Pursuing Happiness

December 15, 2016

I never expected to eat breakfast in college. The dining halls are only open between 7:30 and 9:30, daunting for a girl whose first class every day is at 10:30 and who can never find the motivation to roll out of bed more than an hour before. So few students can be bothered to leave that kind of warmth. But once I went, I remembered how much I love bagels, and now, as fall quarter draws to an end, I have become an avid breakfaster. This summer, I was always waking up early. It is harder to do now that I go to bed so late, but I relish mornings—the mist still rising over Lake Lag, the sky melting slowly, the entire day unwinding in front of me, untouched, undiscovered.

I always eat the same thing: eggs, half a toasted plain bagel spread with peanut butter and jelly, a bowl of oatmeal. My mom has always reminded me of the importance of breakfast; back in NC, she would make sure we ate a well-balanced meal every morning before school. Until recently, I had been subsisting on cereal and granola bars, sometimes just a cup of coffee. Now I have breakfast to start my day.

**

I am happy on Marek’s floor, where, if in the right mindset, we can all sit and do work for hours. Other times, we are too easily distracted, by the strange conversations that spring to our heads and play out in each other’s company, or simply our naturally unmotivated tendencies—procrastination, I have noticed, is all too real.

Or we will gather in our room, Sam and Jacob watching TV on her bed, Audrey on the floor with a cup of coffee and her psych notes in front of her, Kally with an essay due tomorrow, I with my computer, trying to find the inspiration to write this blog post. Marek, who’s just across the hall, always finds a reason to pop in. Time is different when we’re all together. I become more conscious of its passing, yet more appreciative of the way the minutes tumble by, tripping over each other in their race to reach some distant, unreachable finish line. I always have to remind myself to leave.

**

There are six people here: three on my bed, two on Sam’s, one on the floor. This is where the clock ticks toward one, two, three in the morning—where our words tumble to the ground to be swept up by the darkness, each other’s arms, the safest space a world can provide.

Four a.m. Still awake. Jacob has left for his room, next door, and Audrey and I lie staring at the ceiling together, blinking away sleep. It’s literally daytime, she says, and I laugh because the hours are catching up to me. We should just get up and study, or something. Maybe we should go to breakfast.

Two minutes later, we are asleep.

**

It is only in the past three or four weeks that I have learned how much I genuinely enjoy walking. The weather, too perfect for December, means that, with every chance I get, I am outside in the brisk (but not cold) fall air. There was this one time that I called Stephanie back home and talked to her for over an hour while I just walked—everywhere, from Main Quad to Tresidder to east campus and back, wandering up and down the streets. Some indecipherable frustration, a desire to find something I had lost, kept me moving; it was raining just slightly, I remember, and the sidewalks were dusted with drops, tearlike. In this moment, I think, I understood that I was unhappy. Steph’s voice in my ears, finally, brought me calm.

When I walk, everything settles, like fallen leaves. The thoughts spill over, the feelings unravel. Like silk, like yarn, they slip quietly through my fingers, and I am forced to pick up every single piece. One by one, I untangle myself. One by one, I remember why I am here.

**

We are just waiting for Sam. She isn’t back yet, and we’re not all together until she arrives.

Marek, in his room, has put up a tiny Christmas tree, glowing with colorful lights, shorter even than Audrey, the smallest among us. Meanwhile, she, Kally, and I have just returned from a trip to Tresidder marketplace to buy milk and chocolate. We’re going to make hot chocolate tonight and sit on the floor in our most comfortable clothes, because we have a week’s worth of conversation to catch up on.

In the kitchenette, Kally blasts Christmas hits while I pour the entire quart of milk into a pot and unwrap the chocolate, turn on the stove. As the rich sweet scent of melting sugar fills the room, we belt Mariah Carey and unearth a large pitcher to hold our drink—the transfer from pot to pitcher requires delicate precision, and I am too scared to do it; Kally takes responsibility instead. Then Sam texts us that she’s five minutes away, so we race back to Marek’s to set up.

Jacob, our resident aggressive Jew, enters, takes one look at the Christmas decorations, and puts his face in his hands, loudly bemoaning our lack of holiday representation—It’s Chanukah too, idiots. Marek wraps him in a hug. And Sam, Sam is home! She enters carrying two brimming grocery bags and wearing a parka both the approximate size and color of a small reindeer and envelops us all in a giant hug; in our room, she unpacks a medley of chocolate-peppermint flavored snacks while we dance around, sharing stories of our Thanksgivings. We have hot chocolate, too, we say, and finally we make it to Marek’s floor—the boy has turned his space heater up to nearly 80 degrees—ensconced by warm mugs and full stomachs, the two ornaments Sam brought from home (a mini coffee cup and a weirdly squishy donut) swinging merrily from the tree.

If I wanted, I could choose to spend the rest of my life here, with these people, with our silences and our laughs and the way I can recognize each of their voices from down the hall. I could choose to stay, to cherish the beautiful infinity of time and all it has to give me.

Because now we are together again.