THE DOBBY COMPLEX

After nearly a year and a half of being a college student, I've observed something that I feel needs to be discussed. (And just to prepare you, I'm going to coin a new term to describe it—right now. I know, I'm freaking out about it, too.)
                                                                                                                              

 I call it "The Dobby Complex."            

                                                                                

For those of you uncultured individuals who are not aware of my friend Dobby, go pick up a Harry Potter book and educate yourselves. I implore you. But in the meantime I suppose I'll explain: Dobby is a house-elf (think slave) for the tyrannical Malfoy family, who constantly mistreat him and cause him to doubt everything that he does. He always believes he makes mistakes, and when this happens, he punishes himself—usually in a very painful and ridiculous manner.

I have come to compare this lovable though mentally deranged character to a certain type of behavior I witness around me on an almost daily basis in college: the unhealthy obsession with perfection. You know those kids in your high school who excelled at everything? The perfect 4.0, scholarship-grabbing, overly-involved, gleaming embodiments of "success?" Those are my classmates. Because I attend a highly competitive university, I take classes with, befriend, and live among these kinds of people—because they're basically the only ones who get accepted. But we can't all continue to be "the best" in such an environment, which means that the risk of failure is always lurking behind every decision, every test, and every opportunity in front of us. And when failure inevitably occurs, a lot of these people don't know how to deal with it. They get a C on their economics test and then they're like "DOBBY MUST IRON HIS HANDS" as they rend their dirty pillowcase togas and run away in shame.

Now, this intense self-deprecation I'm surrounded by typically doesn't occur in a physical sense, like with Dobby. For the most part, these battles are fought within the confines of our minds, are felt in the pits of our stomachs—that nagging, sinking feeling of failure that tells you that you're not good enough. That your worth is purely dependent upon getting an A, cultivating a blossoming social life, or having the perfect body. When you're used to succeeding and everyone around you appears to be, it's almost too easy to be hard on yourself when you mess up. It's almost too easy to get upset and nitpick any and every aspect of yourself. And the more you think this way, the more you come to believe that there is something inherently wrong with you that is preventing you from being the epitome of perfection.

It's not a fun way to live.

I've always been a perfectionist in just about every aspect of my life. Those who know me well can attest to this. Throughout the years, no matter how great life seemed to be, I always found something to be pessimistic and upset about. I would be so hard on myself when there really was so much to celebrate.....and I still feel this way sometimes. I get down on myself when I get a B on a paper (I know, I'm insane), when I sleep in on the weekends (because I always feel like I'm wasting precious time), and when I procrastinate AGAIN and end up staying awake until 2 in the morning to finish an assignment that could have easily been taken care of hours earlier. I always feel that I need to be a better person, and I always turn into Dobby in these moments.

But you know what? You can't be perfect. NONE of us can be or ever will be during our lives. Yes, we can improve, and we SHOULD try to improve, but before we attempt to we need to accept the fact that we won't reach perfection. We can get close, maybe, but we simply can't. And once we remember that, and truly believe that, then we can attempt to progress and better ourselves in a healthy way instead of living under constant stress and the fear of failure. 

And honestly, I've gotten better at dealing with this while I've been here. I've succeeded and failed and learned from all of it. And ironically, failing has helped me become a better person. I've come to realize that we really shouldn't be so scared of failure.

It's all about the way you choose to deal with it.

So let's try to keep Dobby more a part of fiction and less a part of our realities. 

...I think we'll all be a lot happier that way.

THE HERMIT CRAB STORY, OR "HOW I KILLED MY PETS"

Usually within the first little while after making a new acquaintance, something almost identical to this dialogue occurs:

"Hey Camryn! Come look at this cat on the internet!! Isn't it just the cutest thing ever?!?" 

"...ehh...I'm not really the biggest fan of cats."

"WHAT? What about this one?? It's in a box! Look at him being all cute in a box!"

"...I'm looking..."

"So are you like a dog person then or something?"

"More so than cats...but not really."

And it is at this point that they stare at me in utter disbelief and begin to question my humanity. But you know what? I'm just not much of a pet person. I mean, I don't mind playing with other people's lovable furballs or renting a puppy every now and again (which, yes, is actually a thing), but as far as owning one myself and having it embed its presence all over the furniture and carpet and AIR THAT I BREATHE INTO MY BODY, no thanks. 

