Boondocks and boondogs
Actually, I have no idea what I’m doing.
[Editor’s note: “I don’t know what I’m doing” is a recurring personal column that pays homage to Johnny Auping’s “I have no idea what I’m doing” personal column in The New Yorker. Opinions expressed here belong only to the author, and, we hope, nobody else on the planet.–Josh Towner, opinions editor]
By Jasmine Johnson | Journalist
I know that I come across as someone who has every moment of her life scheduled in G-cal, but even as I write this sentence, I can’t decide whether to finish my environmental writing field report, grab a peanut butter waffle from the dining center or curl up on my living room couch and chow down on an entire gallon of cookies and cream ice cream.
I don’t know how to properly stack the noisy, magnetic square thingys onto each other in the 3900 Grill. I’m still on meal plan B, so I would rather enjoy my wheat pasta and basil pesto in peace than suffer through the embarrassment of knocking over the wobbly tower of sensors.
I don’t know how to do my FAFSA, fill out a W-9 or write a check. My mom is an accountant, so I call her up whenever I have financial questions. There’s something about being a dependent that always trips me up.
I’ve forgotten how to do my P.O. box code more times than I can count. Is it left, right, left? Right, right, right? Either way, 42 and 39 are too close together, so it takes me at least three tries on a good day.
I also forget how numbers work in general. My heart skips a beat when I see a 73 percent off clearance tag on a cozy flannel, but I sigh when I realize I have to do the math to figure out if my bi-weekly direct deposit from TA hours will cover the chunk of change it will take to add the shirt to my collection.
I don’t know many actors or actresses beyond Will Smith and Jennifer Aniston. I smile and nod when people obsess over the Bachelor and Stranger Things, but in reality, I’ve never seen a lick of either show. I don’t know how people can enjoy horror movies. I jump at loud noises in the Greatest Showman.
I don’t know what half the makeup terms mean. What’s the difference between bronzer and highlighter anyway? Every time my mom brought out the lipstick tube for annual dance recitals, I would ruin the whole ensemble with an outburst of tears.
I don’t know how to spell restaurant. Is it resterraunt? Restrant? Resteurante? Who knows. I just learned in a Clarion meeting this semester that I’ve been saying boondogs instead of boondocks my entire life. I don’t know how to type when someone is watching over my shoulder. My fingers seem to lose their connection to my brain, even when conducting a simple Google search for cheap rester-aunts I can eat waffle fries at after buying flannel number 15.
So, as you can see, I’m a bit of a mess. Nevertheless, I’ve always believed that the Bethel community values authenticity above all else. That’s why I’m announcing my candidacy for the university’s next president. Together, we will go on this journey of learning what the budget cuts really mean.
