Dining Hall Doom

 

It’s such an amazing feeling when you find lyrics that speak to your goddamn soul. When Joe Strummer of The Clash cooed, “I’m all lost in the supermarket, I can no longer shop happily,” his absurdly literal lyrics resonated deeply with me.

For the past week I have spent countless hours roaming the aisles of grocery stores scattered all over Rhode Island to meet the hospitality needs for Spring Weekend artists. College has taught me how to navigate everything from Principle of Economics to frat basements, but it left me completely unprepared for the simple task of grocery shopping.

My grocery store knowledge is limited to chasers and solo cups, so I was totally inept when asked to find imported raspberry preserves and assorted gluten-free snacks. Lost in a sea of kombucha and 100% raw coconut water, I panicked. Hudson Mohawke needed Haribo gummy bears, and I needed to confront my staggering inability to assume adult responsibility.

Whenever I need an excuse for partying on weeknights or academic slumping, I condescendingly sneer, “It’s about the holistic college experience!” But if I can’t even handle the simplest task of buying food to avoid starvation, my favorite excuse is total bullshit and I’m just a patronizing asshole. What’s going to happen to me when I move off campus senior year into the gross personal pseudo-frat house of my dreams? I’m not going to be able to throw a rager the first week of school to trick freshmen into thinking Brown is a party school if I don’t have sustenance! A girl can’t survive on beer and granola bars alone. Believe me, I tried that first semester in my naïve youth.

I often throw temper tantrums in the Ratty complain about the dining hall food and boast about how I’m going off the meal plan ASAP. However, when actually confronted with the reality of ditching easily accessible, ready-made food for hours of grocery shopping, I realized that my bravado was nothing more than an empty threat.  I’m embarrassed when my picky eating habits leave me eating a “dinner” consisting solely of a stale bagel that has been sitting in the Vdub since 9 am. It’s not like I’m an athlete or even go to the Nelson more than once a month, but I still need basic nutrition. Or at least enough food in my stomach to absorb my drinks later in the night.

Maybe the dining halls aren’t that bad. I mean, I have the Vdub’s communal dining to thank for all of the friendships I’ve made at Brown.  The sticky tables are endearing, right?  Okay, that’s pushing it, but I’m still not mature enough to fend for myself and escape this purgatory of dining hall-induced self-loathing. Until then, you can find me weeping gently into a Jo’s salad.

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