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.
Dear Class of 2016, Some of you reading this column are already in love with college, Grounds and all things U.Va.
Much to the dismay of my father and grandfather, I don’t know a whole lot about football. If I did, you’d probably be reading about this in the sports section.
I was in Europe this summer. I could tell you what I learned at the Tate Modern, what I realized in Normandy, what I came to understand on the Underground.
This year at the University has had a bit of a different feel for me. I am entering my fourth year, forgive me for being sentimental, but I have a lot of feelings about it.
It’s unfortunately easy to lose faith in humanity. Everything’s going alright for a while until, suddenly, one event begins a downward spiral that usually ends with me hating everyone and everything.
When I was 14-years-old I decided to put “flying in large treacherous metal machines at 30,000 feet” at the top of my “greatest fears” list.
Although I always claimed to understand how great this college town is, I never really understood until I went to a place where most people associate 14th Street with the Union Square subway station. While I was away, I learned not only about New York, the magazine industry, and myself; I also learned a lot about Charlottesville.
