Alarmed

A few weeks ago, I woke up in the morning to an irritating buzz, so I fumbled my hand outside the warm cocoon of blankets, hitting my alarm button. When that didn’t work, I cracked open one eye, grabbing for my phone, hitting the alarm button. No go. I lay there for a moment and wondered if I could fall back asleep with that--- OMG! GET UP!

It was the fire alarm.

So, I pulled on comfy boots over my sweat pants, grabbed my coat, fumbled for my id and joined the mass of sleepy zombies shuffling down 4 flights of stairs at 7-something in the morning to the beat of a blazing alarm. I briefly considered taking my chances and just staying in bed. If there really is a fire, can’t a firefighter catch me when I jump from my window? But I reconsidered when I remembered the 500 pound fine if they catch you in your room during a fire alarm, and the small but real chance of going up in flames.

It was a false alarm, thank goodness. Someone dripped butter in the toaster and it started smoking, causing the alarm to go off and the school to evacuate. No big deal, to the firemen. A huge deal to my interrupted sleep cycle. I’d been up past 2AM the night before working on a paper, had trouble falling asleep, and just when I finally hit the lovely deep sleep of the exhausted, woke up to evacuate.

Luckily, I climbed back into bed right after 8 AM and slept for another hour. The entire event just reminded me of my first night at college, at TCNJ. The fire alarm went off 3 times between 2 AM and 7 AM. Now at first, this does not sound too terrible, but I had trouble sleeping that night too and was still awake at 2 AM. Each alarm caused us to evacuate for an hour while they checked every single room (8 floors, roughly 60 kids per a floor, you do that math) to make sure a) there was no actual fire and b) everyone had actually left (you got fined if you did not, much like here).

As an emotional, exhausted mess by 8 AM that morning, there were probably 100 kids wailing on the phone to their parents, “I just want to go home and sleep.” I know I was. I thought I’d lose sleep in college for fun, not misery.

Lying in bed, falling back asleep that foggy London morning, I thought about how far I have come since that August hour. I can now survive (not pleasantly, but survive none the less) on small amounts of sleep without tearful calls to my parents. A few mornings ago, when I woke up feeling ill, my first inclination was still to call my mother, but I did not (it was 3 AM her time). I waited until she came home from work and only sent one, slightly pitiful, “I have a cold and I miss your chicken noodle soup” email.

We all have our moments. Everyone needs her mommy sometimes, and I don’t see that as anything that calls for shame. This is the longest I have ever gone without seeing her, and I cannot wait to give her a hug in a couple weeks. I am 20 years old and close enough to my mother to just need to talk to her some days. No one can provide quite the same comfort with just a few words. But I am in London, and I can’t talk to her every day, so I become more self reliant, which is what every mother wants for her children. I am standing on the two feet she gave me, in the tube, the London, the world. Oh my goodness, I am growing up.

Now there is a frightening thought.