I came home for break, exam-weary and craving home-cooked food, desiring nothing more than to lie on my back while drooling in the general direction of the TV.
Growing up as an only child wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be. Although people think being an only child means you get whatever you want, there is a dark side too — … dun dun dun — the feeling that you are always being left out. As a kid, the only things that mattered to me were my Pokémon cards, my friend’s movie birthday parties and group playdates after school.
Supposedly we 20-somethings have trouble saying a particular grouping of three little words. But it occurred to me the other week that there’s another set of two words that seems even harder for people to say, myself included.
Last Tuesday I had dinner at my professor’s house. Earlier in the day I texted my friend who had dined there the night before: “Does he serve wine?” She answered in the negative. Completely sober, I chatted with 11 of my classmates during dinner, dessert and drinks — Sprite and lemonade.
It only seems appropriate I take this time to discuss the plague. I’m sure you’re familiar with it.
I hate to disrespect the great Andy Williams, but I have to say that fall is truly the most wonderful time of the year.
In this day and age we value being busy. This is nothing new. We admire the people who barely have time to breathe in between their extracurricular meetings, their 18-credit class schedule, their dedicated workout regimen and their full-to-the-brim social life.
Until two weeks ago, I had been a vegetarian for about six years. Beyond that, I had never eaten seafood — not even before I became a vegetarian. If you had asked me last year, I would have told you that I didn’t have any plans of quitting vegetarianism, thank you very much.
“Whelp, just another case of the Mondays,” my sister calls to me, coughing and hacking, plagued by some yet to be diagnosed case of hypochondria.
I knew it was going to happen. I spent the summer in New York City hanging out with Commerce School students who were working at banks.
Sorry to about three-fourths of my readership if I am being insensitive, but being 21 really is the best thing ever.
In recent years I’ve solidified my response to the question: “Do you speak French?” I respond: “Sure, I speak conversationally, but I probably couldn’t talk confidently about (insert extremely political or historical fact here),” for example, seventh-century Babylonian advances in astronomy. Although it’s questionable I could even have that particular conversation in English, the point is that my French vocabulary does not exceed that of a fourth-grader.
I walk into my sister’s room on a Sunday morning. She’s left for work in her Redskins t-shirt and baseball cap, jeans and blue tennis shoes.
In many ways, a 21st birthday is a rite of passage into a new world. You can get a horizontal license, you can show the bouncer your actual I.D.
There are some things they don’t tell you about dorm life. They tell you you’ll have to adjust to living with someone unlike you.
For some people, fourth year is their chance to show off. That’s cool, guys. I get it. You don’t have anything else to worry about, you’re coasting, you have time to pick out what you want to wear.
Being back this fall has led me to realize I have a case of Peter Pan syndrome. If there were a Neverland for college students I — along with every frat boy — would definitely be there.
Growing up, I considered myself a regular tomboy. Looking back, I suppose this was mostly attributable to the one miserable afternoon I spent watching NASCAR with my dad and the plethora of worn jerseys passed down from my cousin. With this warped self-image came a lot of false confidence in areas that I cannot claim to have any real knowledge.
I have a nickname from childhood, coined and used solely by my immediate family. I’ve probably mentioned it before: Maisie.
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.
