Life > April 17, 2008

By Austin H. Jones | Staff columnist

As the semester comes to a close these last two or three weeks, the average student is swamped by final papers, last-minute studying and, of course, the pervasive epidemic of spring fever.

The spring fever I’m talking about is not the kind of long-lived crush fellow pipe-smokers might have on one another – for example, I hear the members of the university chapter of the Grand Old Pipers are in it for the long haul; this will be serious someday.

The spring fever that hits the majority of us this time of year is along the lines of those ephemeral semi-crushes you get on that really quirky kid in your history class who awakens in you that primordial urge (that you subsequently suppress) to get jiggy wid it.

Local amateur wrestler and Ninja-in-Residence Thomas P. Sherbakoff recently told me, “The best thing about spring fever is that you get your daily dose of taurine, vitalizing body and mind – which, might I add, gives you wings.”

Whether you’re flying high on energy drinks or on puppy love, you are nevertheless destined to crash at some point in time. For this reason, I recommend that we all just take a chill pill. It is all too easy to slip into that abhorred slump of irritability, irrationality and rash comments.

Too often, I find myself accidentally unearthing the hidden temper of a random girl who doesn’t feel like waiting 15 seconds for me to get my granola before she can get her meager portions of cantaloupe and honeydew. I hear the huff and puff of her impatient sighing long after she has served her book-bound, over-worked self.

This little exchange pisses me off so much that I realize I’m quickly turning into an easily annoyed, super-tense worker almost identical to this girl who I blame for forcing me into that state.

I suggest that during finals week we transform all of the ever-controversial student-run businesses into Turkish Baths, complete with student masseuses, steam baths and full skin care.

I am positive this would alleviate (at least a bit) the hold our overwhelming lists of obligations have over us.

I’ll even volunteer to be the first masseuse.

Also, I have a nomination for another of my buddies to be there right by me, rubbing you down with oils and perfume. We call this fellow “Mike Archie” – he has the hands of a warrior-angel, and his name comes from Michael the Archangel.

We used to call him Gabe after the angel Gabriel, but then we realized that Gabriel was just a messenger – this man does so much more than give a message:

His fingers float rapidly over muscle and fat alike, pressing down precisely where tension needs to be applied and lifting with the knowing touch possessed only by a masseuse who is spiritually connected with the lucky individual receiving the sensual massage.

Even if the Turkish Bath idea belly-flops painfully into the pool of bureaucracy surrounding every “important” decision made at the university, ask me for the true identity of Mike Archie and you might be lucky enough to get an appointment with him.

Otherwise, you’ll just have to settle for me walking on your back until it pops. Until your massage, just take it easy, folks.