Winding Down

Somehow (and don’t ask me how me how because I have clearly either been asleep or not concentrating, or suffering good old-fashioned denial) next week is the last week of term. I have four days of class left, and I currently feel like I’m standing on top of one of those great big Scottish cairns. Gradually the smallest pebbles are slipping out from under my feet. Any minute now I’m going to crash back to England in a great cascade; freewheeling my arms and shouting “WHAT? NO, I’M NOT READY. I WAS JUST STARTING TO GET GOOD AT THIS!”

This is a cairn, just in case anyone was confused by that reference

Because I have just about gained the ability to be here now. To be here and function as a normal, intelligent human being.

I’m talkative in my discussion groups.

I go to exercise classes.

I have bought a rucksack- the first one I've casually carried about since the hiking pack I took to school when I was eleven and fastened the clips across my front.

I've started using the word ‘whack’ as an adjective, and I’m not ready to stop.

It’s sod’s law really, because now everyone is starting to pack up their things and ask the same questions about ‘where next’, and ‘what’s coming up for you.’ A conversation I was beginning to think of as mundane until two days ago, when I was sitting on the steps of the I-House in the afternoon sun, and The Optimist appeared in front of me. Hands down the happiest person on the seventh floor, he was wearing his characteristic beam as he politely asked if I didn't mind him bothering me for five minutes. So we had the usual chats, and segued neatly into the ‘what next for you?’ conversation: in which I talked about the rapidly approaching arrival of my parents, The Graduate, my travel plans, and my reluctant return to British studenthood, where I’d be ferreting for internships and completing my degree. What about him, I asked.

“Oh, I’ll stay for a bit longer to finish my PHD.” he said cheerfully. “Then I will go home, and I shall probably go to jail.”

I looked across at him. He is ten years older than me.

“Why?”

He beamed at me, unperturbed.

“Because I have a loud voice.”

“Oh.”

We sat in silence for a minute, before he continued speaking, entirely matter-of-fact.

“I expect to go to jail twice. One time it will be the government, the second time it will be people who dislike the government, but don’t like people like me, either. Perhaps there will be other times after that.”

What can you say to that?

“Just don’t get hurt.” I managed, feebly. He smiled.

“We have privilege, and we are lucky to be here. But everyone here is also a fighter. We are strong people, clever, and we have the power to create change. We’re a good generation.”

He looked placidly out at the students ambling in the sunshine, the frat boys collecting the fractured solo cups from their front lawn, debris from the previous night’s party.

"In a few years there will be another big fight in my country. And when that happens I will be there, and I will raise my voice for the minorities who cannot be heard. People who don’t have the equality and the freedom that you have; and that I have here.” He grinned at me. “You are too anxious, I’ll be fine. Do you know what my name means, in my language? It means ‘have faith.’”

So yes, I don’t want to leave Berkeley. But I should still remember to be thankful for what I’m going home to. 

Open letter to girl by the pool.

Dear girl at the poolside,

I'm sorry for storming gung-ho into the conversation you were having with your friends just now. Even as I sat down and said 'do you mind if I cut in here' I could hear the unspoken question who is this crazy bitch and what does she want hanging in the air- and judging by the way you were hiding behind those enormous rhinestone sunglasses you had no better idea of how to make me go away than your friends did.

It's just that after lying on the bleacher above you for the past half hour listening to your friends trying to persuade you to cut all the carbohydrates  and protein out of your diet for the next two weeks I wasn't able to make myself quietly leave. Their idea that you should get a boyfriend and have sex with all the lights on so you could 'see exactly what you looked like' as motivation made my stomach curl. And by the time your protest about how such an extreme crash of a diet  might affect your study was overruled with the suggestion that 'every time you feel tired or bored or want to eat something just go work out instead', I was past the point of just shaking my head at you from several feet away.

I suppose it's not really a coincidence that a country where the heat leaves most people wandering about with a lot of flesh on show has introduced me to firstly some of the most buffed-up and toned body types I've ever seen in my life; and secondly to the most incredible wealth of eating disorders. I've seen it particularly among the girls. I have one friend who seems to exist almost entirely on raw spinach, and on the occasions she decides she's feeling fat simply stops eating for forty-eight hours. I've been on cardio machines next to girls who could take someone's eye out with their vertebrae, and who, when you look over at their dashboard, have been running for the past hour and a half and apparently have no intention of stopping any time soon. It disturbs me that the ruthlessness with which people scrutinize their physical appearance is becoming so much more of a norm; that society has reached a place where people can find so much wrong with their bodies; and especially that the culling of some of the most significant food groups can be experimented with and talked about so casually between 'friends'.

So when, as your pal in the dental floss bikini was saying 'just do it, just make the call and say you'll do it and then we'll all help you power through', I suddenly sat down in front of you and embarked on a rant about how shit trying to go without carbohydrate and protein would make you feel, I wasn't trying to be overbearing. I just wanted to let you know that, even as your friends, sisters, whoever they were, did everything they could to push you into a 'health' regime you seemed less than keen to embark on, there were still some people who would rather champion you looking after yourself. I'm sorry for being less than polite when one of them lowered her sunglasses and pouted "excuse me, but this is for a SPORT. We know what we're talking about.", but there's really no sport which justifies a diet of pure salad. If you- and I mean you, not your friends- really want to lose weight then eat a little less and exercise a little more. But lettuce, and only lettuce is never the answer... and for what it's worth, you seemed a perfectly healthy weight to me. And your friends seemed like a bunch of idiots.

