It’s 5 p.m. on a Monday. It’s 33 degrees, you just got out of three back-to-back classes, and somehow it’s already dark out. You envision your destination, the promised land. It’s Cockroach City and black mold mecca: South Campus.
You launch a text in your suite’s group chat to call the first shower. Let ‘em know who’s boss. You finally reach Crusty Craige, or perhaps Hinton James, and you jab a numb finger into the elevator button. One elevator isn’t working, and the other drops you to the basement before it goes up, so the extra long wait only builds the pent-up excitement for a scorching hot shower.
You get to your suite, fumbling with your keys, forgetting again which one unlocks the outside door and which unlocks your room. You swing the door open, strut down the hallway to the bathroom and crank that glorious shower on.
After one of the coldest days of the month, you step in and imagine the blistering water that’s about to hit your skin. Just as your head ducks under the showerhead, a stream of water straight from Antarctica smacks you across the face. Then you remember, you haven’t had hot water in months.
You have been transformed into a UNC athlete. Custom Tar Heel Nikes? No. Big blue winter trench coat? Also no. But an ice bath shower? Oh, yes. You’re practically a student athlete now with none of the benefits!
Instead of cursing Carolina Housing — an angel that can do no wrong — you curse your upstairs neighbors and the rest of the building. After all, they’re the ones who used up all of your hot water.
Someone above you is showering in the Arctic tundra, too. They cope by singing “Dancing on My Own” by Calum Scott, which you can hear through the leaky, rusted pipes that dangle above your poor wet head. The slightly pitchy rendition brings both of you together. The intimacy makes the icy shower just a tad bit warmer.
You take the shower handle and try to shove it further towards the “hot” symbol, and then you accidentally rip it off. You stare at it in your hand as glacial water slides down your back. Your left elbow accidentally touches the side of the shower. You scream and glance around the almost pitch-black stall, unable to see the mold that you know is hiding there.
As you attempt to shave shivering goose bumped legs, the smell of sulfur emerges from the drain. Anyone in a South Campus residence hall knows this is your sign to get out of the anti-sauna soon.
