Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’ hypothesis about the five stages of grief has been taught in psychology classes around the world since its introduction in 1969. DABDA – the acronym for said grief – asserts that when a person is faced with death or another extreme fate, they will encounter all five stages.
The housing selection process at Elon University can be added to that list. In my two short years at Elon, I have been through a whirlpool of emotions during housing registration that only Kubler-Ross could identify.
Denial sets in a week before registration begins. I haven’t even fully solved the mysteries that are my current roommates and suddenly Elon is putting pressure on me to decide if I want to live with them for another year.
Doesn’t Elon understand that I am a fragile egg waiting to be broken apart by OnTrack freezing or slots at The Station at Mill Point filling up because I couldn’t type in my roommates’ Datatel numbers fast enough?
Unsurprisingly, I have to go through the housing process twice. My roommates and I were waitlisted at The Station, which means the whole process starts anew this week.
Anger strikes immediately after the waitlist confirmation email arrives in my inbox. Channeling Britney Spears, a rampage ensues in which all I want to do is attack the housing process with my freshly shaved bald head and an umbrella.
I realize I can’t do this for a multitude of reasons: I love my hair too much, I don’t have an umbrella and the housing process is not a tangible object. My anger subsides and in its place, schemes begin to form.
Just because my roommates and I did not get Mill Point doesn’t mean we are stuck with on-campus housing. Maybe now, with their first choice taken, I can finally convince them to see the light. I can convince them to move off campus.
Thoughts of how I can present my case rush through my brain. Different PowerPoint, Photoshop and Final Cut Pro projects are all considered as possibilities and deemed unworthy of such an important presentation.
Maybe I can make a deal to clean wherever we live next year for the first six months? Maybe I can have last choice of bedrooms?
Nope. No presentations will be made, no deals will be struck. Looking at my calendar makes me realize I am simply too busy and too lazy in my free time to convince three stubborn guys to agree on an off-campus apartment.
Mirroring Charlie Brown and George-Michael Bluth, my shoulders slump, my pace slows and my feet drag on the ground, saddened by Mill Point’s exclusivity. Regrets I have had since childhood resurface due to my lack of established residency.
This Debbie Downer attitude continues until I arrive back in my apartment at The Oaks and take a very deep breath.
Sitting at my desk in Oaks D, with its working air conditioning and heat, washing machine, dishwasher and plethora of other appliances my roommates and I have brought, I realize it’s not half bad.
It certainly beats my mold-infested freshman year dorm and a lot of residences my friends are living in at other schools. I can definitely live here for another year, even two more years.
But only if there are four bedrooms.