A week without ... a prox

I've just spent a harrowing week without the quintessential Princeton accessory most of us pithily refer to as a "prox," and the trials I encountered have convinced me that my flimsy proximity card is the most important thing I own. The following cautionary tales are not meant to horrify, but rather to protect you from suffering a similar fate.

Lugging my overflowing suitcases back up to Brown after Intersession, I reflexively reached into my back pocket for my prox before realizing that my "week without" had begun that morning. I scanned the courtyard for some kind soul to let me in but succeeded only in spotting a surly fellow exiting the building. My request for assistance did not meet with immediate success. Despite the fact that I was laden with bags and obviously moving back in after Intersession, he clearly doubted that I was actually a student and moved to bar the doorway. Only after repeatedly brandishing a U-Store membership card did I finally managed to convince him that I was not, in fact, a burglar.

Unwilling to convince another student and struck by a sudden inspiration, I wedged my wallet into the door to keep it from closing. A blaring alarm immediately began to wail, attracting unwanted attention from all sides. I quickly removed my wallet from the door and let it close, but it was too late. An irate man from building services pulled up in a buggy, and I received a stern warning about the dangers of door propping. My week was not off to an auspicious start.

Another proxless nightmare occurred in Frist when, hungry after a long day, I strolled in to get some tacos. When it was almost my turn to pay, I had the sudden, stomach-sinking realization that without a prox, these crispy delights would not be free. Frantically, I started to rummage in my pockets for some sort of bartering tool. I managed to scrounge up a crumpled dollar bill and a massive handful of change right as the person in front of me sailed through with a prox swipe. Proud of my quick and decisive action, I thrust my fistful of money onto the counter. The cashier was understandably peeved at having to count about 25 coins and gave me a baleful stare as each new penny was totted up. Finally, he fixed me with a look of hatred and informed me that I was 17 cents short of a taco.

As I fumbled for an explanation for my temporary poverty, the long line behind me grew increasingly restive, until someone literally threw a quarter at me. I muttered a thank you, seized my tacos and slunk off with the mangled vestiges of my pride in tow. This experiment was growing taxing.

After finally finishing a long night of work in Frist, I had just reached my entryway when I remembered my lack of a prox. I've never understood why the light on the sensors flashes green for "Locked" and red for "Come on in," and I had ample opportunity to consider this inversion as I stood outside, the last of my body heat escaping into the frigid air. I hopped up and down to prevent hypothermia from setting in while I thought over my options. I considered walking around aimlessly until I found someone, but I scrapped this idea when I checked my watch and saw that it was 3 a.m. I debated waking up my roommates but discovered that my phone was dead. I thought about starting a hobo fire in the Brown birdbath, but I didn't have a lighter.

At this point, I seriously started to consider writing some sort of last testament that public safety could pry out of my frozen fingers the next morning. Before I became a human popsicle, however, salvation arrived in the form of a staggering drunk. After this disaster, I pretty much didn't leave my room for the rest of the week.

I learned a great deal from the frustrating, humiliating and near fatal experiences I suffered during my week without. I will never, ever go anywhere without my wonderful prox again, and I urge you all to revere that essential card which provides access to food, shelter and Dillon Gym.