Around the time you were about to embark on your first year of "academic exploration" (and/or "learning to do a minute-long keg stand") known as college, you started hearing talk about a bizarre phenomenon where college freshmen supposedly gain 15 pounds over the course of the first year. If you were anything like the svelte, athletic, clueless senior I was, you probably ignored this talk, thinking of it as a sort of suburban legend that only actually affected a small, uncool portion of the freshman population. You probably thought you had no reason for concern. You were probably an idiot.
Three months into my first year, it was clear that the frosh 15 was something more than a campus myth. It was sitting uncomfortably at the tops of my arms, padding itself around my face (creating the illusion that my eyes were being swallowed whole) and making itself at home on my ass. I blame O-Hill, for one, for practically inviting me to order things like "one cheeseburger wrapped in a waffle topped in ranch dressing with some ice milk [healthier than ice cream, right?] and sprinkles on top. With fries on the side."
I spent so much time in O-Hill first year that I legitimately ended up smelling like a curious mix of mass-produced foods, which frightened away hot upperclassmen boys who sat near me in lecture. The smell did not repulse other first years, but rather enticed them to sit closer. I'm pretty sure a fellow first year licked my shoulder once in an attempt to savor my O-Hill-laden goodness.
I am an equal opportunity blamer, however. I also blame Newcomb, which set out those Mexican condiments at far too accessible an angle, allowing me to gorge on more refried beans, chili and chips than any human should ever be privy to.
As if the institutional food temptations of O-Hill and Newcomb weren't enough, there was the newly acquired calorie source I like to call "frat beer and hastily taken shots in dorm rooms." As a first year, I wasn't even aware that alcohol had calories. I should have known, however. Nothing as tasty as a shot of Aristocrat comes without a price. Yum.
The calories from the actual alcohol are only surpassed by the calories in the late-night munchies you consume post-partying. My favorite 3 a.m. treat was cheesy breadsticks, which probably explains why by Halloween, I was spilling over my jeans in a fashion I like to call "the muffin top" (think about it ...). Note: Any bodily condition that can be described by a baked good by definition cannot be sexy. Hourglasses are sexy. Baked goods are not.
The wake-up call came the first time I returned home and saw my former high school classmates. I looked around, pulled a friend aside and murmured, "Wow, Jenna really got big." My friend gave me an odd look and nodded her head slowly. "Yes, she really got big," Friend said as she took in my sausage arms (another delightful food-related body description) and double chin with a sweeping head-to-toe glance at my person. I knew I shouldn't take it personally. She was sporting a muffin top and smelled like institutional food too.
Now a third year, I still carry a bit of my O-Hill-spawned muffin top, but my eyes have come out of hiding and my ass no longer knocks over tables without my knowledge when I walk through restaurants. This is a product of semi-regular commitment to calorie counting and more crash dieting than I care to mention. My roommate, who is what you would call "borderline to extremely severe obsessive-compulsive," has placed small books filled with the calorie figures of everything from pecans to pot pies strategically around our apartment. I can't eat so much as a grape without one of those books staring me in the face and mocking me with, "Didn't you know that 10 medium-sized purple grapes have 80 calories? Oh what, you thought you could eat any many as you wanted because they are fruit? Muwahahaha! Fooled again!" But grape cravings aside, I feel like I've kicked my buffet-table habits and moved on to a better and healthier stage in my life. Although sometimes I still long for a cheeseburger. Wrapped in a waffle. With ice milk on the side.
Erin's column runs bi-weekly on Mondays. She can be reached at gaetz@cavalierdaily.com.
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