I obviously inherited this opinion from my parents, but this didn't stop us from having other varieties of pets throughout the years. In elementary school I got my first pet: a beta fish I affectionately named "Frito." He enjoyed the interior of a fishbowl in my room for two years (despite having to live with such an atrocious name), and when he took his final journey down the porcelain express, I moved on to something more exotic. Something far more exciting:

Hermit crabs.

Yes, those glorious little crustaceans that took the mall kiosk scene by storm a few years ago. It began at my tenth birthday party, when I received two little crabs as a gift from one of my friends: one with a bright orange painted shell, and the other striped with the colors of the rainbow. It didn't take me long to name them: the orange one was clearly much faster and active than his friend, and I affectionately named him "Speedo." Which left me with the other, whose obvious lack of distinctive personality traits left my ten-year-old mind to associate the colors of his shell with Froot Loops and wind up naming him "Frooty."

.........

Anyways. I doted on those things constantly. I made sure their water sponge was always dripping, I rearranged the objects in their cage often to achieve hermit crab feng shui, and experimented by feeding them different kinds of cereal, keeping track of their favorites and adjusting accordingly. I also bought, or rather, begged my parents to buy new shells so that my crabs could move into them if they so desired. I always hoped that I'd wake up one morning to either Speedo or Frooty living in a different shell--it would have been the most exciting thing in the world. But unfortunately, it only happened once--Speedo opted for a more natural-looking, mottled brown shell, and I approved wholeheartedly.

A month or so later, not wanting to miss out on this lovely fad, my little brother persuaded my parents to get him a pair of hermit crabs. We came home with a gross one that had grayish, sickly-looking skin and a bright red and orange swirled shell (which he named "Peaches"), and an ALBINO crab in a long, pointy, metallic blue shell (subsequently named "Flash"). They were put into the cage with Speedo and Frooty and became one happy, diverse family. It was quite beautiful, really.

The next spring, as our family prepared to depart on a week's vacation, I put their bowl in our living room upstairs to hopefully provide some more warmth for them while we were away. I supplied them with extra food, put plenty of water in their sponge, and expected everything to be fine. ONLY IT WASN'T.

A week later, the first thing I did when we got into the house was run upstairs to check on my little beauties. But as I approached the stairs, I was met by a horrific sight: Flash was laying lifeless on the tiled floor at the bottom of the stairs, without his shell. I was startled by what appeared to be a bona fide murder scene, running back to my parents and hiding in the kitchen in terror.

Upon further inspection, my parents discovered Flash's shell higher up on the stairs, and that the stick I had in their open-air bowl had been pushed up, forming a bridge right up to the edge allowing their escape.

They also discovered that Peaches was missing.

And we couldn't find him. *full body shiver*

After this traumatic experience, I started being wary of Speedo and Frooty. Things just weren't the same. And the day that Frooty came out of his shell while I was bathing them, I knew it was over.

Have you ever seen what the tail-end of a hermit crab looks like? If not, CONSIDER YOURSELF LUCKY. It's DISGUSTING. It's gooey and slimy and squishy and it looks like a creepy, pulsing organ. I'd include a link to a picture of one, but it's just too revolting and I wouldn't want to do that to you. I'm getting goosebumps even as I write this very sentence. (...That might be because my window is open, but let's just forget that).

Yes, the day Frooty exposed himself and succeeded in scaring me out of my eleven-year-old mind was the day I decided I was done. I was just done. So I stopped feeding them, and eventually they died.

Yes, I am a horrible person. But wait, the story gets better. 

About a month later, my little brother dropped a piece of gum behind his dresser and stuck his hand down behind it to grab it. Only he grabbed something else instead: THE DEAD BODY OF PEACHES. It had somehow managed to crawl out of the bowl upstairs, successfully travel down the stairs, through the hallway, around the corner, and into my brother's room--choosing a cozy spot behind the dresser to take his final, tiny crab breath. But I've got to say, the fact that he got so far is still pretty impressive...I'm sorry I ever thought you were ugly, Peaches. 

So there. That is why I'm not a pet person. I'm sorry. And when I say "I'm sorry," what I'm really saying is "I don't care."

I do what I want. 

But here is a picture of a hermit crab I drew in an attempt to make up for my inhumanity:

LAUNDRY

With my complex's laundry room being located down a flight of stairs and a brief walk south of my apartment, and with my roommates producing a cacophony of Saturday sounds this morning, I decided that today I would bring a book with me to pass the time while my clothes did their time in the machines. It didn't seem like a "frequent trip" sort of day.

