Yes, for the stalker in all of us, it is very appealing to think that we might know if the recipient of our text has read the message. But what about the flip side? Many of my BlackBerry-addicted friends are caught in a battle between opening the text they so desperately want to read, and knowing that upon reading it they will be forced to respond. Is it not enough to intuitively know that everyone reads some texts and waits hours to respond? BlackBerry users have gone a step further to confirm their greatest suspicions about the boys who don’t reciprocate their love or the girls who don’t want to hang out.

BBM creators have found a way to even further intertwine users’ lives with technology. That we are already a phone-obsessed generation doesn’t give BlackBerry owners any reason to doubt their BBM lifeline, but the nearly unbreakable attachment between the phones and their doting users goes further than the typical criticism of technology-dependent college students.

Like with any other trend, many buy the BlackBerry because it seems that everyone else owns one. Specifically at Wash. U., the network of BlackBerries is growing, and while only a few years ago many might have been confused when confronted with “send me your pin,” today this request wouldn’t faze even those who haven’t converted to the BlackBerry world. The BlackBerry is infectious, and, most notably on a college campus, texting is no longer enough.

“I think sometimes it’s a social status-type thing,” said sophomore and BBM user Helen Bogen. “At lunch one day, we were comparing how many BBM friends we had. I felt like a loser because I only had 50.”

At this rate, the day when BBM is the only socially acceptable mode of communication may not be far off. “It’s easier!” BBMers tell me. “And you can see the entire conversation!” But I’m not convinced the convenience is worth the added complication. So to all of you who are tempted and sense yourselves slipping toward the BlackBerry for your next phone purchase, remember this: Maybe you’re feeling out of the BBM loop, but unless you want your private communication tracked by your overzealous friends, it may not be a loop you want any part of.

Alissa is a sophomore in Arts & Sciences. She can be reached via e-mail at arrotbla@wustl.edu.

(Erin Mitchell | Student Life)

February fills our calendars with the start of exams and heavier work loads; we remember influential African-Americans during Black History Month; and Valentine’s Day serves as a reminder to the couples about how very lucky they are while pushing the rest of us into a depression. In addition, there is one more element to this month that many Wash. U. students find particularly daunting.

February marks the beginning of the pandemonium that is the housing selection process at Wash. U. For those of you who have not experienced the insanity, I will try to paint a picture that might do it justice.

There are tears and fights, friendships are lost, and loyalties are tested.

Now I realize this resembles a byline for a bad movie, but bear with me and you might just appreciate the reality—it’s worse. The housing process is not unlike February itself in the way it creeps up, unexpectedly. Over winter break, a seemingly harmless postcard arrived at my home, only to be lost in the shuffle of bigger envelopes and holiday packages. It eventually found its place on my kitchen table basking in innocence and light from my ceiling fan. And it was there that I noticed its Wash. U. return address. I turned it over with no warning of what I would find on the back.

Housing Selection Begins Feb. 18, 2010.

The terror of last year’s housing selection process came back to me with all-too-poignant clarity. “Questions?” the card read. “Please contact Residential Life.” OK, Residential Life, can you answer me this? What if I want to live with Becca and Cary and Melissa, but Becca won’t live with Cary and Cary won’t live without me? Becca wants to live with me, Johanna, Rachel, Parker and Alex, but Johanna and Rachel won’t live with six people—what do I do? How do I tell Jamie that Laura doesn’t want to live with her, and how do I tell Laura not to worry because Jamie doesn’t want to live with her either? (It doesn’t mean we’re not friends anymore, Jamie, but thanks for being so mature about it.) What if my excuses run out? How do you respond to “It’s not you, it’s me,” or “You’re still my best friend, but I just couldn’t live with you”? What do I do with the non-committers, the over-committers and those who are in denial?

Until ResLife is ready to offer some advice of their own, here is mine.

Like everything else that tends to get blown out of proportion, deciding on living arrangements will only be as catty and dramatic as you make it. Becca will still be your friend if you choose to live with Cary, and no matter where you live, you are still going to make it to class on time, even if it means taking the campus circulator a little earlier.

