Op-Ed
Thou Shalt Not Cornell
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Gain Through Loss
March 7, 2007 - 11:36pmWhat was I going to give up for Lent this year? As it turns out, I don’t watch a lot of TV, I can’t stand those trashy celebrity magazines and I’m not even that big into chocolate.
In making my decision this year, I spent a lot of time focusing on what activities and habits seemed to really suck the life out of me, taking up my time and energy and leaving me depleted. What in my life could I omit so that I would have more time to reflect on my blessings and my purpose?
The everyday rigmarole of being a graduate student at Cornell University certainly makes it easy to forget life’s bigger picture, and I needed to give up something that would really free me from my binding, repetitive, workaday lifestyle. This year, I decided it was time to let go of something that has, for a long time, really taken a mental and physical toll on me. This year, I decided it was time to let go of something big.
This year, I decided it was time to let go of Cornell.
First, I had to lay down some ground rules. The first major rule was that I was to cut all ties with the University until Easter Sunday. I could not go to campus or check my Cornell e-mail or any accounts associated with Cornell University. I was not allowed to visit Cornell’s website or read the Cornell Daily Sun. I couldn’t even wear my Cornell boxers. I was that serious.
Following is a day-by-day account of my attempt to live without Cornell.
Day 1: I start out strong, removing all Cornell and Cornell-related memorabilia from my sight, including all Cornell mugs, folders, binders, pencils and magnets from my apartment. I change my Cornell hockey team bed sheets. I sit down to do some reflecting but am quickly distracted by the TV. I watch hours of paternity tests on Maury — I pick out the fathers with astounding accuracy. The desire to check my e-mail sets in, but I remain resilient — I am not about to break my promise over what is probably an inbox littered with departmental spam and “cheEp Vi0aGrA!” ads. Later that night, my mom calls and asks me how school is going. I change the topic.
Day 2: I can hear McGraw clocktower from my apartment — I turn up my stereo full blast. I skip a class and it feels liberating. I drive down to Wegmans and I walk up and down every aisle. This place is littered with stuff that reminds me of Cornell; mugs and picture frames with the C.U. emblem and distracting Cornellians with their bloody hooded sweatshirts, “Cornell” plastered across them. Even the produce reminds me of Cornell Orchards. I mack on some cupcakes in the café before returning home to watch more Maury.
Day 3: My hardest day yet. I step outside my apartment some fresh air and a time for quiet reflection when, from a bypassing car, a mom and daughter ask me if I know where Goldwin Smith Hall is. “I’m sorry ladies, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I reply.
Back inside my apartment, I get the shakes. I run the water for a hot shower and realize I have no underwear left but tighty whities (from the 90s, initialed by Mom, they mean a lot to her) and my Cornell boxers. I go with the TWs. Great. Haven’t worn them in years, they itch like poison ivy. I feel all jumbled up, restrained, incarcerated. For lunch, I make a sandwich. My Turkey and Swiss reminds me of Trillium. My postal carrier reminds me of Biddy Martin.
Day 4: “Ezra! Ezra!” I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, screaming. TWs feel like a hot mosquito discotheque. I hope to find comfort in a book about Asian breathing techniques I found at the Kroch library.I open the front cover and, to my horror, my Kroch-related problems continue — the book is due back tomorrow.
NO! I cannot bring myself to compromise on an overdue book, not after what happened in 1997. In high school, I had just returned the book, The Art of French Dessert-Making, to my school library right before my best friend John Hollister asked the librarian if the book was available. The next day, John used the book to make a succulent Valentine’s Day crème brûlée for our classmate, Erin. Needless to say, John and Erin are now engaged — I’m sitting on the ground in my bedroom in TWs lamenting my recent life choices. I was not going to let my Lenten promise almost ruin another future romance. The book needed to be returned. Plus, those fines are pretty steep.
Later that night, my buddy Andy stopped by my place to borrow some of my boy band CDs. He brought a big “we miss you!” card a bunch of my friends had signed for me, and he told me about classes and the like. I pleaded with him to return my book to the Kroch library. He joked that what went on between me and my Kroch was none of his business. He had no idea.
Andy left, and I realized I had made a big mistake. Yes, lending out my boy band CDs when I was emotionally unstable wasn’t wise, but even bigger than that was my overblown Lenten sacrifice.
Day 5: I shower, put on my Cornell boxers, grab my library book and trudge up the slope. I return the book, check my e-mail, go to class, hit up the Dairy Bar and attend a typical Cornell seminar about pop art’s portrayal of sustainable food systems in a post-modern world.
Giving something up for Lent, or for any reason, is not about testing how far we can go without all of life’s amenities. It’s actually not about us at all. It’s about putting more time and thought into what’s important, by turning from smaller things that keep us preoccupied and spending time reflecting on our blessings and purpose.
So what am I giving up instead? To start, I’ve decided to let go of my boy band CDs (until Easter, thanks Andy) and my tighty whities (forever, sorry Mom).
Behzad Varamini is a graduate student in Nutritional Sciences. He can be reached at bv29@cornell.edu. Gain Through Loss appears alternate Wednesdays.