One corner of the laundry room is basically a tiny Goodwill. When tenants have old clothes, books, (anything, really), they are welcome to add to the pile in the corner where people can take it for free. I had never actually seen anyone going through any of  it before. Until today. 

I was sitting on the couch, reading my book alone with only the sounds of swishing washing machines accompanying me when a mother and daughter walked in. They were wearing worn and ill-fitting clothes, the kind that signal a type of distress we all see but rarely acknowledge. 

I tried not to watch as they started scouring the pile, the mother on her knees and the daughter standing there nodding her consent to the various clothing items her mom held up to her. I didn't want them to feel more humiliated than they probably already did.

And here I was with two loads of laundry going, having complained only ten minutes earlier that I had to do two loads instead of one because I had so many clothes to wash today. And a bursting closet of clothes back in my apartment that I flip through every single morning in a desperate search for "something to wear." 

If this wasn't a humbling experience, I honestly don't know what is.

Because I'm so cheap, I'm pretty sure that over half of my wardrobe was purchased at a thrift store. I have found the most amazing vintage dresses, oversized-suit jackets, and name-brand collared shirts and brought them home for pennies each, rejoicing in how much money I've saved in the process. But...I still have enough money to occasionally purchase more expensive clothing items. And still I'm never satisfied— always looking for something new, always making mental lists of "what I lack" in my closet.

I've never thought about the people who shop at thrift stores because they have to. I've never thought about the people who can't afford even that and must go to free donation spots at college student apartment complexes to find clothing. I've never thought about how degrading that must feel. I've been so blessed, and yet I've been so selfish.

I've had a grocery bag under my bed full of clothes and old shoes I've been collecting with the intention to donate since last May. Last May. And for some reason I still haven't donated it. But after today, it's time. I'm bundling it up, and I'm dropping it off.

Someone needs it far more than I do.

LIVING AMONG ROBOTS: LIFE IN THE 21ST CENTURY

Mere decades ago, people looked ahead to our day and age and predicted fantastical, scientific breakthroughs—holograms, teleportations, and hovercars streaking through the air faster than the speed of light. They suspected that we would be an advanced society, living alongside intelligent, near-human computers—robots, even— in a world vastly different from their own. Today, of course, we laugh at such ideas. Sure, our technology is certainly advanced, and continues to do so, but time travel? Visiting other galaxies? Inconceivable.

But the thing is...I live in a world of robots.

Don't understand what I'm saying? Consider, for a moment, the typical college student of today: the young person constantly, mindlessly sucked into the virtual reality of advanced technology—the smart phone. I can't go anywhere without seeing one of my peers using one.

I can't go anywhere without feeling like I am surrounded by robots.

What happened to the quiet, in-between moments of everyday life being spent in contemplation, study, or meaningful, in-person conversation? Really. Because now, in lieu of such pastimes, it appears to me as though every spare minute of the day, and, increasingly, even the minutes when we should be focusing our attention elsewhere, must be spent on a phone. Because apparently, retreating to a quiet place to ponder about your life, observing and being aware of the world and people around you, or simply paying attention to your friends, (your 'real life,' tangible, in-person friends), is not as important as scrolling through a social media app or getting to the next level of Candy Crush.

I must admit that I recently found myself wanting a smart phone. I was hoping I'd get one for Christmas, actually. But since then my feelings have changed, and this occurred mostly because I've analyzed why I wanted one:

Was it to simplify my life? No.

For documenting every single meal I ate? No.

To have everything in one place and therefore limit the amount of devices I use? No.

I wanted a smart phone because I felt disconnected from a lot of my friends.

I didn't have a snapchat, I couldn't be a part of the legendary "group message," I felt as though I was missing some sort of elusive ingredient that I believed would magically improve my relationships with people. I would be more "connected" with them and not feel like such an outcast because my phone has a sliding keyboard and just so happens to be more than six months old. *gasp*

What I have come to realize is that if that's what "being connected" is—sitting with a group of friends, each glued to his or her smart phone and being mentally and emotionally elsewhere instead of enjoying each other's company— then I'd rather be "disconnected" any day. ANY day. And I'm certainly not bitter at all—on the contrary, I feel more content and emboldened than ever after coming to this realization.

Because real life? Observing the great big world around us? Actually talking to people face-to-face instead of constantly taking selfies to shoddily replicate that interaction? All of that is so much better, so much more fulfilling than whatever is found on a three and a half inch screen.

But then of course, I wouldn't know— I'm not a robot.