Here we are in the flip-flops and flat iron (have you checked out what this heat wave mess can do to the hair?) necessary days of August with the start of the fall semester mere weeks away. This seems a smidge early to me, but I'm not complaining. At least exams will be done a bit earlier this year, and I won't have to race home to ensure I beat Santa and the elves to my house in time for Christmas.
The impending arrival of the school year is quite the scary notion, but not because I already can't remember which classes I signed up for in the spring (one of my classes has "sexuality" in the title -- I'm sure of it) or because I know that my final registration will surely be blocked for the fifth consecutive semester.
In truth, my fear stems from the anticipation of the most heinous of all tasks -- something that has plagued the beginning of each of my previous two college years. Three words. Move-in day. Damn, that's actually more like two-and-a-half words. It's just like move-in day to be difficult -- even on paper.
Nothing, with the possible exception of mimes (who creep me out beyond all reason ... eek) fills me with as much dread as move-in day. My mother stands by me in this whole-heartedly, telling me that whoever hatched the idea of all first years and on-Grounds housing students moving in on the same day is clearly a sadist. I know my mother and I can't be alone in thinking this because clearly, when you break it down, move-in day is a colossal debacle waiting to happen.
You can count on several constants during the time when students are moving into their apartments (or first year dorms -- yum -- more on that in a few). One of these so-called constants is incredible heat. I live in Florida and, particularly after this face-melting summer, consider myself an expert on heat and all things hot. The heat turns people who are normally rational, intelligent and polite into raging Mike Tyson-esque maniacs.
I need no further proof of this than venturing down to the Sno-Cone stand near the beach at about noon. Grown men who, judging from their designer sunglasses and slightly too hip bathing suits, are successful, capable adults, regress under the scalding heat to the point of screaming gems at each other such as, "Back off, you son of a bitch! That grape cone is mine! I know you ordered sour apple!" without a hint of humor. However delicious Sno-Cones may be (and believe me, I'm not disputing that they are), this is not an appropriate reaction. The heat is clearly to blame. And if this anger is a product of heat combined with the sale of cone-shaped ice flavored with sugar-laden syrup, you can only imagine what heat combined with traversing stairs with arms full of Yaffa blocks can do.
Irritability intensifies, tempers flare, and before you can regain your composure, you have lost your balance, and you and your Yaffa blocks are splayed awkwardly on the asphalt parking lot which, by the way, is extremely hot. Move-in day is the only time I sympathize with students at the University of Miami and long for acceptance into the University of Alaska-Juneau.
Another constant in the grand tradition of move-in day is strained parent-child relationships. This is particularly true for girls, as we generally cannot participate in the heavy lifting and must therefore count on our fathers (most of whom will not be entering national Strongman competitions any time soon) to schlep our precious possessions up the stairs.
I personally am rather unforgiving when it comes to my belongings and run after my poor father, who is by this time exhausted, irritable (heat, anyone?), and covered with packing peanuts, screaming, "Dad! Can you hoist that a little higher? It's getting dirt on it! Do you know how hard it would be to replace seersucker bed linens?" By the end of the tirade, my dad generally looks as if he'd like to strangle me with seersucker and call it a day. But he presses on, dutifully carrying each and every box up the stairs. My hero.
If fathers dominate the process of moving the boxes, mothers flex their muscles when it comes to the organization of the room. My mother and I are forever at odds over this stage of the move-in process, as I consider "organization" the dirtiest 12-letter word in the English language (what, is the word "grandmothers" going to give it a run for its money?) and would be perfectly content with leaving everything in boxes to be retrieved at my convenience.
Moms, however, have other ideas. They want you to put your pillows in particular spots on the bed. Your posters must be STRAIGHT because God forbid your "Periodic Table of Drinks" poster has anything but the utmost aesthetic integrity. Your lamp shouldn't go over there (where it ensures the most flattering light for gazing at yourself in the mirror); it needs to go here where you have more light for studying. At this junction of the move-in process, you are missing Dad. At least he understands that socks do not need to be color coordinated and sorted by texture.
Of course, the sense of anxiety felt on move-in day intensifies by a factor of 100 if you are a first year. Not only are you coping with the heat and your (probably sobbing) parents, you are on a desperate quest to appear cool to your new roommate. This is tough going, as you must casually mention what an ultra-hot, confident, notorious partier you are while carefully arranging your collection of stuffed animals -- all with ridiculous names like "Teddy Bettie" which tend to contradict your talk of a party animal rep.
Parents do not tend to cooperate in this quest for coolness, frequently saying things like, "Where are you going to want these Q-tips? They've got to be in a good place so you'll remember to clean out your ears. You know how waxy they can get, don't you Sugar Pie?" Before you know it, you're not the kid everyone wants to explore Rugby Road with, but rather are tagged with the nickname "Waxy." But hey, buck up -- you only have three more move-in days left in your college career. And, if you need another reason to be happy, consider this -- at least you're not a creepy mime. That alone, my friend, is worth celebrating.
Erin Gaetz can be reached at Gaetz@cavalierdaily.com
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