Let me fill you in on my most recent revelation: Something happens to me when I am picking my seat on the 80 or when I am choosing what table to study at in the library. In fact, if you observe with great detail, you may be able to see this inconvenient phenomenon present in most situations in my life. But what, exactly, is it that is happening here?
In short, I am making the wrong decisions. Just when I am about to make the correct choice, I will go in the other direction and suddenly things will go downhill. I am not saying my life is a train wreck or that I am incapable of making a good choice, but when it comes to the small things-if my attention span or personal bubble are on the line-I almost always screw up.
For instance, last week I had a really long, busy day (not my usual by any means), but I desperately needed to study for an exam. Forcing myself to get down to business, I promptly set off to find a place to settle down for the night and get shit done (this is starting to sound like a midlife crisis). Determined, I made my way to the piano room in Memorial Union, an area I typically find success in when someone randomly decides to show off their classical piano skills.
As I got my materials all set out and cracked my book open, I saw a student working on an art project. "Wow," I thought. "What a great idea. It must be so peaceful to work in here." Smiling slightly, I began to study, now content with my affirmation that, despite Madison's many drunken shitshows, we students still maintain some sense of culture after all.
Soon, I hear it: distinct lyrics coming from little earbuds somewhere in the room. Slightly peeved, I glance around trying to identify the source of my new concentration obstacle, but nobody else seems bothered.
Finally, I zero in on the artist (no, not the movie). Based on my hearing his music from the other side of the room, you would thinks this guy had the boom box from "Say Anything" blasting into his ears. I glare around again, shooting daggers at the artist any chance I can get, but he has no clue.
Eventually, I give my eyeballs a break and stop mentally ranting about the right to peace and quiet and the unspoken rules people who study in this room hold. Seconds later, I hear, "Phoooh! Phoooh!" Seriously? It sounded like he was blowing eraser dust awat with an exclamation point at the end of every breath. How many mistakes can you make, guy? Needless to say, I packed up and headed home, where I also got nothing done.
But this sort of long-winded example has happened to me before. Many times, in fact, from sitting next to the smelliest person on the bus just because I was not brave enough to risk not having a seat to accidentally sitting next to the girl having a Skype date in the library.
Recently, I was feeling particularly artsy and bourgeois (is it even possible to be both at the same time?) while at a silent film with live piano at the Chazen Museum of Art. I was feeling at the height of my mature and cultured college student experience when, suddenly, a seven-year-old entered my row and plopped down next to me. Just when things looked like they could not get worse, five more seven-year-olds followed her. Where had these children come from? Where did they get the idea to have a birthday party at a silent film? Can they even read yet?
These questions flooded into my head as two mothers sat down at the end of the row. Somehow this was reminiscent of a sort of mommy-daughter continuum. On one end was the group of tots sitting next to me about to enjoy a film from 1924 and on the other end was TLC's "Toddlers in Tiaras." Who really wants to be here, and who is using their children as an excuse? As if this was not bad enough, the lady in front of me was drenched in some kind of perfume that smelled less like lilacs and more like leftovers.
But my point here is not to suggest that these people are ridiculous (I do suggest that actually). I merely want to emphasize the number of mildly unsatisfactory situations I end up in. Why have I never learned the importance of standing around awkwardly for a minute to survey my options and find the least stinky person to sit next to on the bus? Is it just me, or do I pay way too much attention to the world? I am leaning toward it being a huge case of bad luck, in which case I will soon be sitting next to a wonderfully smelling man (Old Spice Aqua Reef, anyone?) in a silent library that no children dare enter. Sounds good to me.
Do you have bad luck too? Bitch about it with Emily at elindeman@wisc.edu.
