Dirty little secret
My roommate, Tori, and I knew each other before we got to U.Va. We weren't best friends, but we knew we got along well enough to not pull each other's hair out and bicker about whose shirt was on whose side of the room.
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My roommate, Tori, and I knew each other before we got to U.Va. We weren't best friends, but we knew we got along well enough to not pull each other's hair out and bicker about whose shirt was on whose side of the room.
I have recently come to the realization that I am a middle-aged woman.
It's a familiar scene: In the post-class hubbub of everyone getting up and putting their bags together and streaming toward the door, the cell phones emerge from the cool shelter of pockets and purses and migrate upward until they are inches away from a face. Eyes begin intently searching the glowing screen for the vital information they had been craving for 50 minutes.
On my tour at U.Va. last year, I, like most of my peers, was dreadfully bored. I was only looking at the tour as a way to sleep in and avoid a math test. I listened vaguely to the history of the buildings and when is the best time to work out, but I was mostly thinking about what I was going to eat for lunch and how well-dressed everyone was. I was getting tired of walking back and forth until something caught my eye. I stopped and the tour group walked around me, chattering excitedly. My mom eventually noticed that I was missing and turned around to find me gawking at the wall. I was staring at a chalk drawing of the mark of the Deathly Hallows. "This is it," I remember saying to her. "Harry Potter approves of this school."
I was sick last week.
College applications are hard. They are especially difficult if you have had a good life and are decent at school and nothing dramatically noteworthy has ever gone wrong for you or those you love.