The following takes place between 9:50-10:03 a.m. nearly every day of my life.
“Oui, oui!” I scream, as my internal clock wakes me from my 20-minute nap at exactly the end of my French class. Having absorbed as much as a rock would absorb if left in a Tupperware container of maple syrup, I leave the tiny decaying room with a smile and an even more firmly held opinion of the superiority of my own language.
Ignorant? Proudly. I find it best to always say goodbye to my teacher in a language other than the one she has dedicated 50 minutes to ferociously feeding me, lest she feel too encouraged and flirt with the notion of amping up my dosage. “Tschüss!” (goodbye), I yell. That’ll show her (mental note: Google it in Albanian for tomorrow).
For me, getting out of that building is like a shark escaping a creek, filled with many small, slow foreign fish. Everyone is exactly in my way, walking at exactly the wrong speed, talking at exactly the wrong rate, in precisely the wrong language. There are no shortcuts, no tricks to get around these fish, only the art of patience in waiting behind them. All these fish would look better in a sushi roll, if you ask me.
No one does.
After finally leaving the building, through any of the three exits that I use in variance in order to maintain insanity, I inhale a rich deep breath of purely American air and begin the Descent (the 40-light year trek to the Plaza classrooms).
I now have seven minutes and 43 seconds until I am marked late for my next class. With only my laptop and teddybear, Benjamin, in hand (I’m a senior, get over it), I stand in the road while I devote a brief seven seconds to staring longingly at the law school cafeteria, dreaming of a warm cheesy overpriced double-meat breakfast burrito clunking along, mostly unchewed, down my throat.
I hit myself with my teddy bear, snap out of it and start hiking. I march fearlessly down the actual road with my thumb held proudly in the air, hoping for someone to save me from the torture and shame of walking a block downhill. I stare into the hearts and souls of every driver of every car that passes me, infusing them with hatred and guilt. I wouldn’t say the face I use is a puppy-dog face as much as the face of a huge leprous black bear cub. It hurts to say no, but you can’t let it in your car.
My thought process during this four-minute walk varies depending on the weather, the attractiveness of the human walking in front of me, the amount of unfinished work I have in my next class and my appetite. Sometimes I can think about the book of Jeremiah, the beauty of the female butt, a laughably inappropriate cloud formation and the cost of three tacos before I even get to the HAWC stairs.
Now, the top of the HAWC stairs, in my humble opinion, is the crux of social activity at Pepperdine. It is the Stargate between off-campus and on-campus life. If you haven’t said, “Pick me up at the top of the HAWC stairs” you must be either handicapped and find that that particular set of stairs to be dangerous to your health (totally excusable), a hermit (totally inexcusable) or the Devil (who, in most schools of thought, is known to have little to no social life).
While standing at the top of the stairs, I find anywhere from 4 to 400 acquaintances traveling below. Of course, all of these acquaintances are fully aware that I now have only 130 seconds to get to class, so they smile peacefully and leave me to my journey.
Bah, humbug. Rub my head and call me a call-girl, that is certainly NOT the case. After spending 78 seconds giving 307 hugs, 42 awkward bro handshakes and 51 Catholic signs of the cross, I am free to beeline down the awkward new stairs (where I swear I swallowed a humming bird once). Hugs on these stairs are social suicide. You may reinforce one relationship, but you lose thirteen potential ones because the members of the 20-person pile-up you caused are all furious. After committing this crime on every tier of stairs, I enter the Plaza classrooms at precisely 10:03 a.m. Oh sweet, sweet knowledge. You are painfully and wonderfully earned.
