Coming back to school is a pretty standard procedure at this point. After three big “move in days,” the pack/unpack ritual has become almost second nature. But despite the ritualistic room decorating process, things are different this time. There is no screaming when I see my friends, our hugs no longer resemble sloppy take-down maneuvers, and most of us have few new stories and even fewer new “going out tops.” I’m a senior and, even in early September, there is a chill in the air, not because it’s getting colder, but because we’re that much older.
While I may be one of the younger members of the senior class, even I cannot understand the presence of students born in 1993 on campus. I assume there must be some sort of cultural gap between us, as they were only seven years old for the Y2K scare (way too young to understand the severity of the impending apocalypse) and I doubt any of them collected Furbies or Tamagotchis. I don’t know what they were into back then, I probably don’t know what they’re into now, and I worry that their skills will make mine obsolete.
My worries are confirmed soon after I take my first steps (for the fourth time) onto campus. While senior girls—often deemed “Old Hags”—might be of value at least for their party-going experience and foolproof dancing/drinking/flirting strategies, I quickly come to realize that the youngsters have me beat. I don’t watch as much MTV as I once did, I haven’t been to a high school dance in a while, and I certainly need my beauty sleep. The little ladies on campus, however, grind on until the early morn and still appear sprightly at Saturday and Sunday brunches. I envy their vitality.
Still, as I head to library on Sunday afternoon, still sipping Powerade and nursing a headache, I am happy to be where I am. I’ve begun my ascent over the hill (I’m like 83 in college years), but post-graduation I’ll be a thriving “20-something.” Until then, I’ll continue to do as I’ve done for the last three years with only minor adaptations. I won’t sweat the small stuff/ sweat in social house basements, I won’t straighten my hair (fry-central!), and I won’t walk of shame to/through/over/under the dining hall, the quad, sports events, or alumni functions. The Fresh on Campus have a lot to learn. While past-injuries and early onset Arthritis may prevent some of us Old Hags from getting low (there’s always the Bernie), we still have a ways to go and tuition dollars to blow.