In our previous column, we were so overjoyed about finally making it back to campus after our nationwide flightmare that we forgot to mention how we got here.
When we checked in at Lihue Airport, Island Air told us that President Barack Obama and his family were flying out of Honolulu soon, which meant the plane would be grounded for about an hour if we didn’t hustle over to the gate and board early.
The plane was grounded for three hours. We missed our connecting flights. We were not present for the first two days of winter term. We are behind in our classes. We are jet-lagged. We keep greeting friends with “aloha.” And we are 100 percent in denial that winter is no longer coming ... it is here.
Amanda: Speaking of denial, I left my car on campus over winter break knowing that it would face six long and lonely weeks of snow, ice and freezing temperatures while I got intensely burnt on the sunny beaches of Kauai. Once I returned to campus, I refused to confront the fact that I might have to dig my car out of a mountain of snow. Or chip ice off of the windshield with a CD case. Or risk having what little remaining gas there was in the tank freeze. I allowed myself to believe that I did not have a car, and therefore I did not have a problem. This worked for one week and three days.
Then along came the fourth day, and a friend asked me to borrow said car to drive to an interview. I agreed and handed off the key with a “good luck!” Meaning good luck at your interview, but more importantly, good luck figuring out my car. To be fair, I did give a warning that there might be some snow to dig through or some other vague wintery problem to deal with. It was both. My car would not start.
I grew up in the suburbs of Detroit, where snow is plentiful during the winters and dead car batteries are not uncommon. I’ve witnessed my dad successfully jump-start a vehicle several times. But despite all of this, I never paid attention. Not once. I had no idea what to do.
In the end, it took the help of Siri, some jumper cables, another car that actually worked, a friend and a desperate phone call to my father to get the car up and running again. So, despite the initial hiccup, it was a good day. I turned 22, made it to my 9L X-hour on time and learned how to jump-start a car ... which ended up being a really good thing, because it died again. Though I am currently ignoring that problem, I’ll now know when to deal with it when the time finally comes.
Seanie: My current big insecurity, which apparently I’m airing to the public right now, is that I am a terrible blusher. It happens to me in high-pressure situations as well as times when there’s absolutely no reason to be blushing.
I use the word “blushing” because it sounds kind of natural and charming and not at all like the alarming thing that happens to my face when I get shy or embarrassed. My blushing is its own phenomenon, maybe something of an accomplishment. The average person would have to hang upside down for a very long period of time to achieve such a hue. Regardless, there is something so horrible about being forced to admit that you are completely embarrassed and don’t feel at all chill about it.
It happened for the first time this term when I arrived back on campus and went to meet a professor to see what I’d missed. I think it was some combination of the cold, my frazzled nerves because I really don’t like flying and the fact that I had heard good things about this professor and hoped he would like me. But I was instantly afflicted with The Red, and there has been no going back since.
When this used to happen to me freshman year (when I tried to participate in enormous English classes that had intimidating English majors seated together by frat), I looked “blushing” up in the search for a cure for my humiliating plight. I found that blushing is probably a fight-or-flight response and harbored the brief hope that my affliction is actually evolutionarily advantageous.
My blushing has run rampant this term. The worst was probably when I was semi-cold-called in class the other day. In the four-second span after the prof said my name, I began to look like Spider-Man or the inside of a grapefruit. To minimize my exposure, I shrouded myself with my hair, in the style of Samara emerging from a TV in “The Ring” (2002). It remains unclear if this method is successful.
On an entirely irrelevant note, the time has truly come for us to take the swim test. Apparently the polar bear swim doesn’t count, and we just received an urgent notice from our dean saying the pool is closed in the spring. And we would really like to graduate one of these days.
Farewell, frosty friends.
Yours,
Lucy & Ethel
