Waxing Nostalgic

There was once a time where my laptop, my iPod, and my cellphone stopped working at the same time. The computer went because it was old. The iPod and the phone, because they were both in my purse when I spilled a full cup of water all over it. I was recently graduated, living with two girls who were still in school, working full time at a job that paid just a little more than minimum wage, and there was no way I could afford to replace all three of my broken gadgets. I got a new phone (it was important to my work that I have one), but a laptop and an mp3 player became items I was just going to have to live without for the time being. And it was okay. For several months, I walked to the library to use the computer or checked my email at work. I listened to the radio. And it wasn't so bad.

Reflecting back on that period in my life, I am overcome with a surge of nostalgia, a longing to be reunited with the simple joys of impoverished independence. It was in that impossibly tiny kitchen in the apartment in downtown Glendora that I became truly awakened to the happiness that was shopping for and preparing my own food. At a time when seeing a movie--even a matinée--was an extravagant splurge, I focused my efforts on hosting dinners or humble cheese-and-wine parties for two or three guests. Though being a college graduate in the midst of those who were still in the throes of their studies left me often feeling a bit estranged and out-of-place, I was nevertheless almost incessantly surrounded by friends.

There was one evening where my roommates and I, along with a couple of mutual friends who were over at our place, got it into our heads that it would be hilarious to dare one another to drive to our nearby friends' house and ask to borrow a roll of toilet paper. So, the five of us squeezed into somebody's car and set off on our mission. I brought a camcorder. They lived only about a four-minute drive away, and I spent the time interviewing my roommates, Lindsay and Sade, on what were were doing. But when we arrived at our friends' place, all the windows were dark and their cars were gone. We rang the doorbell. No answer. We tried the front door. It was unlocked.

Operation "look silly by asking to borrow a roll of toilet paper" rapidly developed into Operation "locate and commandeer all the toilet and tissue paper in the building." We showed no mercy. Quickly and deftly, the two bathrooms were raided. On the coffee table, we left a note: "Hope you don't have to take a dump."

It is so important to have friends in one's life, to keep company, to offer encouragement and support, and to give guidance when it is needed. But friends, in the enthusiasm that builds from being in one another's company, can also get you to do stuff that, on your own or in the presence of strangers, you would probably have the sense to identify as really, really stupid. For instance, breaking into your friends' house while they're away and stealing all their t.p. These days, it's hard for me to imagine myself participating in such a mean, pointless prank as that. But the camaraderie and the carefree spirit it espoused, I sorely miss.