Just Another Day
The moment I saw the door to Room 6 in the orange hallway, I noticed a piece of A4 printer paper taped to the doorframe next to it telling me that the maximum capacity in my room is two people. The decorations I had from prep winter are no longer there. I took them down. No. That’s a lie. I was just too lazy to put them back up. It’s COVID—no one will care anyway. At least I don’t. Not anymore.
I’ve memorized every movement and non-movement outside my 3x5 feet window overlooking Main Street Dormitory. I’ve memorized the gentle slopes covered with thick layers of snow looking so powdery, so soft. Sometimes I wish I could just jump out of my window and land in it. I’ve memorized the barren trees asleep, unaware of everything happening in this world so cruel, so beautiful. I’ve memorized the occasional figure that will slip through one of the open windows on Main Street’s first floor. After all, every single day feels so routine, so monotonous. I repeat the same actions, in a constant and endless cycle of Zoom classes, eating and sleeping.
The soft hum of my air filter distracts me from my sleep—at night and in the afternoon during the quick shut-eye I get in the free period I have between my 8:10 a.m. class and 10:00 a.m. class. Waking up is harder than ever. My alarms quickly multiply, and dickeys have taught me to always snooze the alarm, never to stop it. Even Mother Nature is against me. My window faces west, so only in the afternoon does the sun grace me with its presence, letting in a soft glow that should be perfect for taking photos. It’s called golden hour, I’ve been told. I quickly close my curtains. I’ve gotten used to my LEDs and the blue-bottomed, beige-topped lamp that is given to every Ewaldian. The sun needs not to grace me with its majesty—other people need it more than me anyway. Focusing becomes harder, and my procrastination begins to worsen. Homework that would have gotten done at 11 p.m. during prep year gets done at 1 a.m.
My phone chimes every so often with text messages from my friends and WeChat messages from my family. Some of them complain about homework, while others remind me to send pictures of my food to make sure I’m eating well. Every other lunch I eat with my mother to quell her anxieties about my health. I will never get used to the moment she answers, propped up against the headboard of my parents’ bed. I will be stunned that she’s not at our family restaurant, until I realize that I’m both an hour ahead of Minnesota and she’s having back problems again. When I Facetime her again at night, I greet my father’s eyes, hidden behind glasses, but not his smile, hidden behind a blue surgical mask. I will greet the flickering lights of the menu board, the mist of alcohol being sprayed on the tables and the last of the leaving customers. Every time I see my parents, I worry about the growing number of cases in Minnesota, even with my parents promising to wear masks and a face shield, promising to stay behind the makeshift screens made up halfway-screwed nails, scavenged blocks of wood and plexiglass sheets we picked up from Menards. They keep promising to be careful, as if those promises could really mean something.
Between worries about my family at home and the stress of the daily Exeter workload, my life during the pandemic has become a blur, a mishmash of memories and information from each day. But isn’t that the same for us all? Bringing back the schedule has helped a little. I have something grounding—like track practice every day or eating dinner with friends making me feel just a little less crazy. Yet, still, it all feels just like another day.
