A Miserable Monday Morning
Last night I was a bit nervous about having to deal with delivery of 500+ copies of the New York Times around campus with very few volunteers. That anxiety was completely justified in light of how my morning went. In fact, I probably should have been crying last night in anticipation of how badly things would go.
My first unpleasantness started with trying to catch the bus. The bus was supposed to come at 7:19, but I made sure to leave my place by 7:15 just to be sure. The first thing I heard after I locked the door to my apartment was a bus engine. I briskly walked up the driveway leading to Bill McDonald parkway, and spied my bus loading on the mass of people that gathered at its stop. Dejected, I made my walk towards it, knowing there was no way I'd catch it. However, a long line of cars was able to keep the bus pulling out for awhile. If I ran, I could make it. I took off, truly sprinting for the first time since I'd broken my femur. When I was just mere feet from the bus, and it was within my physical grasp, the bus rolled away. I was so shocked and angry that an early bus wouldn't wait for a passenger sprinting towards it that I jumped and punched the plexi-glass at the stop. I skinned my knuckles.
I looked at the schedule for the next bus that would come by, and made a quick decision that if I walked quickly enough, I'd be at the bookstore before the next bus could get me there. I walked, passing a few people along the way, listening to Death Cab the whole time. The speedy walking, the cold air, and the fury at WTA combined to make me a bit sweaty, a bit cold, and my lungs a bit sore.
When I finally arrived, I found that I had a big stack of papers and only two volunteers had shown up to help me deliver them. We did our best, and managed to clear the stack in front of the bookstore, but there was a whole other stack behind the Comm. Building that we didn't even touch.
I saw Robin when I dropped off the subscription papers at Miller Market -- that was refreshing. Robin is always refreshing for some reason. Maybe it's the red hair, or the synthetic green eyes, I'm not quite sure.
I made my way to my class in the Comm. Building on the other side of campus, and relaxed a bit, resigned to the fate of NSCS's relationship with the New York Times. There's no way we can keep this up. That's okay though, because I've got a couple of solid fundraising ideas that I've cooked up. One can be implemented this quarter, and the other can be realized Winter and Spring quarters.
I got to my 8:00 a.m. class, and told Stephanie my maddening morning story. She's incredibly nice from what I've seen so far, because she was very sympathetic. I gave her one of the bible-looking planners with the gilded edges that the NYT had sent to me, and that I had originally intended to give to the volunteers to show up.
The lecture began shortly after, and I took off my sweater, tuned in to Dr. Kamena, and just relaxed.
My first unpleasantness started with trying to catch the bus. The bus was supposed to come at 7:19, but I made sure to leave my place by 7:15 just to be sure. The first thing I heard after I locked the door to my apartment was a bus engine. I briskly walked up the driveway leading to Bill McDonald parkway, and spied my bus loading on the mass of people that gathered at its stop. Dejected, I made my walk towards it, knowing there was no way I'd catch it. However, a long line of cars was able to keep the bus pulling out for awhile. If I ran, I could make it. I took off, truly sprinting for the first time since I'd broken my femur. When I was just mere feet from the bus, and it was within my physical grasp, the bus rolled away. I was so shocked and angry that an early bus wouldn't wait for a passenger sprinting towards it that I jumped and punched the plexi-glass at the stop. I skinned my knuckles.
I looked at the schedule for the next bus that would come by, and made a quick decision that if I walked quickly enough, I'd be at the bookstore before the next bus could get me there. I walked, passing a few people along the way, listening to Death Cab the whole time. The speedy walking, the cold air, and the fury at WTA combined to make me a bit sweaty, a bit cold, and my lungs a bit sore.
When I finally arrived, I found that I had a big stack of papers and only two volunteers had shown up to help me deliver them. We did our best, and managed to clear the stack in front of the bookstore, but there was a whole other stack behind the Comm. Building that we didn't even touch.
I saw Robin when I dropped off the subscription papers at Miller Market -- that was refreshing. Robin is always refreshing for some reason. Maybe it's the red hair, or the synthetic green eyes, I'm not quite sure.
I made my way to my class in the Comm. Building on the other side of campus, and relaxed a bit, resigned to the fate of NSCS's relationship with the New York Times. There's no way we can keep this up. That's okay though, because I've got a couple of solid fundraising ideas that I've cooked up. One can be implemented this quarter, and the other can be realized Winter and Spring quarters.
I got to my 8:00 a.m. class, and told Stephanie my maddening morning story. She's incredibly nice from what I've seen so far, because she was very sympathetic. I gave her one of the bible-looking planners with the gilded edges that the NYT had sent to me, and that I had originally intended to give to the volunteers to show up.
The lecture began shortly after, and I took off my sweater, tuned in to Dr. Kamena, and just relaxed.
posted by Brandon Adams at
2:51 PM
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