First-year confessions
Weighing in on the transition from high school into college life
Jennifer DeSantis / Contributor / The USD Vista
There is a chocolate milk container in my fridge. It has been there three weeks just like I’ve been here at USD three weeks. Three weeks of navigating the campus, avoiding upperclassmen, fearing to eat alone, and procrastinating (yes already); I have made some friends, found a favorite spot in the library, and successfully did my laundry, so maybe I am doing pretty well. Or am I, like the other 1,500 or so other freshmen, just fooling myself?
Everyone always tells you to get involved as much as you can, so I joined things. According to my email I believe I signed up for around 25 clubs at the Alcalá Bazaar. That is enough, right? I can stop now? Walking around the bazaar felt like a buffet where you put food on your plate before you actually know what it is made of. Which is why my inbox is drowning, unable to allow emails from my Resident Advisor and professors to surface. I really am trying to get out of my comfort zone here, but I honestly think I blew up the zone, and there is not even a bread crumb trail back. Bread crumb trails require an extra swipe at the SLP anyway.
I have also participated in those quintessential freshman outings, acknowledged rites of passage when mentioned to any upperclassman: from moshing at an 18+ club with people who put the plus in 18+, to attending awkward Mission Beach parties where freshmen stand in a huddle like emperor penguins in the winter and attempt to make small talk. I am over small talk.
These past three weeks have been nothing but exchanging formalities and then immediately forgetting the person’s name I just talked to. You could talk to me about how you are an Olympic gold medalist alpine skier and I promise you, I will not remember your name tomorrow. It is not you; I just cannot keep up with how many people I am meeting and consequently forgetting. I find the phrase, “excuse me, professor?” allows me to skip learning at least five other names.
I have gotten the hang of going to class and all that timing jazz. But every once and awhile, not every morning, but some of them, or a lot of them, I pull out the MySanDiego app just to make sure I am going to the right classroom at the right time. What if the four other times I obsessively checked were wrong? I am still questioning my timing though. How early is too early? I do not want to seem like the try-hard who shows up to class at the crack of dawn to make sure they are not late. But at the same time, in fact, I do not want to be late, at this moment in my awkward freshman life that would be the worst thing I could imagine: walking into a full classroom and everyone turns and stares at me as I lumber to my seat. Maybe once I am a snazzy and confident sophomore things will change and I will learn to own my true sloth-like leanings.
On a completely different note, living in a dorm is odd. Let me repeat that for the people in the back: living in a dorm is odd, zany, peculiar, and flat-out weird. Does anyone else wonder at the fact that we are living with total strangers? No one seems to have a problem with that, or at least outwardly.
At this point we all know each other, but not to the point where I can completely appreciate our coexistence. My two roommates seem great, but their very existence leaves me with questions: I don’t even know their middle names or their zodiac signs…
My poor roommates though, I have an 8:00 a.m. class every day, but I try to be as quiet as possible. I change in my closet to be considerate, but picking out what to wear in the dark is pretty difficult. I find each day I lose motivation to actually dress nice for class and my cute outfits are replaced by sweatshirts and leggings. When I bust out of the closet, I realize that I was actually flailing around in there causing a ruckus and have successfully woken up both of them at least an hour before their alarms were set. Sorry, girls.
I also have to add that, yes, I have already locked myself out of my dorm room. It is bound to happen again. I just blatantly left my ID card right on my desk. Do not even get me started on my ID card. Only a sadistic experimental use of the picture tool function could have produced that photo, but I digress.
Mildly put, it has been an interesting three weeks. Some of this may have hit home for some of you or resonated deep within your subconscious where you stuffed all awkward memories from freshman year. But I have honestly learned more about my own idiosyncratic behavior in the last 504 hours than in the past 18 years. I wonder how long it will take my roommates to catch on.
Truthfully, I have made genuine connections with people and am enjoying my classes. Nevertheless, after three weeks, that chocolate milk can now be considered vintage (I should really throw that out), but me, I’m still a very fresh freshman.