Sometimes I really miss being twelve.
I woke up today in the early hour of 1:30 PM, the buzz of Maria, our dorm janitor, vacuuming the hall outside slicing into my skull like a power saw. My nose is running marathons down my face and I'm gripping my bed to keep from being seasick as my head spins in that dizzy nausea limbo between dreams and reality. After about ten minutes of staring glassy eyed at the clock on my microwave, trying to decide if it's morning or night, a dim memory bubbles to the surface: vaguely I recall slamming my alarm on the counter to silence it. Everything after that eight o clock act of violence is a tangle of half-remembered nightmares, of the typical Robyn-realist variety.
My unconscious and I need to have a good talk one of these days; the rationality of my dreams is driving me crazy. Every ballet dream leaves me just as awkward and ungraceful as I ever was in ten years of dance classes. Every school dream emphasizes my worst student habits--procrastination, forgetfulness, tardiness and choking on a difficult test. Just once I'd like to have a dream where I ace a paper, win the Nobel peace prize, or sail across a stage with point-shoed elegance. But my waking insecurities seem to be strong enough to snuff out my potential, even in Wonderland.
I'm sick today. And there is nothing on earth that can make a college student long for a time machine to grade school years more than a gallon of snot and a temperature. In grade school, you can lie in bed until your mom comes in demanding why you're not getting dressed, weakly pronounce your condition, pass the forehead test and get to spend the rest of the day watching cartoons and sipping chicken noodle soup through a twisty straw. No such luck in college. After laying in my bed for half an hour waiting for a stampede of concerned students, friends and professors to come calling with flowers and get well cards, I have to bite the bullet. The pamper days that made being sick remotely bearable ten years ago are over.
At age twelve, my mom always called the school for me to tell my teachers why I was missing class. A sympathetic voice on the other end would respond with care and understanding, and I was free to spend the day in my PJ's. In college it's a different story. Professors are far less understanding for a student who decides their body is more important than four chapters of reading and a thesis paper, particularly when that student gets sick long after flu season. Which means that those of us who weren't lucky enough to puke when everyone else had Strepp in January are under suspicion of faking it now. I e-mail both my professors an explanation and apology and can almost imagine eyebrows raising skeptically for the student who frequently shows up tardy or sleeps through her alarm. There is no sympathy for a slacker.
At home my mom had a stockpile of chicken soup, 7up soda, animal shaped crackers and DVDs. She would check on me every few hours to see how I was doing, provide the Tylenol and the blankets, and usually spend a few hours watching chick flicks or the latest season of Gilmore Girls with me. In this way being sick didn't ever feel like a burden, it was a girl's night in. Now that I'm twenty, I've got to do my own grocery shopping, try to keep my ancient heater running steady, and there's no one to watch slow-loading videos on Hulu with me except the care bear on my bed.
Feeling hideous in a sweatshirt and jeans, my hair falling out of its messy braid and my acne showing through its thin layer of weak make-up, I walk across the street to Albertsons to get some contact solution and tissues with my last few dollars. While I'm there I pick up a cheap can of soup and Spongebob shaped crackers in a weak attempt to recreate the kind of meal I might have had in sixth grade. I can't find any twisty straws, and halfway through my search I have to give up to find a store clerk and ask her if she has some tissues to slow the torrent of mucous exploding from my nose. She can't find any tissues, but hands me a sandpaper square of paper towel to use instead which blocks the flow long enough to finish my shopping and get back home.
On the way back I run into a friend on the street, who takes one look at my chafed nose and watery eyes and offers a smile. "Me too," she says, pointing to my soggy sandpaper mess. I see the same exhaustion and disorder mirrored from her face to mine and smile back. I'm not alone.
Everyone says that their college days were the best years of their life. Maybe when I have the clarity of ten years hindsight I'll be able to agree with them, but for now, I think there is a lot to be said for twelve year olds.
*image by Google*
