I live near a university, and when I signed the lease on my apartment, I figured it would be no big thing. After all, the area seemed quiet during the day and at night, plus it's a Jesuit school. How wild and crazy could it be?
I was a damned fool!
Now that school is back in session, my error is apparent. Every night, nocturnal Bacchanalian college students play a game called Let's Congregate Outside Old Lady Tomlin's Bedroom And Recap Our Antics Loudly. Out of courtesy, they leave me in peace during the dinner hour. Then, around 9:00, they trickle forth from their dormitories for a warm-up routine called Loudly Making Plans on Our Cell Phones. Things die down for a few hours as they go to some party or library or other place, with a few stragglers joining the fun between 11 and midnight. Then it's the grand competition: Who can be the swellest swiller to rouse the geriatric grizzle from her slumber? Every night.
I have no way to combat this barrage of post-adolescent chatter, and on my less onerous days I might observe how students have and haven't changed since I was their age. But mostly, they wake me up, and this does nothing but feed my crabbiness. I would like to poke my head out of the window, Egoiste-style, and gently remind them to keep it down, there are old people around here (i.e., me). But since I sleep in the nude (less titillating than you'd think, honestly) I'd have to get dressed first, lest the students commence a new game: Peep Old Lady Tomlin's Headlights.
I was a damned fool!
Now that school is back in session, my error is apparent. Every night, nocturnal Bacchanalian college students play a game called Let's Congregate Outside Old Lady Tomlin's Bedroom And Recap Our Antics Loudly. Out of courtesy, they leave me in peace during the dinner hour. Then, around 9:00, they trickle forth from their dormitories for a warm-up routine called Loudly Making Plans on Our Cell Phones. Things die down for a few hours as they go to some party or library or other place, with a few stragglers joining the fun between 11 and midnight. Then it's the grand competition: Who can be the swellest swiller to rouse the geriatric grizzle from her slumber? Every night.
I have no way to combat this barrage of post-adolescent chatter, and on my less onerous days I might observe how students have and haven't changed since I was their age. But mostly, they wake me up, and this does nothing but feed my crabbiness. I would like to poke my head out of the window, Egoiste-style, and gently remind them to keep it down, there are old people around here (i.e., me). But since I sleep in the nude (less titillating than you'd think, honestly) I'd have to get dressed first, lest the students commence a new game: Peep Old Lady Tomlin's Headlights.
Labels: crabbiness, sleep
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