After enduring several more orientation events (don't get me started on their inanity and dullness; no, in fact, start me up! Even if I wasn't so sleep deprived (five hours is the new norm), I would've fallen asleep in them anyway. It's like yes, I get it, I need to stay safe on campus and we're open and welcoming and the Bestleyan and there are resources of your wildest dreams available whenever you want them, but just lemme learn about calculus and biology and philosophy already), I prepared to spend the night galavanting with friends.
And yes, if you're wondering, that was one sentence. Writer extraordinaire over here.
I spent time at our open mic night before heading out. Saw some great folk musicians, one with a harmonica holder, and some terrible stand-up comics (talking endlessly about your experience at Hooters is neither entertaining nor impressive). But God, Wes is talented. Bravo.
I then left for the night, spending a half-hour at 'Wesleyan's best kept secret', Pine Palace. By the time I left, there were over a hundred freshmen congregating around the house. Clearly obstreperous teenagers struggle to keep a secret. Nothing new there.
Now, kids my age have a word for something like this-- 'sketchy'. No, it's not derived from the popular and functional shoe brand. Instead, it describes when something is a bit off.
And thus, once the modest two-story woodframe house began to fill with all those famished freshmen, I eagerly escaped the Pine Palace to casually convene with less foolhardy friends and delicately discuss the idiomatic issues that prominently polarize our wonderful world.
But before I could head back to my dorm, I had to tail a drunken couple as they stumbled back to their dorm. My hallmate, Jennifer, had watched the girl in question drink somewhere around, oh, 30 ounces of that good ol' jungle juice. (Our RAs' biggest advice was to stay away from it. Hmm.) I wanted to make sure that the guy wasn't going to take advantage of the situation.
I had a talk with him about her current state and I could see in his eyes that he was completely genuine about helping her get back home. I'd watched them stumble for five blocks, but I hadn't realized that the gentleman was simply trying to hold her up; he wasn't inebriated at all.
My judgment didn't fail me; I saw them both earlier today. Nothing had occurred the night before. She'd gone straight to bed.
I, however, shutter to think what might have happened in a similar situation. I suppose some of those orientation events were useful after all. There was a lot of discussion about sexual assault and staying vigilant to ensure it has no place on our campus. And that involves all of us, working together, keeping an eye out for others.
I finally got back to my dorm and talked with friends. Another hallmate and avid reader of this increasingly glorious blog, Maia, grabbed her guitar and began to strum tunes as the little hours of the morning came upon us. We even got to play one of my favorites, Wagon Wheel.
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| Home, sweet home! |
When I awoke this morning-- long before I wanted to-- things were indeed different. I didn't sleep enough, but the quality of sleep was superb. My bed no longer felt cold or clammy. Instead, it was warm and comforting. Best three hours of sleep I've ever gotten.
But even that wasn't it.
I stared out the window at the overcast morning, took a deep breath, and realized why I felt so different:
I finally felt at home. This cardinal has found his... New Nest.
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So ends the drawn-out five-day orientation week (o-week, yo!) and so begins classes. Also, so begins getting more sleep. Speaking of which...
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If you're feeling a creepy mood, you can view more pictures of my dorm room here.
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