The fight and tears will only make move-in day that much sweeter. It is then that you’ll realize that no matter with whom you live, your roommates will drive you crazy. It could be your best friend or a stranger, but at some point you will wish you had chosen the other suite, infamous plan B, your second option. Know this and trust that nothing can be perfect, but it will never be as bad as you think. Except for you, Rachel. I’m sorry, but you’re right. Your roommates really are from hell.

Alissa is a sophomore in Arts & Sciences. She can be reached via e-mail at arrotbla@artsci.wustl.edu.

There is no shortage of public figures vying for approval; but the less-published but potentially more-important news is that there are many citizens, both ordinary and extraordinary, who have changed public policy without nasty campaigns and official elections.

One such example is Theodore Olson, a Republican lawyer who has chosen to represent same-sex couples’ efforts to overturn California’s ban on gay marriage. To say that Ted Olson is a Republican or a conservative is an understatement. This is the man who headed the Office of Legal Counsel under Ronald Reagan and advised Republicans in their effort to impeach Bill Clinton. He was responsible for George W. Bush’s presidency after persuading the Supreme Court in Bush v. Gore and defended the president’s claims of expanded powers during wartime.

Yet though Olson is a Republican, he does not blindly subscribe to all notably Republican viewpoints. Olson doesn’t follow the knee-jerk reactions many politicians have built careers upon, and when approached by a team looking for a lawyer to challenge Proposition 8, the California ballot initiative that outlawed same-sex marriage in the state, he did not abandon his political principles but rather rose to them.

There is a difference between standing for equal rights and fighting for them. Those who are not quick to jump on any political bandwagon but bring about positive change by thoroughly examining all perspectives exemplify this difference.

Olson’s choice to argue on behalf of two gay couples in Perry v. Schwarzenegger, a federal case challenging Proposition 8, wasn’t well received by many of his Republican colleagues. Fortunately popularity was never Olson’s priority, which highlights a fundamental problem that exists with our current political system. In order to get in the position of making laws and upholding the Constitution, one must adhere to a set of rules. These are not the rules laid out by Jefferson, Madison or Washington when they scripted our nation’s principles, nor are they the democratic rules of our government; rather, they are the rules of a political party, rules that stifle our country’s potential.

As a Democrat, I would be lying if I said I fully analyzed every aspect of the issues I’ve chosen to represent. It is easy to pick a side, develop a belief system and belong. Why second-guess health care and national security? Why not allow Republican ideals to immediately raise red flags in my mind simply because they are Republican?

Olson and many others like him who take the more difficult road and question their own beliefs have shown me why. Olson believes in equality under the Constitution; he believes in freedom from government interference and in individual liberty. These are the rules that drive him. Olson took on the case because he sees gay marriage as a civil-rights issue and has found no legitimate argument for why same-sex couples should be denied the fundamental right to marriage. True to form, he has sought out all perspectives but has found no legal precedent behind the opposition’s claims. “They had all sorts of intangible instincts and feelings about what’s ‘right,’” Olson told Newsweek of both friends’ and adversaries’ arguments. “But I didn’t hear any persuasive response.”

The danger of politics stems from the inherent separation it creates. Clear political lines have been drawn and it seems it may take an outsider to cross them. Olson’s reasoning is simple: “This is not a conservative or liberal issue; it is an American one, and it is time that we, as Americans, embraced it.”

Tuna was only the beginning. “Why,” friends would ask me with demanding fervor, “won’t you at least try some?” Well, I had a very long list of reasons why. The smell. The texture. The color. The smell. The smell. The smell. And so I refused to pair my sushi with the disgusting pink stuff or to try the white glob with crackers or to put the stinky mush on my sandwich. Until one day when my defenses were low and I couldn’t refuse any longer. I tried the tuna. This fact in itself was not something I easily came to terms with—my family is still unaware that I gave in to the peer pressure. And so you might imagine that allowing myself to recognize my taste buds’ reactions to the carnivorous fish was a difficult feat. Six months later, I can admit only this—it wasn’t bad.

