The other day, I found myself having a conversation with my roommates about television shows from our childhood.
I’m making a calendar today. A calendar of events, in which I map out my remaining months, weeks, days and hours — time I will spend at the coffee shop or the library or the small wicker desk pushed up against the wall in my oblong bedroom. I almost had a miniature panic attack last night as I lay in bed thinking about what my calendar would look like, but then I remembered that panic attacks wouldn’t fit into my weekly event lineup, so I quelled the urge to scream.
I’ve come to terms with having a complete mental breakdown roughly three times a semester. It’s practically a ritual now, where everything suddenly piles up and engulfs me, dragging me to the bottom of a lake of self-pity. To the general annoyance of my friends and neighbors, I find myself holed up in my room, eating tubs of raw cookie dough and watching reruns of television shows, attempting to convince myself that by not doing anything, I am, in fact, helping myself.
During syllabus week of a psychology class first year, the professor said something that has since implanted itself in my regular thoughts.
This past Saturday was my last Boys’ Bid Night. On one hand, it was sad to reminded of how fleeting my opportunities to wear neon workout clothes and run all over Rugby Road while buzzed off cheap liquor are.
Taking only 12 credits this semester — only one of which has mandatory attendance — means that I have more free time than ever.
I walked into El Jaripeo for a causal Sunday dinner with my roommate this weekend, and I suddenly found myself at what appeared to be headquarters for sorority life.
I love lists. I have lists for my lists. I don’t think I could navigate a day if I didn’t lay out my plans for it.
In a blitz of mixed emotions this weekend, my roommates convinced me to get my ears pierced. If I’m being honest, it was inspired more than a little bit by the “Fourth year don’t care” mentality permeating every aspect of my life as I sit on the cusp of “growing up” – because let’s face it, I’m still dependent on my parents for more than just tax forms.
Sometimes when I sit down to write a column, I have so much to say that the words just flow onto the page as smooth as butter.
I really wish I could think of something non-Greek to write about. I can feel myself slowly becoming Cady Heron from “Mean Girls” — except instead of constantly word-vomiting about how if Regina George cut off her hair she’d look like a British man, I can’t shut up about how I don’t need to cut off all my hair because my new sisters introduced me to “hot curlers” and it’s going to change my entire frizzy life.
Like many of us, I was so ready to leave my hometown when I graduated high school. I couldn’t wait to go somewhere where nobody knew me and take the opportunity to start over completely.
I recently read a quote by the intrepid explorer Richard Francis Burton that struck me: “One of the gladdest moments of human life, methinks, is the departure upon a distant journey into unknown lands.
Standing in the middle of my living room on a Saturday morning, I realized that I had just lost something very important.
The remnants of the person I became studying abroad are permeating my life back in Charlottesville, and I’ve never been so excited.
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.
Charlottesville is known for a lot of things: U.Va., of course; all things Thomas Jefferson; Bodo’s — once I met someone in New York City who named their dog after Bodo’s because it’s that good — and a lot of preppy clothing.
As I was sitting on my Amtrak train back down to Charlottesville this weekend, I started thinking about how quickly the fall went by.
I believe that most people have a moral compass. Priests have gods. Cops have laws. Protesters have passions.
I guess you could say a lot has changed in four short years. I went to a relatively small high school, where all of my teachers knew everything about me.
