dinks or drama... you choose
October 18, 2002 12:39 a.m.
Her ankle throbs as she walks down the sidewalk, a painful reminder of her intolerance to dancing in anything less than orthopedic shoes, her back aches as she struggles to clasp the unwieldy bakery boxes to her torso, informing her yet again that it has not yet recovered from last weekends too soft aero-bed, melissa's too hard mattress, and last night's back-breaking study session. It screams, "I need to have a good nights sleep in my own bed which features firm undersupport and soft pillowtop mattress pad. Give in to my demands or pay the price!"She stumbles up the stair, nearly losing the precariously balanced movie, popcorn, glue-gun, and tape. Her keys jangle from their lanyard around her neck, mockingly telling her that they are so close, but so unreachable at the moment. A savior, her roommate, opens the front door to the building. While her appearance is welcome, her expression is foreboding. An explanation of "more drama" and "diary wars" gets little to no reaction from the tired girl. She's already reconciled to the fact that no more than three days can pass in her dorm without a significant outburst. She stumbles blindly down the stairs, thankful that a year of residence on the floor has lent an innate knowledge of each step, bump, and turn to my tired feet. She weasels her way into the triple and, unceremoniously, drop a box of several dozen donuts into her friend Angela's lap. Angela's enthusiasm is hardly contagious.
The length to her dorm room grows closer with each step, only two doorways left. She nearly trips over an errant Dink in the hallway. The RA steadies her and stares concernedly as she mutters something in a gutteral voice about "two hours of sleep... grumble... grumble... two tests..." She flings open the door to her room, throws down the remaining donuts on her roommate's bed, and slams the door shut after her. She stiffly peels of her jeans and socks, shirt and bra, and pulls on her beaten and bruised nightshirt. The screaming face and lettering of "I can't take it anymore" seem ironically appropriate.
She leaves her clothing in a pile on the floor planning to pick it up in the morning and shuffles to her desk. Her first instint is to read the circle of online journals to discover the source of tonight's drama. No, she already knows the source. She just needs to know what brought the incident to a head. She pauses to acknowledge her aching ankle. She pulls on her support brace, silently apologizing to her ankle tendons for using a remedy instead of a prevention. The diaries provide an insight into a situation she had no desire to involve herself in. Her love and affection for those involved on all sides precluded any involvement. Immediate action was not warranted. She was allowed to wallow in pain in peace for a few minutes.
She reassures her mother that she will indeed be coming home this weekend. She doesn't know when yet, her ankle may be too sore to drive tomorrow. Maybe that will provide a half-desired reason to go to the controversial dance tomorrow night. After informing her mother that she plans to sleep and study, in that order, she puts up a simple away message on her instant messenger buddy list... "Sleeping until the drama is over!" It turns out to be only wishful thinking.
A knock on the door: Angela enters and another obstacle stands between her and sleep. Shaking hands and teary eyes do not go unnoticed. A short conversation while her water heats turns into an hour long heart to heart. By the time she remembers she had heated water for tea, it is nearly cold again. But even cold tea is worth suffering for the conversation she has just experienced. A deep meaningful connection with someone she had never connected to before.
Her tears are gone, her roommate returns, her clothing now thrown haphazardly into her overflowing closet; she settles down to act out the nightly rituals with her roommate. Jenn wanders in, munching and crunching with the roommates. Sharing the days traumas and accomplishments. She values these conversations. Brutal honesty and sincere honesty mesh to become valued opinions and conversations. She decides that the hour is late and her alertness is waning. She writes her journal entries, prepares her notebooks for the morning, immerses herself in a chapter of a cheap romance novel bought on a late night walmart run, and cuddles into bed with her well-worn stuffed rabbit. The warm blankets settle around her and cocoon her body as she sinks into happy oblivion.
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