Looking Up

People watching: we all do it. Whether it’s from a twelfth-floor window, a Perkin’s booth, or a Facebook account, I have yet to discover someone who doesn’t enjoy posing as an undetected ninja spy (for no valiant cause in particular, unless you count the possibility of one day saving the world through useless observations.). I never used to think of myself as a creepy people watcher. But I’ll admit, it seems —er, odd—when I know names and bagel preferences of strangers who sit in the campus coffee shop or find myself questioning why that certain student is walking that direction when they would normally be heading to class at this hour.  Lately, one of my favorite places to subconsciously people watch is the campus rec center. Last night, I was chugging away some miles around the track. I had a lot on my mind—in fact, so much that when I finished I forgot myself and even decided to go upstairs. (“Upstairs” translates to impossibly heavy hand weights, mats that are presumably ...

It’s official: four dorm buildings and four roommates later, sanity is intact (mostly). In fact, I’m rockin’ the dorm life. I’ve learned you can fit two whole wardrobes in one room—not to mention skis, popcorn makers, and cellos. You can cook surprisingly appealing meals in a microwave (but don’t set off the fire alarm. Just don’t).   And the best way to make new friends? Bake chocolate chip cookies in the floor kitchen. However, I’ve also learned what you can’t have in a dorm: pets. Okay, you can have fish. I remember well Otto, the Beta belonging to the hockey player across the hall freshman year. He was a nice little fellow. Sadly, Otto froze to death, and I got stuck fish-sitting his replacement every weekend after. Tragedy aside, would you want a depressed fish staring you down as you write papers? Probably not. But plants—plants are the perfect pseudo-pet.   I admit my plants may have gained a little too much personality. Just ask my roommate—before we sh...

Freeway tunnel ahead! Inflate lungs, assemble Iron-man face, and valiantly hold your breath unto the end—or at least longer than your brother.  In the earliest years of my life, we lived in Duluth, where I first learned the art of tunnel-breathing. Or should we say, not-breathing. Tunnels were so much fun. Every time our clunky grey Oldsmobile slipped underneath the tunnel entrances, I felt like I was being swallowed up by a dragon. Inside, the world transformed into a dark race against time, cheered on by those nifty lights on the walls. But the high point of tunnel, of course, was at the end— how soon that glorious burst of sunlight appeared was a key factor in proving who had the best lung capacity. Apparently, this superstitious tunnel not-breathing lasts into adulthood for some. Approximately one month ago, my college choir and I arrived via ferry in the port of Dublin. After we breezed through customs and hopped on a coach bus to head to our hotel, our driver ...

When I took a phone call before class on Monday morning, I wasn’t ready for what I heard. I wasn’t expecting to hear that the community college instructor who had lectured my wellness class about America’s biggest killer—heart disease—had been its latest victim. That the middle-aged guy who pounded miles away on a YMCA elliptical machine faster and farther than I ever could every morning had suffered a fatal heart attack. That when I go home for spring break next week, he won’t be shooting me a grin and a “How’s college?” when I walk into the weight room. Apparently, death is inevitable and answers to no one. Not even those who do their best to escape it. Mr. Bill McBride was one of the most inspiring people I ever met. I didn’t know him well, yet he infected me with positivity every time I saw him. As a junior in high school I started taking college classes. For a socially awkward, unathletic introvert, PE 1201 was one of the most terrifying highlights of my first year at ...