Tofu was next. Do I really need to list the reasons “why not?” for this one? The bland-looking, misshapen squares didn’t exactly make my stomach growl with excitement. But after much pushing and prodding, I was swayed to try the vegetarian obsession, knowing in advance that I was never going to view tofu in the same positive light my animal-loving friends did. The idea that I might enjoy tofu carried with it greater implications that stretched into the scary world of other tastes and smells I won’t dare to try. No, if I accepted tofu I would have to acknowledge too many possibilities. And so I pushed my stomach’s cravings away and announced confidently that the tofu was at best subpar.

In asserting my certainty that I had not missed out on the foods I despised from afar, my identity as a girl who knows what she likes remained intact. But, as I was reminded to no end, college is of course the time to try new things. Do your own laundry, live with someone you’ve never met before, learn about another culture and eat the food you so desperately want to avoid. My fellow “picky eaters,” I would never ask you to let go of the preconceptions that hover like steam above the bowl of unidentifiable goo. But, just try it! No need to fear that you may end up kicking yourself for living without the food for so long. As you force the cottage cheese past your quivering lips, the words “eww” and “gross” will float through your mind so many times that you might just forget you tasted anything at all. Sometimes even the strongest taste buds can’t overcome stubbornness. So to all those oatmeal lovers out there who I’ve refused again and again—I’ll try it, but I’m not going to like it.

Alissa is a sophomore in Arts & Sciences. She can be reached via e-mail arrotbla@artsci.wustl.edu.

The daunting task of completing five finals in five days is just too much for some. And because deep breathing exercises and the occasional 20-minute workout don’t always do the trick, the stress of finals pushes a generally diligent student over the edge. So, instead of lecturing you on the already well-known ways to prevent non-preventable stress, let’s just assume you’re past the point of no return.

During finals, stress is not some abstract, indefinable concept; rather, it is a way of life. Finals stress is jolts of caffeine when your body is begging for sleep. It is late nights turning into early mornings at Whispers café and 12 incoherent typed pages of a research paper that no longer makes any sense. The stress that comes with these next two weeks isn’t as scientifically precise as MedicineNet’s definition of “powerful neurochemicals and hormones that prepare us for action”—no, our stress is messy, and real and so very familiar.

For many at Wash. U., the quickened heart rate and nausea that come with approaching finals are feared more than the finals themselves. Effort is wasted worrying about anxiety, and comparatively less time is spent preparing for the exams and papers that determine our GPAs. Yes, finals have disproportionate weight when balanced with the constancy of work throughout the semester. And yes, one slip-up now has destructive potential when it comes to our tentative grades. That’s all the more reason to use stress to our advantage.

Eliminating it is impossible. Fighting it is futile. And as for running from it, well, we all know what comes with procrastination. So, why not accept it? I’ll be the first to admit that my finals track record isn’t exactly impeccable. But close bouts with option number three are things of the past. How can a student resist the urge to give in to the overwhelming nature of finals? The answer is alarmingly simple. Accept stress for what it is—a motivator.

It might make you sick and shaky, but if you decide the headache is worth the A, stress this week can be the very thing that makes the end of December that much more enjoyable. The best winter break is the one that follows a week of finals hell. So embrace your miserable self for the rest of the semester, and the home-cooked meals of the holidays will taste that much sweeter.

Alissa is a sophomore in Arts & Sciences. She can be reached via e-mail ararotbla@artsci.wustl.edu.

Girls, come on! Shouldn’t we be past the point of driving ourselves crazy over last night’s forgettable hookup? He loves me, he loves me not: Common sense tells us it must be one or the other, but when faced with the question after a steamy night (or meaningless walk home and short-lived kiss), excuses for his inaction are rampant. And then come the excuses for our excuses. If you’ve spent the last hour complaining that he hasn’t responded, then I must say, you’re probably not over him. And I’ll believe you actually think he’s a terrible guy when his profile page is no longer bookmarked on your laptop.

