Forget The Day

Groundhog day definitely could have started better. Six o'clock rolled in—of course, I slept through the alarm I set (there was a reason I set my phone to vibrate). The bed was hard and lonely. My boyfriend had to work that night. Blankets and a lavender bunny across my back managed to keep me warm, but I slept only moderately well. My phone went off again at 8:30, this time playing music, and once again at 8:40. I spent the time in between moaning my own misfortune. I didn't want to get up, or go to class. I'd never thought that a twin bed could actually be too big. The second time my alarm went off, I actually opened my eyes and rolled out of bed. I put on a pair of jeans, but couldn't be motivated to change from my pajama shirt to a t-shirt. I examined it in the mirror, and it didn't look too wrinkly, so I decided to let it slide. I didn't have time to put my contacts in, either, although I did actually brush my teeth. One sweatshirt, a pair of socks, and a portfolio later, I left the dorm room. My roommate was still sleeping, curled up like a puppy. She'd felt sick yesterday and decided to skip her morning class. I couldn't blame her and wished that I could do the same, but the art school is surprisingly rigid when it comes to absences. However, I couldn't last without stopping at the bathroom first, so I was a few minutes late to class. We usually start late, though, so it wasn't too horrible.

I honestly enjoy my drawing fundamentals class, but Groundhog Day wasn't the best of days. We were doing critiques, commenting on the class's pictures of a boot on a pillow. Under normal circumstances I wouldn't mind doing this, but I wasn't feeling well; I was very glad that we're allowed to leave the classroom, because I spent a sizable part of the class in the bathroom. I'm so glad that you're reading this. It's a lovely story to have to share. At least I wasn't actually sick, only feeling that way. Anyways. My art class lasted, in my opinion, far too long. I spent most of it texting my friend from Ohio, whining about my misfortune. It took two and a half hours to critique all the students, and the remaining twenty minutes were spent talking about our next assignment. Once class was let out I bolted for the door, without any clear idea of where I was going. I decided that I would walk over to my boyfriend's room to wake him up for lunch. As I walked I pondered his tendency to sleep through class. It's funny the way you can keep walking without looking where you're going. After a while this campus is easy to memorize. I stopped in the bathroom again in the lobby, then climbed the flight of stairs, feeling tired. I dropped my portfolio and laptop bag and tried the door. It was locked. I slammed my hip into the door and jiggled the handle till he opened the door and let me in.

There's some sort of relief that comes with walking into that room, with the constant smell of popcorn and the tan-and-blue striped comforter. I crawled into bed next to my boyfriend and he wrapped his arm around me, so I closed my eyes and tried to fall asleep. That only lasted for ten minutes, then I went down to the bathroom again. This time after I climbed into bed I actually managed to fall asleep. Through Econ. For the third class in a row. However, once I woke up I felt much better. I was glad I'd remembered to set an alarm, though, cause I had an appointment with health services at 2:15. I managed to crawl out of bed at about two-oh-five, feeling bad that I hadn't gotten there fifteen minutes early like I'd planned to, but at the same time realizing that I wouldn't have been able to get there early if I would have gone to class, which ended at two. Perhaps it's weird that I wasn't horribly worried about going to the doctor, even though I was supposed to get back blood test results. I've always found it difficult to worry about my own life. It's other people who leave me in a tizzy. A tall girl with dark hair held the door open for me. She didn't seem very sure of herself, and I wondered what she was doing there. By this time, I knew to sign in at the computers on the wall. Even looking over my information made me smile. I was glad to see my boyfriend's name as the emergency contact.

Once I had checked in, I hit the bathroom again and then walked back to the offices, where I was given a yellow clipboard to fill out. It's such a familiar process I can almost do it without thinking. The guy sitting two seats over from me seemed nervous. Having grown up in a doctor's office, I do not understand the fear that people associate with the waiting room. It's nothing but a bad smell. I don't start to worry until I see needles. I suppose it is the waiting that's the worst part. After a few minutes, one of the CMAs came and took me back to her office. She checked my blood pressure again, weighed and measured me, though I was sure that they already had my measurements, and then sent me back to the waiting room. I sat staring at a sign talking about depression, an all-too-common phenomenon in Montana—we have something close to the second highest suicide rate in the country. That's not difficult to understand. There really is nothing out here, and it can get very boring at times. The doctor called my name and took me into her office. We talked about my test results (Insert HIPAA violation here), and then she told me to schedule an appointment for a couple of months so they could do some more tests. Since there was still about an hour till my boyfriend's first class, I decided to head back there so we could talk about my test results. Perhaps I am psychotic and masochistic, but as I walked, kicking slush beneath my feet, I remember being vaguely disappointed that the tests hadn't turned out as bad as I had originally anticipated.

