As part of some senior year lifestyle kick to “be a grown-up,” motivated by what is no doubt an infant’s comprehension of what it is that grown-ups do, I’ve been domesticating myself like my own nascent pet (for the wonderful possibilities of therapy pets, see our neighborhood dogs centerfold!). I cooked, once. And I reheated the remains, so twice. I bought an industrial sized jar of Skippy, which is a sign of yuppie levels of commitment. (Speaking of commitment, see this issue’s At Two Swords’ Length, “Are We a Thing?”)
In the mornings, my suitemates and I emerge from our rooms like newly birthed puppies, eyes barely open, and paw clumsily at each others’ doors like drunk mother hens. (For more tales of domesticity, see our look at SIC House.) Come nighttime, we pile into bed and laugh about how we need to be up in four hours. Adulthood! (For a professor who thinks we need to “grow up,” check out our investigation into free speech and academic freedom).
But I must admit, as the semester steamrolls impassionedly along and I’ve found more ways to make it seem like I have So Much Going On Right Now (come to think of it, so does Climate Divest), I find myself hearkening back to the old life—that peculiar, giddy high of poor nutrition, lack of sleep and fluorescent Butler lighting which Shamus Khan is only just learning about, as seen in our SHIFT story. When I slept, I cried to deprive myself of sleep again! There’s some cool poetry in this issue.
Am I just too old for this shit? I write this past midnight in the Butler stacks, having procrastinated far too long, and my word count is forming the outline of a swift exit. Submit to discussion board. Close laptop. Wander ButCaf looking for acquaintances to save me from being in bed at a reasonable hour. As Tom Roma reminds us in this issue’s Conversation, you can find a suitcase full of cash anytime, but you only college once.
Enjoy the issue!
Hallie Nell Swanson