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(03/05/13 1:32am)
Whenever I play the classic “random fact” icebreaker game, I always manage to surprise people with one fact. I don’t have any rebellious tattoos across my lower back, and I’ve never eaten guinea pig in Latin America. I haven’t seriously broken the law, and I can’t speak Mandarin or Cantonese. I don’t tell them that I’ve never eaten an egg, though that’s true — and it’s beyond me why more people don’t think eating scrambled chicken embryos sounds gross.
(02/19/13 12:58am)
This past Wednesday, I did something I haven’t done in a long, long time. Apologies to my professors, teaching assistants and GPA, but sadly this “something” doesn’t involve doing all of my assigned readings before class. That “ideal student and avid learner” ship sailed off to the Bermuda Triangle ages ago. I also didn’t make the trek to the Aquatic and Fitness Center — or any gym, for that matter. That “healthy human being” ship lost steam years ago, sometime after late night dumplings it got bogged down in Qdoba queso.
I didn’t do any of those stereotypical college student New Year’s resolutions. I did something even more important. I made new friends.
(02/05/13 5:37am)
Taking only 12 credits this semester — only one of which has mandatory attendance — means that I have more free time than ever. So now, in my blocks of time that even the world’s longest and most hangover-induced naps cannot fill, I actually need stuff to do. Oh, and by the way, “stuff” precludes anything active, academic, challenging or generally healthy for my physique or psyche.
(01/22/13 2:48am)
If there is one valuable thing about second semester fourth year — besides being able to fill an entire Mellow Mushroom pint night card in one sitting — it is the opportunity for reflection. Actually, “opportunity” represents far too weak of a word to effectively communicate the aggressive, pervasive and inescapable nature of this reflection. Even if I wanted to live this semester in blissful apathy and ignorance, never looking ahead or behind until the jading bubble of college life finally disintegrates, I could not. Alongside this almost agonizing need for reflection, for planning, for nostalgia, for goal-setting — “OK guys, we have to try a new restaurant in Charlottesville every Friday, if we have any minute of spare time we must go touch every blade of grass on the Lawn, and we must check off all 113 things to do at least 113 times” — I realize that I just want to sit in the passenger’s seat again.
(12/05/12 3:36am)
In my last six years as a Facebook user — yes, that is my subtle way of saying: “I had this in 2006 when I was a freshman in high school. Walls didn’t even exist yet. Get on my virtual level.” — I have always been extremely wary of finding out who my “top” stalkers are. Every few months or so, tantalizing graphics float around the space with directions on how to finally figure out which random dude from first year looks at your profile way more than he should.
(11/20/12 5:37am)
We are at that point in our young adult lives where self-expression begins to matter. The research papers we write, the special items of clothing that comprise our signature outfits, the concert tickets on which we splurge and the stubs we tuck away for safe memory-keeping. What about the people among a field of 14,000 peers who become the faces in our cover photos, the phone numbers in our over-active text groups, the authors of thoughtful little Post-it notes letting you know they care and later wedding toasts letting you know they have always been there for you? It seems appropriate that everything we choose to preserve — be it friendships or objects — becomes a reflection of who we are. It is daunting and disconcerting as well. Self-expression has never been more critical; yet, with so many more options and obstacles, it has never been so amorphous to grasp and difficult to perfect. College does not necessarily have to be where we find ourselves, but it cannot be the place where we lose ourselves.
(11/06/12 6:14am)
At this point in my column-writing career, it becomes harder each week to think of a new and interesting topic. Toward the beginning of my writing tenure, I adopted an “E.P. cynically venting about life and U.Va.” approach. These columns usually centered on pet peeves or on anything I could readily judge. Sometimes I would use recent life developments or events as fodder for discussion — side note, new drinking game: Imbibe every time you hear the phrase “fodder for discussion” in an English discussion and drink twice if your TA utters the phrase — but I was always weary of writing a “Dear God, It’s Me, E.P.” journalistic diary.
(10/23/12 4:21am)
Because I refuse to give Comcast any more business than it deserves — which is negative 800 billion customers, in case you were wondering — and because “Arrested Development” and “Breaking Bad” are on Netflix, I do not watch television at school.
(09/25/12 3:59am)
Sorry to about three-fourths of my readership if I am being insensitive, but being 21 really is the best thing ever. Now before you underage Coupe’s-dwelling minors scoff and look away, realize we 21-year-olds have paid our dues. Nobody waits “soooo much longer” to turn 21, considering that age is a consistent, measurable value. If you want to be “that reader” who factors in leap years, then I do not want you here anyway. I feel as if I am a new person now that I am 21 – with five more pounds of beer weight and 500 fewer dollars of spending money, how can I not reflect on this nascent lifestyle shift?
(09/11/12 1:44am)
To continue the trend of masking my own life crises as journalistic endeavors, I decided to write about my experiences attending a wedding this weekend. Or — and here lies the root of the life crisis — realizing there are only so many more weddings I can realistically attend before I am expected to be the one freaking out that the roses are not rose-y enough and that the tablecloths fall two shades short of beige.
(08/28/12 6:23am)
At this point in August, the Olympics have become about as stale as Ryan Lochte’s brain cells. But watching the Olympics religiously this summer — I mean, I even gave archery a shot — genuinely altered the way I view young adulthood and my place in it.
For one, how can you watch a gaggle of Mary Poppins take down Voldemort with spoonfuls of sugar and umbrellas and not think, “Wow, I really need to reassess my life. Also, that was awesome.” How can you watch Victoria Beckham look as disenchanted as she did during every 1990s Spice Girls performance and not think, “The future is an abyss, even more ferocious than Scary Spice.” Maybe these mental connections are more of a stretch than gymnastic floor routines, but I think this idea has gold-medal potential.
