjusting our D-Plans to avoid being in wintery Hanover. Now we’re back for the first time, and we’re terrified. If you see us fall on the snowy ground, please comfort us.
Yours,
Lucy & Ethel
