Daydreams and Post-it notes

I was yelling, trying to get everyone's attention. We were in a huddled in a corner of a soccer field, and I was desperately trying to figure out a strategy to win the game. There was a deafening roar from the crowd in my ears, and I had trouble focusing. At the top of my lungs, I asked who had played soccer before. One boy started to jump up and down in earnest, and I allowed him to choose his field position. No one in the huddle looked particularly familiar, and we were all wearing sweaters that looked like they were knitted by our grandmothers. I looked down at myself and found that I was wearing a J. Crew blazer...

I awoke to the sound of my alarm clock and my roommate, Tani, begging me to turn it off. She wasn't quite yelling — I would say it was more like a long, drawn-out moan. "Saaarah! Turn it off!" Luckily, once I quieted the alarm, she rolled over and fell back asleep.

Ten minutes later, I was finally out of bed and checking my email. Surrounding my computer were a dozen post-it notes in an assortment of colors. I had obviously attempted to color code according to the different activities that consumed my life at the time, but the notes still contained a jumbled mess of lists. The one closest to me read, "CJL student activities fair, Spanish homework, English homework, make appointment with McCosh," and so on.

I gazed at the wall above my desk, where four 8 x 11 photographs taken by Jon, my high school boyfriend, were held up by scotch tape. Jon and I dated for two years when we were in high school. Only a few weeks into our relationship, I was fully assimilated into his circle of friends, people who, to me, represented freedom, passion and everything worth living for. The photos were a series of shots taken on a fairly typical day, most of which we had spent at the Casselberry skate park, where I watched the boys from the sideline. At dusk, we had returned to Jon's house and continued skating in the street before settling down in his living room, where we complained about all the injustice in the world.

Once I found the email I was looking for, I finished getting ready and headed out to Firestone Library for my first class of the day. Spanish class, my microeconomics lecture and my history lecture all went by in a blur. I found that I was having trouble focusing on anything other than the to-do list that was growing in my brain. At the top of my list that day was to write my first paper for the journalism course I was taking. I had been trying to write the paper for days, but had yet to write more than the first paragraph. The assignment: to write on a day in your life or the life of someone you know. It was my first stab at creative writing, and I had little faith in my ability to tell an interesting story, especially when my day-today activities consisted of going to class, doing homework and being otherwise self-absorbed.

As I tried to zone out at the gym, my mind wandered back to my dream that morning. I attempted to extract some meaning from it. The part of the dream that irked me the most was my strange uniform. While other details became blurry throughout the day, I still held on to the recollection that I had been wearing a brightly colored prep school blazer while everyone else on my team wore ill-fitting knit sweaters. I don't even own a blazer.

The mirrors at the front of the room reflected other students who were zoned into their individual workouts; almost everyone wore headphones, most had magazines, and I even saw a few textbooks. My focus settled on my ex-boyfriend, who I noticed on the far side of the gym, where he was somewhat lazily pedaling a stationary bike. I let my mind wander to the night before, when he had surprised me by claiming that I had changed since we had seen each other in May. He was upset that I had left all of my tie-dyed clothing at home and accused me of trying too hard to fit in. He said I looked silly in pearls.

After a brief run, I showered and went back to my room, where I tried once more to work out the kinks on the journalism paper, which was now due in less than 24 hours.

"What are some of my personality traits?" I asked Tani, desperate for help in giving my paper some structure.

"You're shy," she replied.

That was not exactly a lot for me to work from, so I kept brainstorming. After hopelessly staring at my computer for about an hour, I stood up to get dressed and head to late meal.

I went down to the bottom floor of Frist and sat next to Liz, who was eating a stromboli.

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"Hi, doll," Liz said through a mouthful of cheese and meat. "Do you need help with the econ homework?"

"No," I replied. "But I do need help with a paper I'm writing. How would you describe my personality?"

"You're shy?" She phrased her answer as a question, as though waiting for my approval.

I didn't respond, just nodded and thought silently, "Thanks, Liz. Tell me something I don't know."

By the time I got back I had completely lost my focus and concentration, and I was still desperately trying to pound out my paper. It was now 2:43 a.m. I had loud music playing from my headphones, as I simultaneously tried to keep myself awake and find some sort of inspiration. Finally, I closed my eyes and shook my head. And I started from the beginning ...

"Saaarah! Turn it off!"