What happened to wearing the pants in our post-feminist-era relationships? For too long we’ve been called hysterical and possessive. Instead of moving on, the threat of rejection only makes some hold on tighter, clinging to both the uninterested guys and any last thread of hope. To all the singles, flirts and relationship junkies out there: the strong girls we admire—the ones with boys wrapped around their fingers—don’t have a secret. They just know when to say when.

So how do you take back control in a world where traditional “dating” is practically obsolete? My friends and I have made our fair share of mistakes, leaving me with a long list to choose from.

The top 10 (this list is by no means complete and is open to suggestions):

1. Take a hint. If he ignores you, flirts with another girl in front of you or has a busy week five weeks in a row…it’s over.

2. The more isn’t always the merrier. Hooking up with more than one guy does not make you a slut, but it doesn’t make you infallible either. There is no such thing as a sure thing, even when you have a backup plan.

3. If your friends don’t like him (for those of you who trust your friends), it’s time to get out.

4. If his friends don’t like you…this will only turn out badly.

5. It’s not a coincidence if he only texts you after midnight. Ever heard of a booty call?

6. If a guy likes a girl he doesn’t leave her on the dance floor to…
a. Stretch his legs.
b. Check on his friend.
c. Get a drink of water.

7. Your desperation does not count when considering his positive attributes (even if the only thing you can think of is that he’s nice).

8. If you ever think your expectations are too high, remind yourself that when a guy imagines his ideal girl he Googles a picture of Megan Fox.

9. If a guy tells you how much he loves your roommate, he’s not complimenting your excellent choice in friends.

10. His phone is never broken. Enough said.

Alissa is a sophomore in Arts & Sciences. She can be reached via e-mail at arrotbla@artsci.wustl.edu.

Wash. U., like many universities, is a breeding ground for eating disorders, as students are surrounded not only by the typical media influences that encourage unhealthy lifestyles but also by skinny, young, driven, Type A personalities with high standards and low tolerance for failure. This kind of environment, composed of deceivingly flawless fronts, has strong implications for what we see when we look in the mirror. It is difficult to ignore the distorted reflection this mirror creates. The drive and intensity of students at Wash. U. contributes to widespread success, but such extremes have fallbacks that emerge in the form of the underweight, unhappy girls who are far too common on our campus.

I do not intend to place the blame for the prevalence of eating disorders solely on the reality of living in a college campus bubble. An eating disorder is a disease with a complicated source, triggered by the environment along with the nature and psychological health of the affected individual. It is a disease that ranges in severity. It is a disease that is both emotionally draining and physically handicapping. It is a disease in which recovery translates into a lifelong battle. It is a disease that is both potentially fatal and preventable. It is a disease.

This is a touchy subject, especially at a university where the community is undoubtedly comprised of many who have a personal connection to someone who has suffered from an eating disorder. The delicate nature of eating disorders, however, should not discourage conversation, but rather, should emphasize the importance of open communication as far too many girls fight for their control by starving themselves or by engaging in purging behaviors.

I suspect that many people shy away from recognizing symptoms in themselves and their friends because they feel isolated and are not sure where to turn for help. This is an aspect of eating disorders that doesn’t seem to have been fully examined in our college setting. What is the role of any university in shaping a campus that encourages a positive body image amidst a less stressful environment?

The blue lights surrounding campus serve as a constant reminder that, if our physical safety is threatened, we are not alone. Countless widespread Student Health Services posters warn us of flu symptoms and instruct the steps we should take to stay healthy. S.A.R.A.H provides a hotline for victims of sexual assault, recognizing that awareness is not sufficient. Where does a student who is stuck in the detrimental cycle of an eating disorder turn? There very well may be options on campus for this student and her friends, but those options are not visible enough.

