A prox is more than just that deceptive, credit card-like piece of plastic that we lose 1,000 times a day. It is more than just a ticket to nightly late-meal salvation or a prized Princeton artifact that we show our enamored friends back home. Our proxes serve the important purpose of representing our identities and thus deserve more credit than we often give them.
So, I’ve decided to put myself in the shoes of a PUID. What if a prox had thoughts and feelings? What would happen if it gained consciousness and magically recorded its daily events as they happened for a week?
I’m glad you asked.
9:50 a.m. No breakfast swipe today. My owner grabs me as he sprints out the door to class and sticks me in the back pocket of his pants. I should be fine as long as he doesn’t sit on a wet bench.
1:29 p.m. My owner sits on a wet bench.
4:15 p.m. Tested at Frist Box Office to see if I still have any Student Events Eligible passes left for the fifth time this semester. What doesn’t my owner get? I HAVE NO MORE.
1:29 p.m. Inspected by the Marquand bag checkers. I feel for them. They don’t mean to be as annoying as they are.
11:40 p.m. It’s frigid nights like these when I’m grateful that my owner finally realized that he doesn’t have to take me out of his wallet every time he wants to get into a building. I remember the days in the beginning of the semester when he would come back to the dorm with some friends and he would fumble, trying to find his wallet, and use his icy fingers to wiggle me out of my cozy resting place. Meanwhile, his friends would be waiting in the cold. It was awkward for everybody.
1:23 p.m. Lunch swipe at CJL. Edith is the best!
3:01 p.m. My owner never maximizes my late-meal value. #princetonproxproblems
10:02 a.m. I need to stop facilitating my owner’s coffee addiction. This is my eighth time being swiped at Cafe Viv this week.
2:30 p.m. Late-meal swipe with that one “efficient” cashier. Too hard, too fast. Ouch.
8:31 p.m. My owner gets locked out and has to swipe me to pay the $30 fine. I don’t want to talk about it.
9:35 a.m. My owner spends 30 minutes looking for me in a half-stupor. Last night I slept in the back pocket of a pair of dirty jeans he wore to the Street.
10:07 a.m. Found. My owner decides that since he is already late to class, he might as well crawl back into bed.
Sometime around lunch — My owner leaves me on the bathroom counter. Sitting there, staring into the mirror, I realize I’m not the fine piece of newly minted plastic I used to be. My corners are bent and my shine has faded. The white sticker peeling from my front says I will expire in six months. Stuffed between a phone and a pack of 5 Gum in the pocket of corduroy pants that, frankly, are too tight on my owner, I am starting to realize how expansive the world is beyond this confined space. And what am I? A washed-up — literally, as I’ve been through a few wash cycles — ID card with someone else’s face printed over mine. Sure, I have a few cool tiger holograms that the Yale and Harvard IDs don’t, but those are only superficial. I think I’m having a midlife crisis.
6:14 p.m. Sometimes I sneak random charges onto the TigerPay bill to see how my owner’s mom reacts.
11:00 a.m. It’s like my owner doesn’t even care. We’ve been together since September and he still mistakes me for a Visa. I was just given to and rejected by the barista at Starbucks. I swear, if he does this one more time ...
11:55 p.m. The Cloister bouncers grab me, glance at me for five seconds and give me back to my owner.
1:41 a.m. Thoroughly inspected by the Cannon bouncers, who decide to take me to the laboratory in the back of the club for authenticity testing. Varsity football, basketball and lacrosse membership results all come back negative. It’s going to be a Terrace night.
1:58 p.m. Swiped into Forbes brunch just in time for my owner to get the last drops of the chocolate fountain.
4:40 p.m. Still in dining hall. My owner has chosen to procrastinate by seeing how far I can bend.
5:00 p.m. Dinner swipe at Whitman.
7:35 p.m. Flashed to the guard at Firestone before descending into the C-floor abyss. Goodbye world.
Original URL: http://www.dailyprincetonian.com/2012/05/03/30848/