SHAW HALL LOUNGE – This is why I sleep in.

I awoke early this Sunday morning. Too early. Uncharacteristically early, especially after the previous night’s dance-party debauchery. Oh, how I long to return to that dance party.

I rolled out of bed and perused my buddy list; everyone was still asleep. After all, it was 8 a.m. My room’s door closed gently behind me as I ventured to the men’s room, where I freshened up, took Tylenol and read the comics pages scattered across the floor. It’d be a relaxing, peaceful morning – my roommate wouldn’t be back from Oswego until the afternoon, and I had nothing to do but check away messages and build my prolific writing career.

The cold, unyielding metal of my doorknob sent a shock through my soul. I stood just inches away from sanctuary; I could hear my diverse, expansive MP3 collection resonate through the wooden door. But I was trapped outside, keyless, abandoned and wearing nothing but mesh shorts and sandals.

I paced down my hall, unsure if I needed a locksmith, a shirt or a cell phone. It didn’t matter – I found only a random guy passed out in a ravaged second-floor lounge. I knocked feebly on my RA’s door but soon realized I’d have to trek to the front desk myself.

I’m not sure when the friendly desk attendant starts the Sunday-morning shift, but I beat her to her post. Maybe this wouldn’t be so weird if I had a shirt on.

Good thing I did laundry this weekend for the first time since Spring Break. I descended to the laundry room, where my sharp memory assured me I’d find some leftover clothes to cover my shapely, muscular form. I dug through the box of misfit socks and found the newest addition to my wardrobe – a gray T-shirt from the 2001 Ithaca High School wrestling championship. To whoever discarded this shirt: you, my friend, are a true champion.

I’d guess by the smell of it that this shirt’s owner has long since departed Shaw Hall. So I resigned myself to the building’s main lounge, where I met another random guy on a couch. This guy, more sober and well-dressed than his counterpart upstairs, struggled to lift his head and ask me for the time. It was 8:20, just a few minutes into MTV’s Britney Spears marathon.

We didn’t share our thoughts, but I suspect that together we enjoyed Britney’s supple curves and progressively sweatier video catalogue. I typed away on a lounge computer as he wrestled with the rising sun, and his friend came down to retrieve him at the top of the hour.

So now I’m alone, comforted only by the hum of computers and the warm glow of Music Television. The Yeah Yeah Yeahs have replaced Britney, and my sense of smell has adapted to my Ithaca shirt. One person is awake and online: my friend at Princeton. Everyone there, he says, is still drunk right now. For some reason, he’s doing homework. He’s also using his own computer and wearing his own clothes.

The cleaning crew has trickled in, no doubt preparing for brunch at the dining hall, which could open anywhere between 10 a.m. and 1 p.m. – it’s always a blur. They’re doing a hell of a job. I wonder if they can pick a lock.

A cute girl just crept out of the guys’ wing, heels in hand and discomfort in her step. If it’s time for her walk of shame, I might as well make mine. If the front desk is still empty, I’m breaking the glass. And if I ever get back in, I’m never leaving my room again.

Rob Howard is a sophomore advertising major. E-mail him at roho@dailyorange.com.

Published on March 28, 2004 at 12:00 pm