It’s a cold February night – a Sunday, to be exact – in my student house on campus, and I am surrounded by a house full of girls partying in the kitchen.
My bedroom is on the main floor, and I can hear them singing “repeat after me” camp songs, chatting about their latest Tinder swipes, and discussing all of the social interactions that have recently driven them into a state of frenzy and madness.
I hear my roommate bounding down the hallway to my bedroom, and she swings the door open with excitement.
“Christine!!!”
She yodels this.
“I’ve got a glass of red wine waiting for you...come join us!”
Alas, I cannot. I have to read Animal Farm for a 9:30 am English class.
Now... I’ve thought about this book all week. Orwell’s novel is only around eighty-two pages or something short and sweet like that. I could get through it in an hour or two and still be in bed by about midnight.
So, I take that glass of wine, and I join the girls in the kitchen. We are singing, screaming, and telling each other our fears and secrets. As I keep pouring more glasses, my focus starts to drift and my lips, teeth, and tongue turn burgundy. A wave of anxiety hits.
I’ve got to crack open that book. I have a version of my Mom’s from the eighties that she read and noted when she was at Queen’s – hopefully she’ll have in it some wise remark that will get me through tomorrow’s seminar. I wash my face with cold water, give myself a pep talk in the mirror, probably shed a tear or two, and then I jump on my bed.
I open Orwell – it’s about 10:52 pm. And then I close it. I check my phone. I scroll through Instagram, wondering how girls maintain these celluloid-free bikini physiques, and I feel panic. I begin to go down a rabbit hole of self-doubt, and then I exit the application.
I get to my desk, put the phone on “do not disturb,” and I place it on my highest shelf, out of view.
And then, hunger. I run to the kitchen, encounter a group of girls begging me to relax, enjoy my Sunday, and just read the Sparknotes version of the book. I am not a good liar; I know my Prof will call me out for not actually reading the book. Even if I have the Coles Notes version memorized, I’ll still crack and admit I haven’t read the entire book. And my Prof is amazing; highly intelligent, accomplished... overall, very inspiring. I just can’t let him down! So I grab that Toblerone chocolate bar. I probably also heat up a bowl of plain white rice, sprinkle salt on top, and head back to my room; boy, I wish I were a better cook! But, at least this time, I didn’t order UberEats. So, that’s a win. I sit down at that desk, moan, stuff my face, get out my purple highlighter, and binge read until 4 am.
Did I get up even once in this time? Probably not. I race from page to page, scribbling, highlighting, sucking back the salty rice... and yawning throughout. And when I finally finish, I am too revved up to sleep. I take a shower, luxuriating in my ability to cram. I watch Modern Family for two hours and finally fall asleep. In the morning, I get through my class, albeit a little distracted, hungover, and jittery.
The class is followed by a long nap and many more similar nights to come.