My butt muscles are sore right now. It's so bad I'm not sure I can stand up. But while this might sound strange, my cranky caboose is actually a sign of what makes November so wonderful.
November is when the first cycle of the school year ends and our habits start over from the optimistic beginning. In September, we all have grand illusions about improving ourselves. The SERF is full of exercisers. The library is full of born-again academics. Even the ducks in Lake Mendota look like they're trying to improve their posture and mumble less when they quack. I even wrote a column about changing. But we inevitably fail to stay dedicated.
By mid-October, we lose it. Freshmen who tried to be social in late August no longer go out to dinner with their 25 closest new friends. The library is only full before exams. Even the ducks have lost that bounce in their paddle. The decline peaks on Halloween, when we suddenly look up and realize what degenerates we've all become. So every November, like the swallows returning to Capistrano, you can count on Madison students trying to sit tall again in the saddle of responsibility and etiquette.
For me, the return started last week with a threat to my vanity. My roommate came into my room and gasped. My floor looked like a tornado had torn through a landfill and a Banana Republic. Ben told me that I could never bring a girl into my room if it looked like that. Within an hour, my room was spotless. Of course, the impetus for cleaning was ridiculous, since my room has had about as many female visitors recently as Shawshank Prison.
My walls were noticeably empty, too, so I perused the State Street poster shops. Disheartened by the endless Dave Matthews and Van Gogh posters, I settled on the picture of the sailor kissing a woman in Times Square at the end of World War II. If nothing else, it represents joy, celebration and my hometown. Of course, it's currently rolled up and sitting on my otherwise spotless floor, thus defeating two of my resolutions at once.
But I do have one resolution that's working. I've been working out again and it's not just for vanity. My brother's getting married soon, and since it's a traditional Jewish wedding, my other brother and I will have to lift him on a chair. My non-groom brother is much stronger than I am and I'm afraid that he'll lift with more force, leading the groom to a tragic fall, hence the weightlifting. But the renewed exercise regimen has been tough. That's where the sore rump comes from.
Yet no matter how much rededication hurts, we have to try. Only then can we have faith in ourselves to reach even further. If I can't have faith in myself to work out, how can I ever have the confidence to ask out a librarian at Helen C. White? If I need to be self-conscious about my room, how can I be unself-conscious enough to go to a Comm. Arts lecture in my pajamas? Only by returning to September form can we reach even further. And this time, I really believe I can stay dedicated.
But for now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go ice down my backside.
amosap@hotmail.com.