Once I'd gone stamping away it's possible everyone shrieked with laughter and relaunched the campaign to get you shedding those pounds. Perhaps even now you're bouncing unhappily on top of some strange boy with all the lights on, or frantically cross-training in the RSF. But you did peep over the top of your sunglasses and mouth 'thank you' as I flounced haughtily back to the changing rooms in my *slightly saggy* bikini bottoms. So I'm going to hope you decided to be kind to yourself.


xXx

Tactical Laundry

Break is over, and everyone is back in the I-House. I was happy for the return to hustle and bustle, until early Saturday morning when I tried to run my sheets down to the basement for the wash. For the first time in about a month I arrived to find every machine was full, and two or three students milling, (apparently aimlessly), watching the clothes turn. The sound of churning water mingled with the thick smell of tension.

You’re not a true student until you’ve done the tactical laundry run. Back in England my student house was the crummiest of hovels: but it did have its own washing machine, and enough clothesline space that me and my housemates could get by easily enough without rising to each other’s throats. Back in residential halls however- or if you have to get by at a Laundromat- the weekly wash becomes a whole different ball game. There are about fifteen washers in the I-House basement. Fifteen washers, roughly six hundred residents. You may think it’s a miracle anyone can get clean: but here are some tips on tactical laundering that will help you become a tactical, a passive-aggressive- or a flat out bully launderer.

First off, know your time: never go to wash your clothes on a Sunday. Sunday is the day everyone realizes they’re down to their last pair of jocks and will have to go to class wearing trunks or bikini bottoms the next day if they don’t do a very speedy turnover. Avoid evenings and early mornings, aim for the middle of the day- preferably during the week while a big chunk of the residents are in class.

Secondly, know your enemy. Look around you, as you gear up for the wash.

 A tactical launderer will be standing eyeing the amount of time left on the various machines, fiddling with a handful of quarters so they don’t look as though they’re actively sharking around the machines. But they’re smart and will often nip in ahead of you before you can do anything about it.

If you go away to get a coffee while your machine is on the spin cycle, and return to find your wet clothes dripping on the nearby table while a totally alien wash flounders in the machine you’ve got a passive-aggressive launderer on your hands. Passive-aggressives are most famous for their ‘disappearing clothes’ trick, where they whip your entire wardrobe out of the machine and dump it in some obscure corner of the basement to fester. They’re irritating because a lot of the time you never actually see them; although they also have a habit of standing silently behind you, staring at your basket with hungry eyes.

If, as you’re piling the whites and darks in together, a shadow falls across you and you stare up at a hulking great figure with a wicker basket in one hand and a bottle of Tide in the other, who growls ‘How much longer are you gonna be?’, that’s a bully launderer. They use intimidation techniques to try and make you move faster. 

Those are the three main categories of launderer to look out for. My third tip is to keep an eye on the clock. I can square off to a bully launderer easily enough, but I can’t bear the passive-aggressives, who think it’s totally fine to manhandle my clothes onto a nearby table and leave them there, gently infusing with the smell of damp. Clothes take half an hour to wash, make sure you get back to the basement in time to grab them before someone else does. Same with the dryers, just calculate for 45 minutes instead of half an hour. Get down there and every machine is full? Check how much longer the cycles will run for and time your return accordingly.

I’m primarily a tactical launderer. I’m not big enough to intimidate anyone, and I’m just a bit too uptight to be comfortable with the idea of moving a stranger’s wet clothes (although when I did arrive one weekend to find my own laundry passive-aggressively displaced, I did open the culprit’s washer and throw a red sock in among their white sheets). But I got down there on Saturday to find all the machines full, and three other students hovering around, eyeing each other up as they hefted their baskets behind them. All of us locked eyes: this was essentially the Hunger Games of Hygiene. May the odd socks be ever in my favour.

The Danger Zone

One of the machines freed up, and as the laundry was unloaded, two of the hoverers zeroed in on the washer. The first guy staked out a claim by dumping his basket down close to the machine, but made the fatal error of not having the right amount of quarters, and had to make a dash to the change machine. In the time that took, his competitor shunted the basket a few inches to the right with his foot, and, at the speed of lightning unloaded and slammed the door shut just as the first boy returned. Keen as I was to watch the ensuing silent fracas, I was distracted by a girl at the far end of the washers. Her machine was in the narrowest part of the basement, and I set course down there, as speedily as I could without drawing attention to myself. I was just reaching her, when I noticed a guy coming in hard on the left, clearly aiming for the same machine. We sized each other up. He was big, and wearing one of those sleeveless basketball shirts and a backwards cap, and he was giving me a ‘danger’ look, but as he hadn’t jumped in with an ‘Are you finished with this machine?’ he apparently wasn’t a bully. The issue was the space. If we both went diving for the machine straight away we’d probably knock into each other, the girl unloading would get jostled, and then we’d both look like monsters. He stared into my eyes and mouthed “I will end you.”

[Okay, It was possibly a yawn, but the sentiment was very real]

Suddenly the girl was standing between us, looking decidedly confused as she headed for the dryer. It was a split second that lasted a lifetime; I slithered past her, lunged for the machine and threw in a pair of skinny jeans, claiming it as my own. WIN. I would live to wash another day.

Think I’m sad, or possibly a little anal-retentive?

I don’t care. I haven’t run out of underwear since last August.