On Wednesday, God created the solar system — the confusing, infinite, unattainable and lifeless vast of nothing that only exists to shine light on the things that actually matter to us. This is definitely Wednesdays. The brief giggle that I make after saying “hump day” aloud is about the only joy that I can find during this scarlet “W” on the breast of every week. This day is Pepperdine’s version of a weekend, where it gets to streak free and unhindered on the lawns of your sanity, mixing up schedules and reminding you that there are still two more days of real school left before the weekend.
You know you won’t have to have all your wits about you until at least 2 p.m., but 9:32 a.m. always comes earlier than expected, and you’re left with a yummy little 20 minute drive to school that even Phoenix or Ingrid Michaelson can’t seem to help. Upon arriving on campus, you realize that all off-campus life within a 500-mile perimeter has also made this pilgrimage.
As you sprint through the Firestone Fieldhouse parking lot and up the Punishment Stairs, you notice that your peers on the staircase and in the parking lot, the ones walking peacefully and slowly, seem to be attending a different convo — one that doesn’t mark people tardy at 10:06 a.m. and is really lenient about everything. You wish you had been invited to that fantasy convo, but alas, you must keep sprinting or you’ll be marked late for the real life convo like the rest of the humans.
Upon entry of the basketball court church, you become fully aware that everyone you’ve ever met can see you, especially if you’ve arrived after 9:58 a.m. and they’ve started playing the make-the-late-people-feel-guilty music. Every enemy, every bully, every hook-up and every ex-roommate knows exactly where you are and what you’re wearing and is intently judging you, whether you claim to accept it or not. You own it, you walk with confidence, you claim your friends and your seat placement among them and you sit.
Seat placement is key in convo: behind the athletes is always good; in the middle of a greek group is clever; too low in the bleachers and the speaker will point you out. Too high in the bleachers, and the convo po-po will get you. If the po-po do come over to ask you to put away your 3×5 index card that is actively, personally and religiously offending the speaker and the University, you instantly become the devil. No redemption. They are incapable of making their reprimands into discreet, rehabilitative messages of love. They walk up and down the aisles, un-hunched and strident, with no shame in the dear fact that they are the only true sources of distraction. It takes everything in your power to not point out the 236 more passionate crimes of distraction happening all around you and that the “good morning, mom” text you just sent pales in comparison to the man in the top row who is welding a robot together, or the sushi chef cooking in the 14th row.
After around 35 minutes of deliciousness, 3,000 students attempt to escape the building in what I say is the most well advertised proof that we would all neatly die if there was ever a fire at convo.
Now you must either hitch a ride with some blessed soul who does not have class and is leaving campus, or climb the mountain until your distance above sea level matches the year. Once you get to the cafeteria, you have been awake for a total of 67 minutes, you’ve only had three social interactions and haven’t wiped out your eye buggers yet. So obviously what you’re in the mood to eat is a thick fatty pork chop, topped with gravy and served with a full, hardy yam. Or perhaps a triple cheeseburger with a quarter cup of barbecue sauce and a pickle? Nada. I find that on Wednesdays, I’m fine with a bite of a banana and a sip from the water fountain until at least 6 p.m. If they served Gatorade and acupuncture at the caf, I’d be all over that.
That night you crawl into bed with the knowledge you learned in four hours of half classes and labs, you kiss your teddy bear goodnight and think that Wednesday is just a really weird Sunday, and that tomorrow will just be another Monday. Oh sweet, sweet knowledge. You are painfully and wonderfully earned.