As a 21-year-old, my main Olympics epiphany came when I realized that a majority of these superheroes are nearly half my age but hold double my accomplishments. After watching the U.S. women’s soccer team win gold, I became obsessed with the lure of athletic success. Alex Morgan is only two years older than me; the closest I’m getting to the Sports Illustrated: Swimsuit Edition is however close it happens to be as I check out at Kroger buying a six-pack and a pint of ice cream.
Suddenly, I had this idea: I am athletic, so I am going to become a professional soccer player. Then, just as suddenly as I had made this goal, I squashed it. In my youth soccer league, the only things I scored were those delicious orange slices during half time. My hand-eye coordination exists, but I think I missed the professional athlete boat by about 10 years and a lot more muscle.
More than anything, I felt a distinct lack of accomplishment as I watched more and more medal ceremonies. Gabby Douglas probably cannot drive a car, but why would she need one when she can just do acrobatics across town? Watching these young athletes made me feel as if I’d missed the opportunity to really thrive. Twenty-one is young, sure, but being the best at something takes years and years of practice and determination. Not every field I could enter requires being at my physical peak — and that has long since passed — but they at least seek people who boast significant accomplishments at a young age.
I am at the end of “a young age,” and it freaks me out. I have to keep reminding myself that the Olympics features the most extraordinary competitors of our generation so it represents an unfair standard of self-measure. But you know what else features competition just as physical and intense? Any chemistry class at this University graded on a curve. We are not so far removed from these Olympic folk; indeed, a few of them are even fellow Hoos.
Maybe this column is a fourth-year personal crisis masked as a journalistic endeavor, but the Olympics also made me think beyond self-deprecation and instead more critically about phases of young adulthood. There is an enormous jump between being 21 and 25. Where will I be watching the Rio games in 2016? Who knows where I will be at 4 p.m. today, let alone four years from now. For every Olympics before this, I knew at least vaguely where I would be and with whom I would be watching the next Games. But even this year a shift started to occur: I watched the Opening Ceremonies in Madrid, Spain to conclude my trip abroad, and I watched the Closing Ceremonies in the comfort of my home with my parents. So where will I be? Maybe, just maybe, I will be in Rio with the Women’s Soccer team … as a spectator or something, of course.
(04/03/12 3:48pm)
Although this column
(03/20/12 3:24pm)
Recently, I have found myself
(02/29/12 3:48am)
In
(02/15/12 1:28am)
Prediction: Adele's "Someone Like You" will be played eight million times per second globally on Valentine's Day. Those who still want to maintain a front that they do not care about the holiday and love being single - and have just absolutely loved being single for four years - will retreat to the shower, belting it out freely, knowing that the water will drown their sobs and perhaps their dignity, depending on water pressure.
(01/31/12 4:11pm)
According to science - read: my high school biology teacher - the human body changes significantly every seven years. We tend to think in terms of these overarching stages of maturity: infancy, childhood, puberty, adult life, graying and trading in the Porsche for a minivan, Viagra and finally death. This seven-year categorization explains a lot, such as why older women - and only older women - prefer the smell of ridiculously pungent perfume to anything remotely pleasant. But this method skips over the best way to reflect on life - phases.
(11/29/11 5:48am)
For an ordinary college kid, going home for Thanksgiving Break presents opportunities for family bonding, face-stuffing, Black Friday shopping and coming up with absurd justifications as to why homework does not exist at "home home." For those like me, who even in my third year cannot figure out when to go grocery shopping and must occasionally call my mother about washing machine protocol, Thanksgiving Break is so much more: that haircut you didn't get even though your split ends are more divided than the preteens of teams Edward and Jacob, that book you never bought for class but need now because it will definitely be on the final. Hello, Thanksgiving Break and parental money! This year, my designated "errand I easily could have done at school" was a trip to the doctor's office.
(11/08/11 7:24am)
'Tis the season. What season, you ask? Well, that is a really good question. Given that the worst of all forms of precipitation, the "wintery mix," fell on Halloween, it could be winter. According to the fact that this happened on Halloween, however, it is definitely late October-early November. Considering how many exams we have had peppered - get it? Pepper is a season[ing] - throughout these last few weeks and how many papers we will have these next couple, it could be the calm between midterm season and finals season. While there are plentiful examples for each of these cases, however, the real season we have just entered supersedes all others - Starbucks Red Cup Season. And I hate it.
(10/25/11 4:00am)
For students at the University, Family Weekend is the chance to update families about their lives, justify thousands of dollars worth of tuition just by walking parents around the Lawn, catch a much-needed break from schoolwork and clean the assortment of alcohol and dirty laundry scattered in every crevice of any room. More than a chance to reconnect, however, Family Weekend can be a jarring experience for those who must transition between "college me" and "home me."
(10/04/11 4:00am)
According to the Oxford English Dictionary, a townie is defined as "a townsman as distinct from a member of the University." According to Urban Dictionary - ah, back to normal - a townie is someone in England, aged 11-15, who wears "dodgy Adidas tracksuits" and has frosted tips. Though English tracksuit culture is my area of expertise, this definition is a little outside of this article's scope. Often, when we hear the word "townie" in Charlottesville, it pejoratively refers to someone who sticks out against the pastel Vineyard Vines backdrop and who just "should not" be hanging around the Corner. One test to measure "towniehood:" can he or she belt every word to "Wagon Wheel" while simultaneously acing an accounting midterm? If not, red flag. I argue, however, that University students are actually the ones impeding on Charlottesville ground, and indeed the ones who look more out of place than Ozzy Osbourne at a nun convention. But, now that I think harder...