It’s a not-so-breezy, fairly humid Tuesday night. Correction: it’s a pre-premature Wednesday morning and you’re comfortably lying in the fetal position in a booth at Gilroy’s. You could’ve sworn your hair was perfectly straight just a few hours ago, and you’re pissed that you paid $40 for an angry Asian man to paint your nails because there’s nothing left of that once-perfect manicure. Your phone keeps yelling at you, begging for you to change your settings to Low Power Mode -- but even more alarming is that your Snapchat won’t refresh. It doesn’t take long to figure out why, as you have an angry text waiting for you from your dad, neatly divided into paragraphs, including a thesis statement. Yep, you did it again. You’re the sole reason that your entire family’s data package ran out two weeks early this month.
This is when you realize you need to follow your roommate’s advice and “get it together.” You have laundry awaiting, two articles to write, and a run to go on. Your goldfish, Fred, hasn't been fed in a couple of days, and the light in your bathroom stopped working last Wednesday. You can barely see your reflection in the dirty windows, and as much as you feel rejuvenated and inspired to turn your life around, we need to be real here: you are stretching out your legs at Gilroy's at two in the morning on a weeknight.
I know you have suddenly realized that your GPA is racing down faster than you can say “yes” to fries with your mac 'n' cheese bites, and I know you’re thinking of ways to impress your professor who is hotter than your first bite into a cheese stick, but for tonight, let’s just say “yes” to those fries and an extra side of ranch.
Three mac 'n' cheese bites in, you’re starting to feel a little nauseous and the roof of your mouth is something that no longer exists -- time for fresh air. You try to establish a sense of balance, but the shoes you’re wearing aren’t yours. You forgot how to walk on them, you take them off, and you stumble outside to enjoy that wonderful Charleston breeze laden with tobacco remnants and evaporated sweat from bicycle taxi drivers.
You make a new friend or two. A guy named George is trying to play a James Blunt song on his ukulele that is miserably out of tune and missing half a string. You tried to give him a quarter, but he demanded a cigarette instead -- perhaps it’s time to go back inside.
You slide into your booth, grab a napkin, and start designing your own tattoo based on the sleeves of the Gilroy’s employees. While completely caught up and fascinated by your own artistic abilities, someone decides to sit next to you. Justin Bieber’s serenade in your head is rudely interrupted by a man’s voice. “You look like a hippie chick,” he attempts to seductively state. “Thanks,” you respond without looking up from your artwork. He continues to hand you several yoga books and claims to be a “traveling monk,” but as you see hair poking out under his Ralph Lauren Polo hat, you wonder how stupid he must think you are.
He wants a donation, and you politely put your napkin in your to-go box, wave goodbye to George and his ukulele, and contemplate whether or not to test the myth of the “manager’s special” before calling it a night, but the fear of rejection is too real, and so is the deadline on your 8-page research essay tomorrow.
Somehow you ended up at Gilroy’s tonight. Your hands are greasy, your hair is messy, and your lips are dry. Forget about logging this meal on MyFitnessPal, and forget about the $12 you should’ve spent on Christmas gifts. It’s time to re-read your dad’s concerning text, contemplate the looming end of the semester, call your Uber, feed the fish, and turn off your light.
