It's going to be a Stage 4 kind of week

It's really unfortunate for us that we can't measure stress quantitatively. Just think of the possibilities: "I'm sorry, Professor, I have three liters of stress right now, and I don't think it would be healthy for me to write that paper," or "Yes, McCosh health official, my stress level has shot up 53 degrees since enrolling in organic chemistry ... wait, no, make that 54 and counting ... it just hit 55 ..." We could even settle long-standing debates, like Princeton vs. Harvard: "The stress-per-student level at Harvard is 21 watts higher than at Princeton, causing Harvard's rank in the U.S. News College Rankings to plummet to sixth." Maybe you should try appointing a second Fun Czar, Harvard.

Instead, we have to settle for the telltale clues. The students in Frist Campus Center, walking quickly with their heads down, hair mussed up, muttering equations to themselves; the kid on the C-level of Firestone, head resting on his textbook, fast asleep and glasses askew; the astounding number of dorms with their lights still on at four in the morning. Sleep? What? What's that? I can't remember. My brain is too busy trying to recall more important things, like how much time I have left to cram for that last test, or where I put my latest caffeinated beverage.

Personally, I like to measure my stress level by the state of my laundry. There's Stage 1: I'm Too Lazy To Match Up My Socks. This is that blissful state of mind in which stress is present but only at a minimum. Clean laundry is put away, dirty laundry is in the hamper, and my socks are a mess in my sock drawer. I wish I could chalk this one up to stress, but I'm afraid laziness plays a greater part. Stage 2: It's Clean, I Swear. This is the stage where I, in need of clean clothes, have mustered up the time and energy to drag my laundry down three flights of stairs and when it's clean, haul it right back up again. Proud of my efforts, I suddenly lapse into a panic about the reading for my philosophy precept the next day, not to mention that English paper I should have started. As I bolt off to Firestone, my clean laundry lies sadly in my hamper, and my dirty laundry resents not having a home. Stage 3: Help, My Laundry Is Eating The Room. Laundry? Huh? Who has time for that? I know it doesn't fit in the hamper anymore, but I have seven pages left in my 10-page paper that's due tomorrow, and I have to get sleep because I have a hard workout coming up. Unless the laundry wants to help me write my paper, I will busy myself by rudely ignoring it. Finally, Stage 4: The Eerie Calm. The hamper lies hauntingly empty. Where, you might ask, is the laundry? Where, for that matter, am I? Somewhere, anywhere, I'm not even sure by this point. Perhaps I'm in Frist, taking advantage of its rare 24-hour hospitality, or maybe I'm in the dining hall, gulping down coffee like my life depends on it, which, at this point, it probably does. Surrounding by a pile of books, readings, Pequods, and my ever-ready laptop, I continually pour caffeine into my body as I fondly remember the days when I used to sleep. As for laundry ... well, I haven't even been back to my room to produce laundry, let alone allow it to pile up. Stage 4 is truly the stress level of the desperate.

Maybe you measure your stress level by your personal appearance, or the number of hours you spend in the gym or even your hygiene. On a side note, however, I don't care how stressed out you are, you can definitely take one minute out of your day to brush your teeth, and the rest of the world would really appreciate it. The point is that we're all in the same boat. So if your room's a little messy, or you've worn the same sweatshirt for three days in a row, I'm not judging you; I'm too busy worrying about my own precarious state. Go ahead and do whatever you need do to survive. Now pardon me while I do my laundry

Or maybe I'll just do it tomorrow.

Christine Brozynski is a sophomore from Mendham, N.J. She can be reached at cbrozyns@princeton.edu.