Junior classical languages and literatures and history major
Arlington, Va.: home of the Iwo Jima memorial, the Pentagon and public parking garages that close at 1:30 p.m. on a Saturday.
Unimportant as it may seem, this column is about the latter.
It was not as if the sign was invisible; it was clearly placed right next to the garage entrance. Nevertheless, I found myself staring at a bolted-shut garage door Saturday night with no number to call and too much work to do. This event followed a disappointing and expensive viewing of a movie with almost no plot and the Metro ticket machine’s decision to eat about $10 more than was required for me to get from the expensive movie theater to the locked garage by the Metro.
This does not even come close to describing the crazy and largely disastrous adventures I get myself into whenever I leave the house. Be it to meet an old friend or to attend a family gathering, the threshold of my front door seems to be the dividing line between stable existence and Thunderdome-style anarchy.
Even if I successfully reach my destination and park legally — a near impossibility — activities become immediately limited. Dancing, while fun, quickly becomes odd for others around me; the noises and general mistrust of what is in my drink turn me off to dance clubs and theme parks alike; and while I love jazz clubs, I find that I have almost no idea what to do with my hands. Do you snap along? Clap at odd places? Please send fan mail with answers.
Yet what is at home? Typically, even if you are a poor college student in a dorm, there is food. Yes, there is food in the real world, but it is not your food. However, outside food can quickly become yours with the power of the Internet and a delivery person. There is also any drink and company combination you can think of, with the added bonus of having fewer social codes on noise level and pants requirements.
Last but not least, it is worth reminding the reader that the human population has spent the better part of existence perfecting ways in which we can exist separate from the fresh air. This can be lightly tossed aside by the reader in light of meager displays of outdoor romanticism, such the Olympics. But there is a reason the warm, glowing hearth of all peoples was inside the hut, close to the aforementioned food, drink and pants, and not in the long line outside Club Sweat and Body Odor.
True, there are those rare nights that stand out. The time you meet a celebrity or a future significant other are particularly vivid, so it can be hard to let those go. But when it is the second time your car gets towed from a hipster-infested, scooter-themed coffee bar during art week, reality starts to kick in rather fast.
It comes to a point where the risks outweigh the benefits. Though this may just be my complete inability to park properly, the productivity involved with staying in more than makes the case for me. Though wanderers all, we must eventually come to the same conclusion as others have before us, namely that home, not an impound lot, is where the heart is.
Erik Shell is a junior classical languages and literatures and history major. He can be reached at eshelldbk@gmail.com.