Am I asking for flashing lights and big arrows? Well, maybe I am. Otherwise the mirror that causes girls to compare themselves to some perfect image of their empowered, well-rounded, put-together peers will remain untouched. This mirror is powerful in its ability to distort images, lower self-esteem and diminish any remaining sense of control. Keeping ancient superstitions in mind, with the risk of seven years of bad luck, it is time to break the mirror.

(Kelsey Eng | Student Life)

My alarm clock is on hiatus. At 8:15 every morning, I am woken by the sporadic crack and bang of loud hammering outside my window. Upon moving back to school, I was unprepared for the abrupt nature of these early mornings. One at a time, my suitemates and I emerged from our rooms in search of the cause of the knocking. In the days before these wake-up calls became a way of life, we refused to acknowledge that the construction outside our windows—which looked nowhere near complete—was the source of the noise. Since our searching hasn’t resulted in any other realistic explanation and we have yet to find a woodpecker perched on the building, we have been forced to accept the construction that shakes us out of sleep for what it is: unrelenting.

My typical nightmares of failing a test or losing an essay due to a computer malfunction have been replaced by dreams where wrecking balls crash into the wall behind my bed. While I generally welcome any distraction from my schoolwork and stress, the constancy of construction at Washington University is coming dangerously close to embedding itself in our college identity, and my bedroom window.

As a sophomore, I have never experienced a South 40 free from porta-potties and orange hard hats. The construction at Wash. U. isn’t simply part of the scenery; it is alive and insistent, as the hum of machines drowns out surrounding noise and forces those engaged in otherwise casual conversations to brace their lungs before speaking, preparing the necessary extra oxygen to yell.

Shouldn’t I be past the point of a polite nod with the neon-vested men who are more familiar to me than the boys playing Frisbee on the Swamp? I’ll admit that I haven’t yet figured out the dynamics and hierarchy of their alternating green and orange uniforms. Their vests—two shades brighter than any clothing I own, neon included—are worn presumably out of a fear that we might miss them, because dangling wrecking balls and other arrays of enormous equipment that I won’t even attempt to name wouldn’t do the trick.

Wash. U. surely appreciates the exaggerated nature of the construction’s presence on campus. How else could tour guides effectively communicate to potential students that by the time they accept their admissions offer, the University will be comparable in luxury to a four-star hotel, Tempur-Pedic mattresses and all?

Of course, Wash. U. must compete to attract students, and I’ll admit I would be lonely in my common room if the fully suited man hanging by rope to clean the windows wasn’t there to shock me out of my perceived privacy. But the bizarre phenomenon of a constantly changing campus begs the question: Will this ever end?

On a near-daily basis, we are forced to find a new route to Bear’s Bakery & Grill and the fitness center as stairways emerge from what yesterday was a heap of freshly poured cement. Dusty railings find their place among carved ramps that give way to weaving sidewalks. Walls are built up, fences torn down. I go to sleep to a pile of dirt and wake up to long stretches of grass and young plants, still misshapen from their early morning transport.

And, because there are not enough reminders of the new buildings we’re soon to have, colorful, digitized images of yet another future renovation are tightly fastened to the dorms’ outside walls. I, for one, wouldn’t object to keeping an old building or two standing, a meager reminder that our school did actually exist before the millennium.

Could this objection to the construction be just another pointless complaint amid an ever-growing list created by students who are desperate for something to criticize? Maybe, but regardless, the frenzy that surrounds the never-ending effort toward novelty should cause members of the Wash. U. community to question the University’s priorities.

When did newness become directly related to quality? And when did the quality of our living space seem to override that of our education?

I wonder if those in charge of these plans know why the majority of students chose Wash. U. I didn’t come for the South 40 House—at the time still in its beginning stages of construction—or the plans for a permanent dining facility that still doesn’t exist. I chose our school because of a speech presented prior to my Orientation tour of 10-wheeler trucks and incomplete infrastructure. The speech was given by an old dean, his hair a fading white, his three-piece suit long out of date. Thankfully, no matter how many wrecking balls it has, Wash. U. couldn’t knock him down.