Sundays on a college campus are a rare specimen of ratchet. Delaying the onset of homework and a heavy hangover, students unapologetically stuff themselves with brunch and bawdy tales of debauchery from the weekend’s late nights. Our fine Virginia women complement their yoga pants with visible panty lines. Great Virginia gentlemen appear to have followed up No Shave November with not only “Decembeard,” but also “Manuary” and “Febroary.” It’s a sight to see.
And, within a five-mile radius of the Academical Village, the students of the University gather, as our great Thomas Jefferson so hoped they would, to discuss what Jenna should do now that she’s hooked up with Sam. Ideological differences put aside, they agree she may want to get tested. Swearing on the honor code itself, they agree Sarah can totally never know, especially after the Max thing. And using their famed powers of inquisition, they vow to discover: Who puked in the hallway?
Most people have it all wrong. They assume libraries, sidewalks and dining halls are for people watching. On weekdays, maybe. Sundays, however, are an entirely different story. Sundays are for listening.
And just for you, dear readers, I offer you a few snippets of the conversations I overheard this fine weekend past. They went something like this.
“Woah [female dog], you know I don’t have $10. I just bought a [bodily excrement]-ton of [hemp] from [name removed to protect privacy].”
“Naw, [name removed to protect privacy] never made it home last night. Of course, he was [copulating with] that [garden tool].”
“Did you finish your problem set?”
It was bad.
This made me wonder — why does it seem the student body takes belligerence to a whole new level this time of year? Is there something about February that makes the heart tear asunder, something about the looming presence of one St. Valentine that makes the liquor quickly fly off the shelves?
Reflecting, I decided yes. If February were an M&M, it would be the brown one. If it were a shoe, it would be a Croc. If it were a member of the University Board of Visitors, it would be Rector Helen Dragas.
U.Va. does not like February. Neither do I.
It’s around this time of year the most depressing brand of winter weariness really sets in. The skies are numbingly gray. The stockings still hanging in our dorm room have gone from festive to eau de trailer park. And to top it all off, I’ve taken to counting the veins on my left arm to help me fall asleep for my naps. I am actually that pale.
Now, don’t be presumptive and assume that I merely hate dear February because of a V-day. February was the Virginia Tech of calendar months long before Valentine’s Day ever came around. There’s even a Facebook page for it, cleverly titled “I hate February for reasons other than Valentine’s Day.” It has 74 likes. It’s quite a movement.
Personally, I’m pretty neutral about Valentine’s Day. I mean, it’s just a pagan holiday formerly known as Lupercalia, in which a bunch of bachelors would each choose a young girl’s name out of an urn and then marry her. I have no reason to be bitter about it — word on the cobblestone street is these marriages were pretty successful. To say the least, they were more successful than marriages stemming from the urn pick’s modern counterpart: “The Bachelor.” This may be because girls with one arm and anyone named Tierra are not allowed to put their names in the urn.
Anyways, I have Tinder. And if that’s not love, I don’t know what is.
So though I’m fine, I understand that you, loyal readers, are not. I heard you talking this weekend, and I know you’ve seen better days. I know you’re really wishing you hadn’t cozied up with Nate/Natalie right now — and the omelet man knows too. You really shouldn’t talk so loud.
We both agree, however, there’s no reason for such negativity every Sunday. Tomorrow’s a new day. Monday, actually. Which means it’s probably going to be even worse.
_Julia’s column runs biweekly Tuesdays. She can be reached at j.horowitz@cavalierdaily.com._
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