The lobby of a dorm on move-in day is the eighth circle of hell. It's hot, it's sticky, parents are screaming, there's no water to quench your thirst and your fate (meaning, whether you get that laundry cart and how fast you get on that elevator) is in the hands of someone in red who cackles devilishly at you as he takes your ID card.
Moving in is a necessary evil.
I have blocked freshman move-in from my memory. I just remember a lot of crying, sweating, falling off a step ladder and my first exchange with my roommate:
""Oh my god! You have a garden gnome too,"" she yelled. ""Mom! My new roomie has a gnome! Where's mine, I want them to be gnome buddies!""
Mine was delightful and had a red hat and a jovial smile. I met hers, and I was scared. It had the devil's eyes, a long nose, wild hair and a large mouth that could eat a human hand. And she positioned it so it would stare at me in my sleep.
Three years later, I've perfected the move-in. I breeze in and out in a matter of two hours, maintain my composure and have cut my moving crew down to my mother (who cleans) and my brother (who lifts heavy things). It works like magic.
This year, however, I was there when the parking lots of the dorms teemed with parents and SUVs packed to the brim.
One family stood in the parking lot, staring at the pile of boxes, a lamp with those twisty arms on top, a desk chair, futon, shelves and posters, and then gazed hopelessly at the gray towers of Ogg. The dad shook his head.
""But Daddy, of course it's all going to fit!"" his freshman daughter in tight sweatpants said. ""Look at it,"" she said, pointing at her 16 boxes, ""I didn't even bring that much stuff!""
Ahhh, denial. The first stage of the move-in process.
I walked toward the lobby of Ogg. Another family, with the help of a bemused Badger Buddy, was trying to fit a futon frame that was crammed into a laundry cart through the door.
""OH MY GOD!"" a strapping teenage sibling yelled. ""Why the hell won't this fit through the door?!""
""I thought it would fit in the room if it fit in the car,"" the freshman meekly offered.
""It would've fit, if you wouldn't have brought so much damn stuff,"" the father steamed.
""I didn't bring too much stuff! These are all my necessities!"" More screaming.
""Necessities are things like toilet paper and screwdrivers and soap! Not things like feathery throw pillows and weird lamps!""
""But I NEED them!""
We've just witnessed stage two: anger.
Ahead in the elevator line, stage three (bargaining) was in full swing. A boy in a t-shirt that described him as a ""Female Body Inspector"" was trying to convince his mother that with just a little help from Bed Bath and Beyond, all of his electronics equipment would fit. A family coping with stage four (depression), was sitting without speaking near the trays of cafeteria cookies and warm lemonade. Would anyone ever get beyond this day and move into the acceptance phase?
It's only a few days later and the screaming in the parking lots of the dorms has stopped, freshmen have begun the natural evolution toward the party-pack mentality and yet-to-be-overstressed undergrads have started to fill the bars. But I guess we're all still in denial that school's starting.
