The attack of the heaters

Conspiracy? Or a heated rivalry

It’s no shock to anyone that heaters are in full blast as of late. In fact, every dorm room I have walked into in the last week has been a minimum of 80 degrees. You walk in wearing a winter coat and walk out feeling like you’ve just completed hot yoga against your will. Which is why the real plot twist is that despite the tropical climate of every living space on campus, the classrooms remain approximately the temperature of a refrigerated meat locker. It’s almost impressive, in a deeply confusing way.

The moment you leave your dorm, it’s as if the school wants to balance the ecosystem by immediately flash‑freezing you. You step into a classroom and the temperature drops so fast you can practically hear David Attenborough narrating your descent into the tundra. Professors begin lecturing about macroeconomics or literary symbolism, but all you can think is, “If I stop moving, I’m going to be stuck in this class until spring. Meanwhile, the heater in the corner coughs once, rattles like it’s trying to communicate its last words, and then gives up entirely. A true team player.

Every classroom on campus seems to operate on the same temperature setting: “January in Antarctica, but with fluorescent lighting.” Fun fact for you, Lincoln has been averaging temperatures up to 50 degrees colder than Antarctica this week. That’s not a joke… That’s real… Anyways.

You walk in expecting to learn about sociology or calculus, and instead you’re immediately hit with a blast of air so cold it could preserve a woolly mammoth. The professor starts lecturing, but all you can think is, I am one breath away from recreating Anna freezing at the end of Frozen.

Facilities insist the heaters are “functioning normally,” which is exactly what you’d say if you were covering up a full‑scale HVAC uprising. Because here’s the thing: the heaters do turn on. They just do it for 45 seconds at a time, sigh loudly, and quit. But we all know that sweet, warm joy when you feel a gust of hot air falling on you from overhead. But the quitting is not helpful when I’m trying to take notes with hands that have gone completely Victorian‑ghost white.

At this point, I’ve started bringing layers. Not normal layers, I mean survival‑expedition gear. I look less like a student and more like someone preparing to summit Everest between classes. Meanwhile, the professor is somehow fine, strolling around in a light cardigan like we’re in a cozy chalet instead of a walk‑in freezer. I don’t know what kind of internal furnace professors have, but I would like access to it.

And yet, we persist. We take our quizzes with numb fingers. We participate in discussions while shivering violently enough to qualify as Morse code. So yes, call it a conspiracy. Call it a malfunction. Call it a bold new approach to keeping students alert through strategic temperature shifts. Whatever it is, I know one thing: if the heaters ever do decide to fully kick in, I will welcome it with open, slightly frozen, arms.

By Lily Morris