In a little orange bag, too small to fit my iPhone 4, I keep all my valuables. My student ID, my keys, my phone charger, my headphones, and this weekend it held the ferry ticket I needed in order to eventually leave Connecticut. The bright sunflower design that boasts its artistry on both sides of the bag is found on me 24/7, minus the innumerous amount of time it spends lost. Oftentimes, I throw it somewhere without thinking, I empty its inhabitants, I take out the one thing I need the most when the orange-vested man is approaching, convincing myself it would be just that much easier if I have the ticket in my pocket instead of having to unzip the bag only to instantly forget that relocation once it becomes my turn and my demeanor instantly transitions from relatively okay to absolute madwoman who tears apart little orange bags while her boyfriend’s eyes widen, considering what a life at the ferry station would consist of in Bridgeport, Connecticut.
I quickly realized my mistake, which was enveloped in the soft cushiony pocket that shelters the litany of other mistakes I constantly make. I shove important documents, such as ferry tickets, into the abyss that is my coat pocket. Or any pocket! If I have a piece of paper on me that I do not want to forget, and it just so happens that today is a day where I have pockets (not the fake girl pockets that typically inflict their falsehoods on the goodwill of reasonably priced feminine clothing), I will fold that paper into my pocket, then later assume I was smart enough to put it somewhere else and never find it again.
I was handed two sheets of paper by the English department when I changed my major two weeks ago. One outlined the courses the major required in order to graduate with a degree in that major along with insights into which electives I would prefer, and one highlighted every SBC I already had, and which ones I still needed. I felt so confident with those two documents at my disposal. I knew what had to be done! Not only that but, I was told! I was praying that just like my mother would take my hand to retrace over my sloppy handwriting when I was 5 years old, someone would emerge from the shadows behind me, open up schedule builder, and maneuver my fingers to hit the keys I needed to create a decent schedule, and here she was.
No, the woman from the English office in the humanities building did not exactly puppeteer me into picking the best courses for my spring semester, but she did give me those two documents. Immediately, I folded them together, in 1/4s, and shoved them in my coat pocket.
I was ready! I wasn’t worried at all. I could’ve slept through the Scholar’s powerpoint on enrolling in classes! I deleted the email!
The Thursday before my enrollment date, I entered Roth cafe, using one of my well-rationed 5 leftover swipes for the week (I have 7 for just today and tomorrow, I honestly don’t know what to do with myself), sat down with my laptop and a trusted friend, and slowly engaged in a complete mental breakdown as I tried to figure out what classes I needed to take after I couldn’t find the two papers in any folder in my backpack. Of course, I put them in a folder. They’re important documents to me. The “trusted friend” laughed at me; she had built her schedule a while ago (but she’s still in the Journalism School and I’m not so who’s the real prize winning planner here). We parted ways.
Speed-walking back to my dorm, inhaling a few oatmeal raisin cookies along the way, I was positive I would find them safely nuzzled on my desk somewhere or in a notebook, maybe a different bag? I kicked open the handicap accessible door to my room Jet Li style, just to let my roommates know that something was about to go down. I scoured the room, flipped every book, shined a light on every cranny, unfolded the other important documents I had folded and shoved in my laundry basket for an unforeseen reason. All to no avail.
I had a missed call from the acquaintance that was once known as a trusted friend. In my unadulterated rage, fury, and frustration, I had forgotten my coat at Roth. She lives directly above me in our residence hall, so I stomped upstairs, wishing each step would send my foot straight through the foundation of the earth, allowing the world to enclose around me, and as one pound of rubble crashes down after another, all stress would be forgotten just like my army green coat.
After catching the rapid bullet she transformed my jacket into because obviously, we weren’t close enough to engage in a simple hand-off anymore, I looked for my lipstick, another object I carelessly stow away in random pockets. When my hands felt the curves of thickly folded pieces of paper, I assumed they were old homework that I folded and placed into my pocket because it’s disrespectful to throw them out with the same gesture used to take them from a professor, but still, I opened them. My eyes met the pencil etchings of the department head that helped piece my life together a week prior, and instantly I saw them make a habit of it.
I trampled down the stairs a little too quickly for my socked feet, slid into the first floor B dorm of Dreiser College, beat my head against my front door until my suitemate opened it for me, because no, I didn’t bring the little orange bag, and used her as a platform to parkour my way straight into that black plastic dorm chair in front of my laptop.
I entered codes until my credits equaled around 16, shuffled through the schedules until my Fridays were free, imported that sucker to my shopping cart, before reloading the page 6 times to make sure that was really what just happened. The next morning, at exactly 7:15 A.M., I hit “enroll”, then leaned back.
Advising and registering is easy.