cw: body image
I wish I could navigate the JWW stairwell with the stealth and speed of a snow leopard, instead of feeling like a bad case of constipation with slow movement and frequent clogs (why do the doors open into the stairwell?). I then think to myself: “Alas, if only I were thinner/taller/shorter/invisible, then this experience would be smooth sailing.” That’s right, I’m a lady. I’ll blame my body before I dare question the mind of the guy that designed the space. And now, allow me to present a few more thoughts on how I could change my body to best perform in some of our campus’ beloved spaces.
If only I were… THINNER
The Women’s Bathroom in the Ratty
Make way!! I gotta pee!! Oh wait, Hi, sorry! Can I just—open the do—yea, that’s awesome. Thank you! You can keep washing your hands. The door in the women’s bathroom is too damn close to the sink, resulting in a traffic jam between people who wanna get in, people who need to get out, and people who need to pick dead skin off their lips. If I were thin like a bamboo stick, I could whip around that tight corner and then pee with enough horsepower to start a Prius.
The Ivy Room at 7:34 pm
All I want to see is if it’s really the falafel line that is that long. Maybe the line will miraculously be only four people if I could make it around the corner. After struggling to force my hot bod through the jam-packed entrance, I determine that: Oh wow, people really do want falafel…18 people?!? I thought the crowd was just for that fancy toast. Sorry~excuse me~can I just slip out of here. If my bones were thin and delicate like Gwyneth Paltrow’s, I wouldn’t have to feel my love-handles rub against a vegetarian’s jeans as I navigated the crowd. Plus, I’d still have time to buy a sad Peach Chobani for dinner instead.
If only I were… TALLER
Laundry Rooms
I’m just a girl who wants to swiftly move her laundry across the lateral and vertical distance between washer #1 and dryer #8 without dropping her underwear A) on her face or B) on top of that dude’s boxers that have been there for weeks. If I were tall like a volleyball gal, I could seamlessly hoist my sopping clothes up from the washer and then spike ’em right into dryer #8 like a boss.
Crowded Jo’s
I also just want to eat my full-size quesadilla in peace, thank you very much. This requires scoping out a nice, clean, table for one (my life is not sad, yours is) in a room that is too tight for its cult-following. If I possessed the raw power of a hawk, I could achieve a height that would allow me to spot a table without spending a long-ass time searching for a gap in the crowd. This is all an attempt to avoid sitting awkwardly at the end of a large table occupied by a rowdy group that thinks sticking two Juuls in their mouths at the same time is cool.
If only I were… SHORTER
Grad Center Showers
Let’s just say I could make out with a Grad Center showerhead and not have to strain my neck. Do you understand how demoralizing it is to make eye contact with the blank space above a showerhead? Thoughts flood your mind: Has anyone ever loved you, white tile? Touched you? If I were four inches shorter, I could successfully rinse the conditioner out of my hair and have normal shower thoughts, like Is peanut butter a food group?
If only I were… INVISIBLE
The Toast Station in the Ratty
I want to monitor my toast like a helicopter mom. No one, and I mean no one, will touch my son toast with their grubby hands. But I can’t successfully helicopter if I’m blocking the entire Crew Team from getting to the omelette station, or if I feel like I’m putting on a show for everyone sitting right in front of the bagel drawers! If I were invisible, all would be solved. I would happily burn my toast just the way I like it and then shamelessly cover my son toast in as much butter as I want—it’s for his own good!!!
The Corner Booth in the Ivy Room
As my loosely-wrapped falafel falls out of my mouth, I’d like to apologize to the onlookers. They have too often witnessed my downfall as a hearty clump of feta falls into my scarf for the fifth day running. In order to avoid further shame, I often discard the cheese, but not today my friends. In my new state of invisibility, I will pluck that feta clump right out of my scarf and stuff it back where it belongs. And nobody can judge me for it, YEAH.
Illustration by Caroline Zerilli.