Clio’s Histories: Pollen and Such

Alice Knowlton, Editor-in-Cheif

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is what I’d be saying if I were stressed right now. But I’m not stressed. Nope. Not in the least. Sure, I’ve got SATs and APs and final projects and exams and extracurricular responsibilities and my ABBA-themed phone case business is really taking off, but it’s not like I’m busy or anything here at the end of junior year. Not at all. I’m sitting here with my caffeinated tea as the world burns around me and I’m doing just fine. To all the freshmen and beginners out there, what I’m doing here is called “lying to myself and all three of my readers” and I highly recommend it.

You don’t even want to know how stressed I really am.

Neither do I.

Let’s talk pollen. It’s springtime, the frogs are singing, the poor saps with allergies are sneezing, the rest are enjoying the sunshine unbothered by angiosperm reproduction. I’m allergic to pollen and sunlight so I’m sulking indoors wishing they’d keep the AC just a few degrees warmer than my soul until it’s at least June. We all deal with this bizarre, sometimes scorching hot, sometimes freezing cold time that passes for spring in different ways. The changing of the seasons matters not one whit to those jerks who wear shorts all year round. Yeah, I’m talking to you. Buy some pants. Meanwhile, those of us who are more civilized feel the changing of the temperatures and are deeply conflicted. Our nerve endings say summer but our planners say death. It’s a lot easier to cope with a heavy workload in the cold months when you can be sure that jumping into the lake and swimming for broke would lead to hypothermia and is not a viable avoidance strategy. Once the weather apps start hitting 70 it gets harder to rule that out.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, pollen. I’ve got to know, whose idea was it to put all those lovely flowering trees around campus? Sure, they look nice but those things produce allergens like action movie screenwriters produce hackneyed one-liners. One morning I was walking to Bio mentally constructing a punnett square to figure out if me and Hugh Jackman’s kids would be wolverines or not, minding my own business, and I happened to walk by the main office. The trees were lovely. By the time I got to Bio, my nose was running like Usain Bolt and I had ZERO tissues so I had to blow my nose on my cellular respiration notes and pretend everything was fine. Everything was not fine. This season would be lovely if the plants would get a room and quit ruining everything for everybody else. There’s no point in it being all warm and green outside if every breath of fresh air I take calculates to 3 tissues worth of snot and 5 credit points towards the next time I lose my voice and go around sounding like a chain smoking middle aged man for 3 days. That’s how I feel about spring. I know you didn’t ask but if I waited to talk about something until I was asked all I’d ever talk about is my obscure, mildly surreal t-shirt designs and the odd smell emanating from my locker.

This is a weird time of year, guys.

Good luck.

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