Something has been tickling the back of my brain lately. Rest assured, it is no serious medical condition, but rather a curious sensation which has me staring blankly at the ceiling at night contemplating the coming day and making the same color coded, timeline-format to-do list in every class. Word on the street is this feeling is called "stress." Professionals say it is a serious condition and that as young adults, we should not let it control our lives. They also claim that too much stress is most definitely a bad thing.
To these medical professionals who have put time and effort into complicated studies of extracurricular activities on the brain waves of rats, I say: "LOL." As a college student scrambling my way through my classes and piling activity after activity onto my plate, I clearly know what's best for my body, my brain and my future.
It is absolutely necessary that I join every club that pulls at my heart strings, because if I don't, how will anyone know how committed I am to causes that matter? And on top that, I painstakingly battle my way to the top of the power ladder in all of these clubs, so that future employers will see that not only am I committed, but I am also willing to work until my fingers bleed from all the papers I will be pushing. This feeling is not stress; this is dedication!
Now elementary school, that was stressful. I remember begging my mother every year to buy me the cool crayons with the sharpener in the back, and getting denied in increasingly terrifying ways every year. My personal favorite was: "Simone, if you ask about that box of crayons one more time we will never eat mac and cheese in this house again!"
I stopped asking.
The panic which ensued on the first day of school every year was crippling. Would my friends abandon me? Would I be relegated to using the school crayons, which were always dull and somehow always missing my favorite lime green? My pictures would get lost in the doldrums of drawings without lime green birds, dogs and houses. Nothing would ever make it onto the fridge again!
That was stressful.
Or let's talk about middle school, when I began to shoot toward the sky like there were dollar bills hiding in the clouds. As a 5-foot-10 sixth grader, things got awkward. In the winter, all I wanted was for my ankles to be warm. Alas, American Eagle did not make pants for 11-year-olds with stilt legs. I had to make a heart-wrenching choice. Mom jeans that began at my bellybutton, or cool kid jeans that stopped mid-calf. I'll let you guess with which I went. Neither option made me cool. I stretched my short jeans desperately, and I bedazzled my mom jeans to hide how lame they really were. By eighth grade, when I topped out at 6-foot-3, I had adjusted and discovered jeans that fit appropriately. But imagine the stressful two years in between, where I wandered self-consciously, desperate for the proper pants.
That, my dear friends, was stress. Without cool crayons, without cool jeans, I was left to lumber through my adolescence with about as much grace as a baby giraffe. Now, I can buy whatever pens I want, and find jeans that are awesome enough for any occasion with ease. I would much rather be here - in college, balancing five clubs, a varsity sport and 15 credits - than in middle school with high water jeans ever again. I mean really, do you have any idea how hard it is to bedazzle the perfect hearts on your pants?
Simone's column now runs biweekly Tuesdays. She can be reached at s.egwu@cavalierdaily.com.
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