College is all about treating yourself
“Treat yo’ self.”
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“Treat yo’ self.”
I am at a point in the semester where everyone and everything is annoying to me. Here are some examples: lugging a lunch bag and a 10-pound backpack simultaneously because I am no longer in the haven of unlimited meal swipes — annoying. Losing my digital watch and having to wear this nice analog one, which I can’t even read because analog clocks are confusing — aggravating. Eating Matcha green tea powder in some form every day because it’s going to expire soon, and I don’t want to waste it — irritating. Having the bus driver greet me cheerfully as it’s humid and rainy outside, and I’m drenched in sweat even though it’s October — infuriating. Getting frustrated with my perpetual frustration over extremely petty experiences — frustrating.
Every incoming first year learns at orientation that a true University student simply cannot call a freshman, “freshman,” nor the campus, “campus.” One slip of “sophomore” and the University immediately pegs you as an outsider, or at least a very naïve newcomer. How many of us have ironically — but completely seriously — ridiculed our friends for saying “campus” or physically shuddered when an ignorant bloke asked over summer, “How was freshman year”?
As someone who is interested in both the humanities and sciences, I sometimes feel as if I’m straddling two different countries, each with their own rules, languages and cultures. For those who don’t have the experience of poetry and organic chemistry in the same day, let me try and tease it out for you.
By now, every student has an inbox full of statements from every CIO and professor about the events that transpired in our community only a few days before move-in. Though I am not a professor of politics or an eyewitness to the horrors that occurred, I write what I feel has been lacking from some of the statements we’ve heard these last few days — my own story as a minority at U.Va. and how the events of Aug. 11-12 affected all that.
Claustrophobia, the fear of tight spaces. Frigophobia, the fear of becoming too cold. Gelotophobia, the fear of being laughed at — not the fear of gelato as I hoped. I scrolled through a Wikipedia page full of fears, from the silly — pogonophobia, the fear of beards — to the deep — chronophobia, the fear of time moving forward. There’s even phobophobia, the fear of having a phobia! One very important fear, however, didn’t make the cut — the fear of rejection. You’ve probably heard that out of all the fears, the fear of rejection is chief among them. How ironic, then, that we don’t have a fancy Latin-derived name for it. Perhaps the fear is so intense that we are too scared to even name it. In lieu of such a name, I will creatively dub this fear of rejection, “rejectophobia.”
I lived a pretty sheltered life my first year. Unlimited dining plan, air-conditioning in my room (all hail New Dorms), lots of upperclassmen to baby me and most importantly — no cars. Protected in the car-free world of first year, I have managed to avoid the immense embarrassment of not knowing how to drive. Yes, it’s true. I am 19-years-old and I don’t know how to drive.
As this is my last column of the year, it seems inevitable to write a clichéd “What I’ve Learned from First Year” column. I don’t wish to disappoint, so here it is:
I’ve had my fair share of existential crises this year, but my most recent developed Thursday night in Newcomb Hall room 389. Sitting around a conference table at 7 p.m., a man stood up front in a blue polo with “Kaplan” embroidered on the chest. The sudden reintroduction of the famous test-prep agency brought me shocking flashbacks of SAT boot camps and practice exams. This time though was for the real-deal. A non-descript PowerPoint with the words “MCAT Challenge” stared back at me. As part of my pre-medical fraternity, we were given the opportunity to sign up for a short crash course on the MCAT.
Waking up at 5:45 in the morning in college is an anomaly. I marvel at how I used to wake up at 5:00 a.m. in high school and do calculus to “get my brain going” before leaving for school. It’s like when I moved to Charlottesville, my body became physically unable to wake up until the double digits of the morning. My poor 8:00 a.m. discussion, may she rest in peace.
On the sacred hall of Balz-Dobie 4L, room 431 is hailed for being the cleanest. As one of two inhabitants of 431, I am not bragging. This is simply the truth.
Last semester I had a bit of a mental lapse when choosing classes. As a prospective English major, I was set up to take three different English classes, along with Biology and Economics (so I can at least manage the small amount of money I’ll be earning as an English major). I guess the hour was late, the caffeine level high and the sleep insufficient when I enrolled myself in MATH 3250 — Ordinary Differential Equations. But now I find myself at 8 a.m. on Wednesday looking despondently at the previous day’s quiz on Bernoulli’s equation.
Today heralds the two-week anniversary of my return to U.Va. after a long month of respite. This past winter break was perhaps the first break in a long time that I didn’t have to study for some sort of standardized test. Suddenly before me was an endless line of 24-hour periods with nothing to do but bake scones and play piano. Honestly, it was like hearing the jingle of the ice cream truck on the way home from a long day at kindergarten. I was tickled. I slept in until noon, sat on the couch eating chips and wore the same baggy clothing for three days at a time. Last semester, I wrote another article about my secret, neurotic desire to be a vegetable. I had officially achieved vegetable status after checking my phone to see I had taken a total of 23 steps all day.
The month I turned 17, I killed a goat.
So far in my college career, my main motivation for doing anything has been food of the non-dining hall assortment. When my roommate offered a spot to go with her for the Jefferson Society’s Wilson Day Formal, I happily obliged. Good food and a chance to wear that dress I’ve had in my closet for two years? Sign me up!
I slump into O’Hill, mentally drained from a two-hour lab, and I spy the neat pile of tomatoes on the counter. Shiny, red and perfectly round, the tomatoes look quite content. As I chew my own tomato-topped sandwich, my mind runs. How pleasant would it be to be a tomato, I think. The only time a tomato is drained is after it has been rinsed in the colander. From the corner of my eye I watch the man at the sandwich station methodically slicing heads of lettuce. The lettuce doesn’t even care, I think. The lettuce has no cares.
Driving down to Charlottesville, crammed against piles of suitcases and a giant panda pillow pet, I gazed out the window at the idyllic Virginia countryside. My stomach strained against my waistband, full from my ‘last Korean meal’ until fall break.