Maddie Schmitz

Some people are born social media superstars, and some people are born average as far as their cyber popularity goes.  Me, I’m one of the painfully average.  The former are experts at promoting themselves on social media sites.  These Facebook phenoms have thousands of friends, hundreds of likes on their profile pictures, and look flawless in every tagged pic they are in.  They are the Rembrandts of their craft, invincible and perfect in the eye of the Facebook stalker.  Me?  Well, I just found a Reese’s Piece in my bra, so can make your own assumptions about the rest of my life. 

Although I don’t really care about the number of friends or followers I have on Facebook, Pinterest, or Twitter, there is one social media maven whose realms of popularity I cannot even fathom how to penetrate.  No matter how hard I try to be really good at Instagram, I am really REALLY bad at it.  I am starting to think it hates me.  First of all, I was über late getting on the Instagram train.  I was convinced it would be a passing craze, that its popularity would diminish by the time I was prepared to enter its world of filters and hashtags.  I brushed off my friends who had Instagram accounts as self-centered food addicts.  All they did was take pictures of their meals at dinner; tell me that doesn’t sound at least a little dumb. Second of all, I just didn’t understand the concept of Instagramming things and then linking them to other social media sites.  It all sounded like some sort of weird world technology domination conspiracy that only Oprah or Mark Zuckerberg could be behind.  And something about them both rubs me the wrong way.

I’ve spent a lot of time in public bathrooms.  For one, I’m not one of those toilet snobs who refuse to use the powder room in a public place and two, like most girls, I have a small bladder.  One plus one equals a fair amount of time spent in the bathroom in Lower, in O’Neill, in bars across Boston, and even (once) the weird bathroom at the entrance of Walsh.  Over the years, I’ve realized that public bathroom stalls often get a bad rap.  Most of them are as clean as I could reasonably ask for and, even better, offer myriad quotes, poems, and phone numbers written on their metal walls.  Some of the most profound things I’ve ever read have been etched into the barriers or scribbled in sharpie on the doors across campus; here, I shall share with you some of my favorites.

O’Neill 2nd Floor

Just let the pee flow

Like thoughts onto fresh paper

Relief, a fresh start

I always use the same stall in O’Neill (TMI? IDC.) primarily because of the haiku written on the door.  It’s the perfect anecdote to the occasional stage fright, and even cures writer’s block!  To the author of this gem: thank you for your inspiration.  I cannot express my gratitude adequately enough. 

Cantab Lounge

As narsty as the ladies’ room is at Cantab, I can’t help but swoon over the bits of encouragement and profundity I continuously find slathered over its walls in gel pen, sharpie, and what could only be described as bodily fluid (I mean, when in Rome…).  My personal favorite hit me over the head like a ton of bricks one night as I was waiting for a comrade to finish her business: We begin to resent what we desire if it is not given to us.  The first time I read it, I almost cried.  So true!  So accurate!  That’s why I feel unexplainable rage towards men!  You stay classy, Cantab.

At the end of the day, I’m really into myself.  I’m basically the most popular kid in school.  Everyone wants to say they’ve hung out with me.  They keep track of how many times we interact, whether we have a deep, meaningful connection, or if they just use my hot tub on occasion.  Sometimes, people even lie to their friends to make it seem like they’re closer to me than they are.  They claim to know my deepest secrets, like the purpose of the massage room that’s being built next to the new spin room.  I know I’m the coolest simply by virtue of the number of Lulu-clad babes that pass through my doors on the daily.  There are also the millions of muscle tee-sporting ex-lax bros trying to relive their glory days on the basketball court.  Most of them suck, but I don’t tell them that because not only am I the most popular kid at BC, I’m also the nicest. 

Mornings are kind of awkward for me, to be honest.  It’s mostly just a lot of hardos and older people who hang out with me before 10 AM.  I don’t feel like myself until noon, which is when normal people wake up and things get going.  The elliptical girls start ellipticalling, the Venice Beach bros start lifting, and the constant whirring of the one functioning fan upstairs tries its hardest to cool the flailing, drenched bodies on the treadmills.  Side note: I know the other fans have had “work order” signs on them since November, but I promise I’ll fix them soon…ish.  Do y’all really need oxygen, anyway? I’m just saying- I don’t.