Why the stress, friends? My calm was truly short lived.
Remembering my own finals-triggered mania, however, I’d be a hypocrite for criticizing any kind of stress-related eccentricity. During finals season, I adopted a new lifestyle. I assumed a farmer schedule — i.e., I woke up with the sun and went to bed long before the cows had come home. Somehow or another, I managed to avoid all social contact. Instead, I spent hours reading about magic and bodily abnormalities in Greek, and the subject matter definitely went to my head.
Others, too, took part in the madness. I noticed that a group of girls had set up camp in the study next to my room. Whenever I passed the room — morning, day or night — this team of girls was collected and busy at work in that study. They ate and slept in that study. They may very well have bathed in that study.
It seemed paramount to me to develop some method to bypass this madness. I now foresee a semester filled with essays, and I aim to discover how to write them in a manner that is both productive and crazy-free.
In my quest, I turned to Virginia Woolf, who, while productive and fantastic, might not necessarily have been the best to reference when trying to avoid madness.
Anyway, in a somewhat different context, Woolf instructed that in order to write, one needs a room of one’s own and money. I realized that this, my friends, is not at all a possibility at Princeton.
The money half of this equation is settled. At Princeton, U.S. currency is used as often as bartering, and the Whitman Wire can attest to this. I could survive comfortably without ever paying with money or carrying a wallet at all.
Anyway, it’s the stipulation of having “a room of one’s own” that really troubles me. I live in Whitman, where you are never alone. A room of one’s own does not exist, despite the abundance of singles. When you walk past a room, you can distinctly hear the sound of someone rolling over in their bed. In fact, you could probably identify the material of their sheets.
I first returned to my assigned residence in Whitman in search of a room of my own. Though I am said to share this room with three other people, in actuality, there are closer to nine who make their normal residence in F214. While I enjoy all my time in my room, it is not a room of my own; it is not a room for writing. So I embarked on an odyssey in hopes of finding some place that might better emulate a room of my own.
First I tried Whitman’s library, but I really couldn’t seem to fit all my belongings in one carrel. I may have attained quasi-independence, but it would come at the expense of personal space.
So I left Whitman altogether in search of some space big and comfortable enough to be a room of my own. I considered my options: I wouldn’t dare journey to the distant Lewis Library; I reek of humanities. Next I trekked to Marquand, where I was shooed away because of the taboo water bottle in my backpack. (I will be hydrated, Marquand, I will.)
Having been rejected, I continued my uphill hike to East Pyne, which doesn’t cut it either, even though it’s my favorite library. It’s pretty; they don’t mind my water bottle; and it has roomy carrels and a chair for me and my feet. It is nearly impossible to see anything after sunset, however, because of a combination of bad lighting and (apparently) my premature vision loss.
So, in the pursuit of a suitable space that I could call my own, I found myself in the depths of Firestone. It was quiet, and there were seemingly no opportunities for social interactions. Had I found the proverbial room of my own?
Most certainly not.
In fact, on closer examination, I found that the entire library was in fact in conversation with itself. Someone is always paying attention, for whatever reason.
(To a certain GoodCrusher: I’d like to apologize for being freshman girl loudly studying for HUM.) Anyway, I repeat: No one is ever alone.
Perhaps the girls in the study next to my room were staking out a room of their own. They seemed productive, at least.
Anyway, it seems that neither the dorms nor the libraries can in any way be a room of one’s own. So what is left for the uprooted Princeton student to do? Not only revel, but roister in the madness, knowing that there are multitudes roistering with you. Go ahead and party in the library; it’s better than partying in a room of one’s own.
Monica Greco is a freshman from Brooklyn, N.Y. She can be reached at mgreco@princeton.edu.
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