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No longer a ‘loser’

Kate Gales | Friday, September 30, 2005

I lose a lot of things. I leave shoes in hotel rooms, CD’s in the computer cluster and magazines in the gym. I no longer buy expensive sunglasses because I lose about a pair a month at TC (who doesn’t love sunglasses at night?), and don’t even get me started on how a lost cell phone nearly triggered a long battle with ResLife (but that’s a column that will probably never be written).

But all of those examples are nothing compared to when my roommate Gina and I lost the remote control to our TV. Leading a blameless and virtuous existence gave me enough good karma to get a beautiful, spacious double on the third floor of Cavanaugh. Although I’ve enjoyed living in a large room that is the envy of freshmen everywhere, the problem is there are just so many places to lose things. It doesn’t always help that Gina is extremely neat and consistently straightening things up. For a disorganized free spirit like myself, you’d think that’s a pretty nice thing – especially when she makes my bed – but it has led to an alarming number of things being misplaced, mislaid and possibly lost forever.

We first noticed the missing remote at approximately 10 p.m. two weekends ago, when I settled in to watch a movie and the remote was nowhere to be found. How was I to fast-forward through the credits? How would I stand watching parts where people die? We all know that walking 10 feet to the TV to control this is simply not acceptable.

I couldn’t find the remote. Gina couldn’t find the remote. We challenged others to find our remote, but all was in vain. I accused people of stealing our remote. We planned “missing” signs to post around the dorm and contemplated offering a reward for information on its whereabouts. But nothing seemed to work.

Basically, Gina and I realized we were losers.

This is not a fun conclusion to have about oneself. It had crossed my mind before, but now, there was no doubt. The remote was gone. I was reasonably sure it was my fault. I was a loser.

We checked under the futon. It wasn’t there. We checked every drawer in the room (that’s a lot). After days of stress, there was nowhere to search but under the beds. Flinging laundry aside and dragging out golf clubs and Christmas decorations, I took a flashlight and crawled under the bed. First, I found a pen. Then I found a ChapStick. Then my fingers touched plastic. I craned my neck. It was gray and rectangular. Could it be – was it possibly – yes!

On Wednesday night, the remote came home. Well, technically it had always been home. But we found it, which was the important thing. There was much rejoicing in Cavanaugh Hall, featuring a lot of high-pitched shrieking. We had defeated a piece of plastic. And I was no longer a loser.