Photo CC by MT92
Dorm room life. I’m too old for it. Even when I was 18 I was much too old for it. I haven’t had to share a room and a bathroom with even my sister since I was ten. But here I am, 208, right below noisy 308, stuck beside creepy 209. And this is how my dorm room life week runs.
Monday night: The four and a half hour trip is over. I take it often; it’s a very big part of my life now. Four and a half hours of towns I’ve seen too many times, trains I’ve probably passed before, and other cars I’ll probably never see again. I make this trek at least every other weekend for just three reasons: 1. Because I’d do anything to see my fiancé. This nine hour round trip, biweekly journey is temporary, but I’d do it forever if I had to (in just two semesters with two more left to go it does seem like forever already). 2. Because I miss my mom. I’ve heard the saying the apple doesn’t fall from the tree, but it’s shocking how much alike we really are. Aside from Garrett, she’s my best friend. 3. Because I simply want to get out of Chadron. Enough said.
Tuesday evening: My long day is over. Tuesdays and Thursdays are my long days. Now that it is over I open my standard dorm room fridge in the corner of my room and look at the glorious leftovers I’ve brought back from home. I hate the food I am forced to pre-pay for as a college student. It’s better than my former college’s, I’ll grant you that, but it’s still pretty awful. I do try to use my meal plan. I do try to go and eat this disgusting food I’ve spent a chunk of my life savings on, but I’d honestly rather make ramen every night than suffer through it.
Wednesday late afternoon: Rap music comes blaring from somewhere. The fact that I can tell it is not close but that I can still hear it irritates me. “How does it not bother them?” I wonder out loud. How is it that their ear drums don’t hurt? My ears have sympathy pain just thinking about it. I am becoming increasingly annoyed. I think, “You’re young; your ears should be able to hear the music at 1/32 of the volume you’re playing it at!” I sigh. I head to class.
Thursday night: Lying in bed, I’m relieved my busy day is over, but also incredibly irritated. What could they be doing up there? I realized long ago that if I were just 50 years older I would be that stereotypical, mean old lady hitting the ceiling with a broom any time my upstairs neighbors made a peep. But it’s almost midnight and it sounds like they’ve been running a well-attended club for hours. I give up and grab my earplugs. Turning on my side, I try to drown out the thoughts of my 70-year-old self.
Friday: This weekend I stay home. This weekend I am bored. Homework. Eat. Netflix. Repeat.
Saturday: A friend invites me out. I think about turning her down, but I always turn her down. Soon she’ll start to think I don’t like her (which, I admit, is partially true). We stay out until 1, at which point I am drunk enough to not be able to drive and sober enough to know it. We end up walking the nine blocks back to our dorms. I’m giggly, but I still have thoughts of home.
Sunday afternoon: I look out my dorm room window. It’s still sunny, but the brightness fades quickly now. Daylight savings time has ended and the late afternoons have now turned to evenings. I continue to stare out the window and calculate the number of hours until I’ll be back home. One-hundred and sixteen – maybe seventeen, I decide.