Domestic Warfare
As I hope most of you have gathered by now, I am given to frequent bouts of utter hypocrisy. For example, in spite of several rants to the contrary, I inexplicably enjoy dorm life so much that I've decided to stay on for a third year. As a resident assistant rather than resident, it is true, but nonetheless, this turn of events is astonishing (not least to yours truly). Before I begin my metaphorical stint as Heathcliff in the second half of Wuthering Heights, perpetuating the system of icebreakers and community development that I once railed against, however, I foray valiantly (if briefly) into the morass of apartment life in Berkeley.
I feel like I've been thrown into the trenches with no training besides what I can pick up as I go along. As far as weapons and equipment go, progress has been slow. I can now use a knife to cut a green pepper (and hence, if we optimistically extrapolate, any bell pepper) and an onion, though a Granny Smith apple got the better of me this afternoon. I successfully employed a spatula to make my first-ever batch of scrambled eggs unassisted, though my prowess at flipping omelets containing the aforementioned peppers and onions leaves something to be desired. Furthermore, I've faced, if not overcome, my fear of potholders. As an avid baker, I have heretofore avoided the potholder problem by using two mismatched oven mitts; you might say that apartment life has stripped me of the safety mitt.
Finally, I have mastered the advanced art of quickly and adeptly rolling up a sleeping bag into a compact cylinder. On that note, sleeping on the floor has not been as much of an inconvenience as I imagined; I'm actually starting to believe that it is better for my back, and perhaps for my mental health as well. I don’t know whether it's the floor thing or the "reduced stress" of summer (ha!), but I've started dreaming again after an alarmingly dreamless semester.
The lesser domestic machinery, such as dishwashing, kitchen and bathroom cleaning, laundry and whatnot, is already part of my arsenal. In addition, my roommate is an indispensable ally in this war I'm waging on apartment life. In the face of all the figurative carnage, there are respites as well. Communal Harry Potter reading nights, romantic dinners to the sounds of Linkin Park, and, of course, the involved discussions on surname compatibility to map out the relevant family trees of posterity... whatever shall I do without them?
But let us not engage in premature nostalgia, not while there are fruits and omelets and clogged drains to be conquered! Moreover, the deadliest foes of my dorm life -- the incomparably vicious 24-7 construction workers -- have pursued me to my new abode: they must be vanquished once and for all. With these and other battles inevitably imminent, I feel confident that I will be an apartment veteran when I return to the residence halls in August.