Those fascinating little creatures called CA's

If I were a producer of nature documentaries, the first place I'd go would be to a university. Not to watch creatures like sorority girls, frat boys, the theater crowd, engineers or any other group whose familiar is famous and predictable. Because, let's face it, you can pretty much predict and explain anything that comes out of their mouths.

But CA's? No. With CA's, the most you can do is predict, but never explain. Of course some of you readers (I don't think anyone is actually reading, since this blog has had such a long hiatus) who don't go to my university might be wondering to yourselves, "What's CA?" and "Is it contagious?" A CA, for those of you unfamiliar with this term used by my particular glorious Midwestern outpost of education, is the same thing as an RA. Basically the student who gets free room and board in exchange for letting you back into your room when your roommate has locked you out in nothing but a towel and for being a narc. At this school we use the C instead of R to stand for community, because CA's are supposed to be helping to create community. Frankly, I think that's a bit ambitious. I don't even know the names of the four girls I share a bathroom with, the girls germaphobes like me worry about catching herpes from from shared toilet seats, so the idea of this building being some sort of larger "community" that the CA is facilitating seems like an impossible dream. And yes, I meant to make a reference to "The Man of La Mancha."

In fact, let's take a break and watch Peter O'Toole sing a metaphor for community in a building of exclusively single rooms with no common areas:



In order to facilitate community building, CA's like to walk through the hallways late at night, usually when you've finally managed to drift off to sleep, and then loudly knock on your door to have their university-mandated face-to-face time with you. And so you're faced to either wait our their waiting (and, trust me, CA's seem to be experts at waiting for you at your door....through the crack at the bottom of the door you can see their feet sturdily planted and ready to wait out the apocalypse) or to come out, bleary-eyed with hair in a mess, and obviously and embarrassingly bra-less to have a never-ending conversation with someone whose existence is so wholly unimportant to you.

The first time my CA tried to have a late night chat, she made me temporarily forget my state of akimba (bra-lessness, for those of you who have forgotten Aw Eff terminology) by giving me a Jimmy John's sandwich. The next few times she tried to knock on my door late at night, I eagerly forgot my akimbahood and ran to answer the door, boobs swaying to and fro, because I thought maybe she'd be bringing more sandwiches or maybe something sweet, and a fat heart like mine is easily won over by such trickery. Because that's what it is: trickery. Treachery. DECEIT. She never brought me another sandwich. Instead she brought me epic conversations in which we both awkwardly stood in the hall and desperately looked for clues as to what the other person was interested in. I have to wonder if CA's actually enjoy these awkward conversations, as though the CA's themselves are not the epitome of awkwardness as most other students want to believe, but instead they're social geniuses who simply choose to adopt an awkward persona in order to enjoy watching other students sink even deeper into an awkward abyss.

But I've gotten wise. I know that my CA no longer comes bearing sandwiches. Now when I hear the CA approaching in the hall (marked by the sound of someone knocking on a door down the hall, followed by the deepest silence the hall has ever known, followed by the sense that the CA in wait is growing roots in front of a door down the hall), I turn off everything that makes noise in my room--fan, computer, etc.--and sit in dark silence. Sometimes when I'm feeling particularly dramatic I like to pretend that I'm Anne Frank, and I'm listening to the Nazis make their way down the hall, knocking on each door along the way to mine, and if I even breathe too loudly I'll get carted off to a concentration camp of uncomfortable conversation. Shit that's offensive.

Anyway, what spurred this whole reflection on CA's is that this morning I went to take a shower, and my CA bumped into me on my way. And she, trying to make conversation, asked, "Hey, you going out?"
Look, I know I'm not really the greatest dresser. I know that I have two pairs of pants in rotation and that all of my shirts are basically the same exact model in a few different colors. But it's a little insulting to step out into the hall in a neon pink bathrobe, bright red crocs, and a blue towel draped across my neck like a reform Talit, and have people think that this is my idea of "going out" clothing. It really makes me think I should start trying harder to dress decently, because if my shower attire is a "going out"-worthy improvement, then I'm obviously never going to find someone willing to marry me. As Bridget Jones often worries, I'm going to die alone and my body will be found much later, half-eaten by my own dogs. But instead of saying any of this I just smiled and said, "Nope."

So she tried again, "So whatcha up to?"

And this was it, this was the moment where I realized that CAs are predictable but completely without explanation. How can they see someone in a bathrobe, shower shoes, carrying a towel and holding a shower caddy full of soaps and shampoos, walking in the direction of the bathroom (which is the opposite direction of the exit), and not know what they are up to? The ONLY explanation I can come up with is that CA's are actually the most creative people at this school. Only they can see a person completely decked out in shower attire and accessories and come up with more than one possibility for what this person could be doing. Honestly, I'm jealous of that kind of creativity.
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