2008 Woodie Awards
On the seventh day ...
Christine Catarino
Issue date: 10/14/04 Section: Features
- Page 1 of 1
Sunday is quite possibly the most unsettling day of the week. Sundays usually begin with an abrupt awakening - like your roommate standing over you asking you why you were sleeping on the floor of your living room, instead of your bed. Even though this is an answer even you cannot provide, you are not the only thing in disarray.
The next thing you wonder is a thought which finds its way into your brain by the end of every chaotic weekend: did my house explode?! As for me, I do a quick assessment of my townhouse and realize even a bomb wouldn't account for the crusty dishes occupying all counters, tables, and overflowing the sink. Forgotten laundry sits in heaps atop the dryer and almost every movie to our house's name is spread around the living room floor-even though not one of them made it into the DVD player.
When did this happen?
The bathroom is by far the most disgusting place by the end of the weekend. In fact, the ladies' room in the most unkempt bar is probably a healthier place to wash up. Pushing aside the spilled bronzer powder and eyeliner that so appropriately stained the bathroom sink on your way out to the bar is not half as terrifying as the realization that your garbage has somehow spilled all over the floor as well. At this point all hope of sanitation is gone.
If you're anything like me you choke back your disgust and just leave it as it is, dirt intact. Actually, Sunday is the only day when doing homework becomes an escape and excuse to avoid cleaning at all costs. It is unarguably the more attractive task; the lesser of two evils.
Later on, about five hours after you said you'd start doing your work, and after about two hours of changing your away message back and forth from "doing work all day" to "doing work, please interrupt" to "Please put me out of my misery," you finally make the long haul to the beautiful-but-commonly-avoided library.
Walking through the computer room on the main level of the library on a Sunday, one will notice it is brimming with students you've never even seen before. Do this many people really go to Marist? It's almost as though all those who survived their weekend hangovers crawled out of their beds just to reconvene in the name of James Cannavino.
Next you are left to wonder where the time went and how you are going to finish all your work before it is due to your professor on Monday. This is the point when desperate and elaborate plans are developed to make up for the severe procrastination problem with which every college student is immediately infected upon acceptance. "If I get up at six, I can write three more pages to my paper before eight o'clock and then I will study until my midterm at 9:30."
Finally, the end of the night will arrive and you will have wasted more time not doing work and imperative-for-future-survival cleaning in one day than you did all week; Sunday, the day of unrest, has passed.
Don't worry too much though - after all, Friday is only five more days away.
The next thing you wonder is a thought which finds its way into your brain by the end of every chaotic weekend: did my house explode?! As for me, I do a quick assessment of my townhouse and realize even a bomb wouldn't account for the crusty dishes occupying all counters, tables, and overflowing the sink. Forgotten laundry sits in heaps atop the dryer and almost every movie to our house's name is spread around the living room floor-even though not one of them made it into the DVD player.
When did this happen?
The bathroom is by far the most disgusting place by the end of the weekend. In fact, the ladies' room in the most unkempt bar is probably a healthier place to wash up. Pushing aside the spilled bronzer powder and eyeliner that so appropriately stained the bathroom sink on your way out to the bar is not half as terrifying as the realization that your garbage has somehow spilled all over the floor as well. At this point all hope of sanitation is gone.
If you're anything like me you choke back your disgust and just leave it as it is, dirt intact. Actually, Sunday is the only day when doing homework becomes an escape and excuse to avoid cleaning at all costs. It is unarguably the more attractive task; the lesser of two evils.
Later on, about five hours after you said you'd start doing your work, and after about two hours of changing your away message back and forth from "doing work all day" to "doing work, please interrupt" to "Please put me out of my misery," you finally make the long haul to the beautiful-but-commonly-avoided library.
Walking through the computer room on the main level of the library on a Sunday, one will notice it is brimming with students you've never even seen before. Do this many people really go to Marist? It's almost as though all those who survived their weekend hangovers crawled out of their beds just to reconvene in the name of James Cannavino.
Next you are left to wonder where the time went and how you are going to finish all your work before it is due to your professor on Monday. This is the point when desperate and elaborate plans are developed to make up for the severe procrastination problem with which every college student is immediately infected upon acceptance. "If I get up at six, I can write three more pages to my paper before eight o'clock and then I will study until my midterm at 9:30."
Finally, the end of the night will arrive and you will have wasted more time not doing work and imperative-for-future-survival cleaning in one day than you did all week; Sunday, the day of unrest, has passed.
Don't worry too much though - after all, Friday is only five more days away.