Don’t put this Wash. U. day on replay
Groundhog Day is coming up, and with it bringing feelings of nostalgia towards America’s favorite repetitive movie. In October we saw the anti-groundhog day, “Happy Death Day,” and considered just how awry this concept of one repeating day can go. Instead of romantically pursuing a partner, we watch Jessica Rothe get murdered day after day, to no avail. To live a day over and over and over again would be a highly difficult thing to do (regardless of the circumstance). And I’d love to say that every day at Washington University is a blessing in and of itself, but sadly, I’d be lying. Here at Student Life, we’ll give you a description of a Wash. U. day we’d never be willing to relive over and over again for the rest of our lives.
This is not necessarily the worst day of my life—admittedly, saying that would be a little melodramatic—but the day I would for sure not want to repeat is Oct. 10, 2017. I spent the entire day looking forward to 7 p.m., when the United States men’s national soccer team played a decisive World Cup qualifier against Trinidad and Tobago. I already wrote about 1,000 words about that game, so I will spare the details. But what I can tell you is that we lost, and the world ceased to have any goodness, and all the puppies became sad, and sunshine never felt quite so bright. Well…it wasn’t that bad. But I still would not want to relive it.
—Jon Lewis, Senior Editor
As a young and foolish first-year student more than three years ago, I decided to leave my 10-page Writing I final paper until practically the last minute. “I can do it tomorrow,” I said, every day of Reading Week. As the clock ticked down to 1 p.m. on Friday, Dec. 12, 2014, I came to the realization that, despite pulling an all-nighter in which I inexplicably spent at least 50 perecent of my time taking Buzzfeed quizzes, I was not going to complete my paper. Frantic and still wearing yesterday’s sweatpants, I crossed Mudd Field in a sniveling walk of shame to tearfully confess my sinful procrastination to my understandably startled professor. I then proceeded to continue writing my paper in a computer lab on campus, where I ran into a friend, who invited me to the Earth Science department’s holiday party. “I can’t go like this,” I said, gesturing to my greasy hair, frantic facial expression and aforementioned yesterday’s sweatpants. She lent me her shirt as a consolation and, with my appearance marginally improved, I agreed to accompany her to the party—where I proceeded to drop broccoli dip onto my friend’s shirt. I finally turned in my paper the following day, and I never procrastinated—well, not that badly, anyway—again.
—Hanusia Higgins, Senior Scene Editor
You know that moment when it’s after midnight, and the bus from some party lets you out in the parking lot Brookings Hall (this won’t be relatable to you, freshmen) and you’re just way too lazy to walk allllll the way to the South 40? Well, last year, my friend and I had that moment, and we booked it to the Campus Circulator. But despite my vast experience with the Circ (I rode the bus for five hours straight once—no joke), the bus literally closed its doors on me, almost hitting my face in the process. I won’t say that I’ve never had anything worse happen to me, but I will say that running after the Circ in stilettos isn’t exactly my idea of a good time.
—Ella Chochrek, Editor-in-Chief
I don’t know if this counts as one of my worst days, but one of my most notably irritation-filled is one of my most prehistoric Wash. U. memories. You know how before freshman year there are those people you just know from the Facebook page? Maybe they made a random embarrassing post or maybe you stalked them on a whim because you liked their profile picture, but now, you’re stuck knowing that they went to Paris their sophomore year of high school and that their mom is “so proud” of them for going to Wash. U. In first semester of my freshman year, I stood in the line at Cherry Tree Cafe and was starstruck: I saw one of those elusive people from Facebook, a girl who posted her “20 facts” along with everyone else. While I was stuck in the classic “I know of know who you are” purgatory, she accidentally knocked my freshly poured iced coffee onto the ground, stared at the sad, icy mess and just walked away.—leaving me with a giant puddle and that overwhelming awkward freshman embarrassment. Now, I’m forced know her as “That Girl Who I Hate Because She Ruined My Cherry Tree Reputation.” Maybe she’s a nice person, but honestly, I’ll never know. All I know is this: I’m one iced coffee less happy than I otherwise would have been.
— Aidan Strassmann, Senior Editor
As someone who prioritizes routine and consistency above nearly all else, I can go about a month at a time eating the same foods for each meal—and I do. November was the month of biscuits and bacon for breakfast, Wash. U. Wok potstickers for lunch and Bear’s Den pasta bar for dinner. That is, until Nov. 20. I know the exact date because the experience was documented in an extremely tragic finsta post. I was a few bites into my large white pasta with marina-alfredo when I felt the exact sensation you don’t want to feel mid-meal: a nose bleed. As blood dripped into my pasta, I remember actually contemplating whether I should continue eating the pasta (I was almost out of meal points and wasn’t in a wasteful mood). The experience ruined the pasta bar for me for two months—and it essentially broke my life’s internal structure, too.
— Elena Quinones, Staff Writer
This is a day I don’t remember. Featuring a major concussion, a collegiate sports career ending prematurely, and a 10-page paper written over a Burlesque show entirely the night before the due date. As a women’s soccer benchwarmer for the 2017 season, I had learned to become the loudest, most obnoxious fan I could (sanely and supportively) be. I shouted with my diaphragm, jumped up and down and continuously found myself stress-squatting during important plays before leaping into the air after their triumphant conclusions. It was a move like this, in what I think was a mid-November game, that was my demise. During a particularly steamy play, I took a step back to see past a person blocking my view, stress-squatted like a champ and then leaped into the air when Rachel Mickelson took a beautiful shot. That step back caused my leap to lead my head directly into the large metal pole lining the bench cover overhang. Rachel didn’t score, my head smashed into a pole, I tried not to cry, and I pretended that the world was fine—that I was fine. I’d later find out I had whiplash down the side of my neck and a fifth concussion, which effectively ended my collegiate soccer career, along with denying me the chance to ever play a contact sport again. I sat in a booth in Bear’s Den that night, rational thought alluding me, and wrote an essay describing erotic dancers, nipple tassles, and misogyny in our society until 7 a.m. A horrendous and confusing day, with only pain. Count me out of reliving that one.
—Katy Hutson, Senior Scene Editor