Even though I'd left the door unlocked, when I got back to my boyfriend's room I found that he'd locked it. Once again I jiggled the handle and banged on the door for a moment. Then I sat in the hall, wondering whether he was actually going to sleep through my racket again. I sent him a text, thinking that if nothing else I could hear his phone ring. He texted me back saying that he was at the SUB, which was surprising. Actually getting out of bed before class? Unheard of. I sat in the hall for a few minutes, until I got tired of feeling like a creeper, and decided I'd walk to the SUB to try to find him. But once I'd crossed the street I recognized his familiar striped sweatshirt and ginger hair, so I stopped to wait for him. He greeted me with a smile and took hold of my hand as we walked inside. He'd picked up a pair of headphones and tried to cash a check, but the bank wouldn't take it because it was dated January of 09. We discussed the stupidity of that idea and then I told him about my test results. All in all I think he took it rather well—he worries about me more than anyone else I know, no matter what I tell him. It doesn't bother me, but I still wish he wouldn't. We ended up talking until he left for class, at which time I gathered up my stuff and went back to my own room, which was empty again. I settled down to work on an art project, because I had a meeting after dinner and was supposed to prepare a prototype beforehand. It took me two hours to make, and I hated it, so when dinner came along I was all too happy to toss the project aside in favor of food—even though it did come from the cafeteria.

Dinner consisted of roast beef, potatoes, and gravy, hardly a toxic combination, and almost worth enjoying. After dinner, I went back to the dorm with my boyfriend and a couple of my friends from my floor. I had to run upstairs to get my prototype, so they went into the lounge to hang out for a while. I was supposed to go with them to a floor meeting that night, but unfortunately my group meeting was scheduled for the same time so I couldn't. My boyfriend decided to leave a few minutes before the meeting started. He might have been planning to get some homework done. The meeting was just starting when the rest of my group showed up. As I got up and left, I wondered if the other girls were wondering what the hell I was doing. The other girl in my group was on time, she just lives downstairs, but the younger guy was about four minutes late, and came in panting claiming the place was “A long-ass walk” from the other side of campus. The thing that amused me about that was that he claims to be in the army. That and that the two of us girls walk it every day without dying of exhaustion. We sat in the lobby for a few minutes comparing our prototypes, and then decided that we'd wait for the forth member of the team in the art lounge. The other girl left a note at the front desk, and we trooped back and down the hall. The army boy commented on how nice the lounge was. They didn't have anything like that in his dorm. I remember being unimpressed with it. Ok, sure, it has a light table, but other than that there's not much going for it. The fourth member of our group was about fifteen minutes late, understandable as he works a night shift and had to get up early for the occasion.

The meeting was about an hour and a half, almost painfully boring, and I spent most of the time wondering when it would be over. At the end we finally thought we might have an idea of what the project was going to look like, and we agreed to present the idea to the teacher in class the next day. I rushed upstairs, wanting to finish my homework as quickly as I could, however, my roommate and a few of her friends were there watching SNL. I spent about an hour looking through my art history book to find the pictures I was going to use for the outline that was due tomorrow, then once I had picked a couple I printed off the form and tried to fill it out. It didn't go very well, so I decided that I would just go back to my boyfriend's room and work on in there. He's usually less distracting (or at least less noisy) than my roommate and her gang of friends. I love them all, but they're not very homework friendly. The amount of confidence with which one can walk down the street amuses me, especially when I think of how timid I was about going to my boyfriend's room before he was my boyfriend. It was a few minutes before ten, so I was able to get in without having to ring for him. I climbed the familiar staircase and opened the door—this time, he had left it unlocked. At this point in time, I'm sad to admit, I've already lost track of what happened, but it has to be similar to what happens every other night. We stayed up late, maybe we watched a movie, maybe we took a midnight Walmart run to buy more food—we always seem to be running out. At any rate, I know our plans involved the guys next door. I love that they say I'm just one of the guys. We would have curled up in bed at about two, my boyfriend's arms around me again. It always takes me a while to fall asleep, and this time I can tell you exactly what I was thinking while I waited for my eyelids to grow heavy. I was once again pondering how incredibly lucky I am to be living my life right now, and how much I couldn't wait for tomorrow.

I know that there are a lot of details that I've forgotten. On the one hand I wish I could remember them, but on the other I think it's sort of a good thing. Humans are incredibly lucky to be able to forget. There would be so much more hate in the world were it not for our forgetfulness. Surprisingly, now that I can't remember every detail of this uncomfortable and somewhat boring day, it no longer seems so terrible. It was just another day, just another chance to mess up and fail and start over. I get another one every 24 hours, but who knows how long that will last. I might as well enjoy it while I can.