Today begins Lent: I give up . . .

Only type A personalities could compete at religious traditions. Today, the morning after Fat Tuesday, Lent arrived comforted only be a couple Advil and the consideration of the absolute necessity of Wednesday lectures. Emails are ever so softly typed to preceptors across the grad college by students claiming the right not to read and/or attend due to illness, "emergency," and a paralyzing devotion to Ash Wednesday.

So here it is: Lent, a forty-day period, not counting Sundays, beginning today and culminating with the celebration of Easter, a commemoration of the Resurrection of Christ. Traditionally, Lent's purpose rests in soul searching and reflection. At its earliest, Lent allowed the Christians to prepare for Easter, rededicating themselves and remembering Jesus' withdrawal into the wilderness for forty days.

More recently, many countries have begun commemorating the last day before Lent through celebrations such as Mardi Gras, Shrove Tuesday, and Fasching. A last hurrah before a Holy time, most view the day as a time experiencing one polar extreme before tempting the other.

The early church members remembered to reflect on their Savior by sacrificing a key comfort or indulgence of their lives, usually meat—"Carnival" stemming from the Latin "farewell to meat."

Today, Lent has fallen from a strictly religious practice to more of a Hallmark holiday of the general population. It no longer specifically highlights Christ but rather kick starts diets, results from dares, and rejuvenates already-forgotten New Years Resolutions. But more than that, it works. Somewhere beyond the patch but before shock therapy, Lent appears on the charts as a means for religious and nonreligious alike to change a slight part of who they are—to deny themselves something or to test their own will power.

Most say they can "stop anytime" they want to. Fine. Here's a challenge.

In the past I've given up candy, meat, and cokes. I've done something nice once a day, paid another favor, and ran an extra errand. Last year I gave up worrying — an interesting feat as I spent most of the spring pondering, thinking, meditating, musing, and reckoning on both my writing seminar due dates and the fine line between carefully considering and overtly stressing.

This year I'm at a loss. Considering my daily routine, searching for that certain crutch that gets me through Math Alive problem sets and Puritan Conversion Narratives, I can locate several current loves of my life. While crucial and dearly beloved, none feel like the perfect way to spend my spring remembering — or trying to forget.

My roommates and I sat in our common room throwing around ideas, finding the perfect challenges for one another. Today starts the period of Lent, what are you giving up?

The obvious? Alcohol, smoking, cursing, or nail biting.

But what if Princeton kids, the definition of type A overachievers, took it a step further, we considered. What is so ingrained in our routines that it would take a conscious effort to avoid it? The list began:

Reality TV. Beer. Frozen yogurt. Magazines. Caffeine.

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Oreo Pie. Bread. Panera. PUDS. Frist. Late Meal. For the first time in my life, the words "cruel and unusual" crept into my definition of Lent.

Bottled water. Individually packaged items. Heels. Remote Controls. TV. Stereos. MP3s.

Black. Tank Tops. Laundry. "Hey! You could even give up underwear as a result—kind of like a chain thing, right Ashley?" Overachievers indeed.

Checking email more than once a day. AIM. Personal computer use.

Paper towels. Paper products. Disposable dishes. Silverware, "Yeah, you could just not use any utensils." "You mean just eat with your hands, Jules?" "No, your face."

Pens. Plaid. Pockets. Any form of a bag. Talking louder than the regular level. Walking at a normal pace. Turning left.

Naps. Anime. Staying up past midnight. The Street. Anything involving a ping pong ball or quarter. Dancing. Random hookups. "Wait, I know Lent — didn't they make some movie about it and sex?" All contact with the opposite sex.

Cars. Handshakes. Fresh Prince. X-Box. Chapstick. Any form of a bag. Jewelry, "Wait wait wait, just the visual jewelry, right?"

Labels. Shopping. Cash. Credit cards. The Wa.

Denim. Shoes except for flip-flops. Wearing pajamas to class. Wearing pajamas at all.

Gym. Procrastination. Diet foods. Sitting down. Talking in prose, rather talking entirely in rhyme. "But Ashley, what are you actually giving up?" Friends.

Appliances. Condiments. Shoelaces. Highlighters. The snooze button. Schoolwork past 9 p.m. Calculus.

Inside jokes. Collars. Short sleeves. Walking anywhere but sidewalks. Sidewalks.

Cell phones. Palm pilots. Being late. "Like."

I haven't decided what I'm giving up this year and, in fact, may reverse the process and take something on instead. Maybe instead of sacrificing diet coke, CVS, or my watch, I'll focus an hour a day on being still. No work. No TV. No reading. Sitting on the sidelines for an hour a day. While I've never been good at being still, maybe the point of giving something up, in this case basically life for an hour, is that it leaves you experiencing and knowing life at a different level. Giving up life to know it. Maybe I'll give up irony instead.

For the next forty days you have the chance to part with something dear to you if for no other reason than to prove that you can. While my purpose for trying is founded in my religious beliefs, the practice can be based in almost anything. No ice cream? A diet. No paper products? Environmental awareness. No boyfriend? The ultimate game of paying hard to get.

"Hey . . . out of curiosity, if I give up doing laundry, could you use your one act of service a week to do it for me?" Maybe I'll give up roommates instead.

Ashley Johnson is a sophomore from Florence, Ala.