There’s something about dealing with big things that makes us catastrophize the little ones. Looking into the mysterious labyrinth of our futures, we manage to stay calm by directing our sweat at the small stuff instead. Many self-help books would call this tactic counterintuitive and deeply flawed, but, as Fernando Pessoa once said: “In order to understand, I destroyed myself.”
Seanie: I just typed “Amanda” before my part of the column and realized that I am not Amanda, but Seanie. At this point every term, I am prone to such basic errors. I become a crazy person due to all the built-up stress, realize I’ve barely taken a breath for eight weeks and feel a compelling urge to evacuate campus immediately.
The urge, though the result of a confluence of factors, is usually brought on by something trivial that in no way merits my fight-or-flight response. Last week, it was the swim test.
I have long feared the swim test, a roadblock that most complete with relative ease, due to a vague premonition that something would go wrong. I don’t know why I felt this way. I know how to swim and was even told that I have a “smooth backstroke” in a communal pool in the 7th grade. But the fear lingered until last Sunday when, after much goading, I decided to take the plunge, throw caution to the wind and swim the 50 yards that would bring me one step closer to a diploma.
As I approached the lifeguard, he turned to me with an appraising eye and seemed to instantly deem me a problem person. After assuring him several times that I am in fact able to swim and would not force him to save me, I stripped down to my swimsuit. Unable to locate any of my own, I had asked to borrow from friends and consequently found myself standing at the edge of the pool in the official Dartmouth swim team racing suit. The lifeguard asked me why I was wearing the official suit, and I said I did not know. I passed the test, got that congratulatory orange slip and was told to take it up to the PE office.
By the time I changed and reached the PE office, the orange slip was nowhere to be found. I searched the locker room, begged the livid lifeguard for another slip, was told to get back in the pool, did not get back in the pool, paced in circles and finally left the gym and walked home, hair freezing, feet dragging, swim test passed yet nothing to show for it.
Faced with an impossible amount of homework, I catastrophized the incident into an indication of my universal incompetence. I called my brother in Maine and told him I was coming to visit ASAP.
Amanda: There came a point in my life when I had to confront the fact that my car had been dead for seven weeks and that if I waited any longer, it would cease to be a car and become a miniature snow mountain. That point was a couple of days ago. A part of me was inclined to let it happen, and just wait until week seven or so of spring term when the sun would finally come out for good and my mountain would melt back into a car. But I knew my mother would have a conniption if she ever found out, so I decided to suck it up and dig.
I knew I looked ridiculous as I stood there scooping. I used the lid of a plastic storage container as a shovel. Normally I would’ve called it quits, knowing that I was not properly equipped to complete my task. But I was determined, so I continued to look ridiculous as I dug and scooped.
Within a few minutes, a very kind construction worker emerged and offered me a shovel, a broom and some help. I paused for a moment to consider his offer before telling him, “Thank you, but no thank you.” I had gotten myself into that mess, and it was on me to get myself out. So I went back to my work, and he went back to his.
Within a few more minutes, my back hurt, and my forehead glistened with sweat, but the mound was slowly starting to look like a car again.
Soon enough, a different construction worker appeared, this time just to ask if I was having fun yet. I told him I was, but that the fun was only halfway through. Though the car was now in view, it was still dead. Incredibly and unbelievably dead. But thanks to him, that was about to change.
My car was resurrected 20 minutes later. I thanked every construction worker in sight about 10 times each and promised to heed their advice and keep the car running for half an hour to let the battery charge. I let it run for 40 full minutes, just to be safe.
Later that same day, I eagerly accepted my friend’s invitation to ice skate on Occom and gleefully offered to drive. I opened the door and hopped in, full of joy and ready for anything.
Except it turns out that I actually wasn’t. The car had died again. Even now, I’m still pretty bitter and not ready to handle it.
Now that we have told you two more seemingly pointless but actually, um, super important stories, we leave you with this — sometimes bad moments, days and terms are just going to be bad.
But other times, you will take off your right boot at the end of a long day and find the congratulatory orange slip you’ve been missing inside. And you’ll remember to count the small victories, too.
Yours,
Lucy & Ethel
