Socialization

I’ve started making a concerted effort to talk to others.  So far this has included me mumbling at the sweet librarian who walks by the table where I study, awkwardly conversing with other students while I attempt to run away, and having long conversations with my laptop, who has become an excellent companion.  I can totally do this whole college thing.

Blame in on the Alcohol

I hate meeting people when they’re drunk.  Here I am, all orange soda happy, and they start every conversation with “I’m not going to remember this in the morning, but…” I remember everything.  And I still have a good time.  It wasn’t that I was never going to drink in college, but after seeing others, I just really don’t want to now.

But Actually, School

Classes:

Honors Philosophy Seminar

Introduction to American Politics

The American Novelist

Calculus II

School: 1000 Lila: 2

(The two are solely based on the fact that we got cookies in math class today)

Oh Right, School

Dear Senior Year,

How could you lure me into such a false sense of security?  Sure, I applied to colleges.  I believe it was 20, to be exact.  Supplements, personal statements, letters of recommendations, all of that was quite brutal in conjunction with 4 AP classes, the ACT, and all of those extracurricular activities.  You did not, however, prepare me for 300 pages of reading a week and papers due at an alarmingly constant rate.  My life has become so tragic so quickly.  And she was so young.

Best,

Lila

Changes

Everyone here seems so thrilled to meet everyone else, but I’m perpetually tempted to retreat to my room.  In high school, it was popular, nay, dictated, that you never appear too excited about anything.  My droll cynicism fit in far better than it does here, where every topic must be approached with exuberance.  “You’ve been to Italy?  I’ve been to Italy!” “I worked on this BLANK and it was such an amazing experience!” I’m not used to waxing on about my accomplishments, and I’m suddenly thrust into a world where every activity must be shared with equal enthusiasm.  No, I don’t eat organic vegetables.  And I’ve never met a senator.  I suddenly feel rather small.   

The Roommate (Pt. 1)

You know those stories where roommates leave socks on the door to tell their bunkmates not to come home for the night?  That sock is now a text message and that bunkmate is me.  I don’t know anyone here, but apparently Liza has decided to be the Welcome Wagon for a special young man.  So here I am, ranting all of this on my BlackBerry because of my overwhelming compulsion to write how much I hate my new roommate.  It’s a new school year but the lounge already smells like beer and feet.  And the sofa has clearly welcomed both into its enormous cushions.  I love college.

I made a new friend, I think.  I was trying to sleep in the common area (not aided by the fact that the lights have motion detectors and flicker on whenever someone walks down the hallway or I shift even slightly) when a fellow new student took pity on me.  His name is Neal, and his roommate was apparently gone for the night as well.  Looks like the start of some Amos-cest right there.  Slept on their brand new futon and was accused of “walk of shaming” back to my floor this morning.  I don’t even know what that means.  This place is confusing.

Day One

I moved into my dorm today!  Amos Hall.  Rather, I tried to move into my dorm today while my mother kept on taking my bedding and clothes and arranging them herself while my father moved my desk around and found an Ethernet cable and I stood there, helplessly.  I actually like to organize. 

It’s sweet, the constant “All right Sweetie, the country isn’t that big and we can always fly across if there’s even the slightest problem” interspersed with the usual “Don’t do drugs and work harder, Lila.  You got into college on a technicality.”  Thank you, mother.  If that “technicality” is 99^th percentile test scores, a nearly perfect GPA and obscene amount of extracurricular activities, then yes, yes I did.  She still keeps on asking me why I want to study art after spending so many years talking about being a lawyer.  Oh God. 

 This is new, though.  The only time I was away from my parents was when I went to debate camp at Georgetown for three weeks, and they would visit me every Saturday.  I never went to real camp; I have never spent more than those few weeks without either one of them.  And now, now they’re flying across the country the day after tomorrow after a trip up the coast, and I’m not going to see them ever again.  Or until Thanksgiving, but that’s months away.  

A funny moment, though: They separate the parents from the students for a “Starting College” talk, where they essentially tell each party to stop trying to communicate so often for the first few weeks to adjust.  My father came out with a serious face and said, “Lila, we listened to what the woman had to say, and we’ve decided to ignore her completely.” Can you tell that I’m an only child?