Reader, I succumbed.
I am not only weak-willed, but a hypocrite. You might recall my first column at the beginning of Michaelmas, where I declared (and here I must quote myself for accountability) my ‘vow to never go clubbing in Oxford’. Since my first and frankly suboptimal clubbing experience, I decided that was it, and have self-righteously tittered when my friends recounted their clubbing shenanigans.
You can only imagine how sheepish I felt, then, waking up a few Saturdays ago with the phrase ‘F*** me it’s Friday’ on my left wrist, looking at me. I was veritably embossed. Members of the cognoscenti will know that this stamp – which lingered for days despite aggressive scrubbing – signifies entry to a particularly low-ceilinged establishment which is known to be quite fun if you’re comfortable feeling a bit like a sardine and looking happy about it. Indeed, this establishment has a reputation for getting so hot that condensation collects and drips back on you. I can confirm this.
When I met my flatmate (who had not sardined) in our corridor at 2am, wearing a cowboy hat I had somehow acquired, she laughed at me and went back to bed. I must quickly add that this hat was actually pretty useful when navigating the club ceilings which, as I have mentioned, were aggressively low. When I bumped my head, it functioned as a sort of sartorial helmet. It also collected the drips – I may bring it out with me again. Despite my headwear, my flatmate gave me no time to explain my decision making. So, in the spirit of quality journalism, I am turning to this column. Perhaps my ‘second draft’ reflection for this week might have to be that sometimes you must go with the flow. Maybe it’s good for the psyche to tear up a dance floor once in a while.
In all seriousness, this long and slightly sweaty introduction brings me nicely to the topic of resolutions, which I would quite like to talk about. Why not bring this up at New Year, you may ask? I am not merely disorganised. February, to my mind, is the perfect time because it is at this point in the calendar that people are giving up on their vows.
I quite strongly dislike the idea of resolutions, perhaps because I feel that I peaked when I was seventeen and I’ll likely never reach that level again, no matter how many promises I make. I recently found my A-level notes and was astounded by the level of organisation, planning, and general dedication. My revision sessions lasted for hours, though I didn’t even drink coffee, and I wrote every extension essay I could get my hands on, no matter how niche. ‘Is the ‘Teletubbies’ a dystopia?’ anyone?
The main reason I dislike resolutions, though, is that oftentimes it’s just people wanting to do more of the same thing: read more books, eat more vegetables, earn more money, hug more trees, be more vegan, run more marathons, post more pictures of those marathons on social media. You get the gist.
I’d much rather people get creative, partly because it’s more fun, but also because I recently came across some interesting research to do with time. Essentially, the reason we feel that life goes by more rapidly as we age isn’t to do with the years correspondingly taking up less of our life (or it might be that too, I can’t remember). It’s to do with the fact that we often fall into a rhythm where our days are repetitive, we don’t try new things, and it all sort of merges into one big blur and suddenly we’re 72 and our knees hurt. They might have phrased it in a slightly more scientific way.
I would cite the article for you, but quite frankly I can’t find it anymore, and if we’re both being honest, this isn’t the sort of column that goes through a rigorous fact-checking process. To get to the point, the remedy they suggested was to try as many new things as possible. The theory is that by injecting newness into your life, you disrupt the humdrum rhythm that goes by without you noticing, and suddenly, things might slow down a bit.
This, in fact, I have been personally implementing, whether consciously or not. I’m fortunate that life in Oxford is particularly spontaneous and varied. You can go from having no plans to suddenly finding yourself drinking port next to a framed letter from C. S. Lewis. Or being dripped on in a cowboy hat. I recently found myself at my first ceilidh for a Burns Night event. This time a fortnight ago, I couldn’t spell it, pronounce it, let alone dance it. I can now do all three, albeit ineptly. Silly old me thought it might be a gentle affair. How wrong I was. My shin splints came back with a vengeance, and I was particularly glad I’d chosen a dress that I have an element of trust in. A wonderful affair, though I remain scared of haggis.
In a change of pace – and this feels like an intimate confession – I have also taken up knitting. For Christmas, I was gifted an absolutely huge pair of needles, an abundance of wool, and a book with a title like ‘Knitting for Plebs’ (I told you I don’t fact-check). I thought to myself, smile politely and give it a go to look willing, but I confess, I’m a bit hooked. No pun intended. Enthusiasm, however, does not equal ability – I’m still painstakingly grafting on my first piece. If my flatmates hear my screaming expletives late at night, it’s not what they think. I have probably just dropped a stitch.
I’m hoping to have finished the piece by the end of my degree. The only issue is that the piece is a woolly scarf, and my degree finishes in June. But I’m not sure there’s anything to be done to speed up progress; there’s too much happening, and sometimes I wonder how I’m going to find time for the degree I actually came here to get. I find myself at piano bars, round table discussions, writing workshops, research seminars, and (unfortunately) low-ceilinged establishments.
Most excitingly, I heard Zadie Smith talk at the Sheldonian the other evening. She’s kind of my hero, though I do blame her for one of the worst instances of sunburn of my life, when I was reading On Beauty in August and got so immersed that I didn’t notice my legs turning a particularly angry shade of rouge. I was also intrigued to recently learn that she was called Sadie until she changed her name aged fourteen. Cool move, I say. I’m fairly interested in names. I learnt the phrase nominative determinism when I was a teenager and went through an irritating phase of pretentiously dragging it into as many conversations as I possibly could. Nevertheless, it’s interesting how much of a difference adding or substituting one letter can make to a name. But on that note, dear reader, I must go. I have a horrible habit of writing this column when I’ve actually visited the library to work on my degree. I’ve also hit my word limit.
Until the next instalment, Zeleanor.