I'm getting old. I can feel it every time I bend down and my knees crack in protest or buy a new pair of jeans and realize that my metabolism must have hit middle age already and my time on the EFX machine needs to increase. Most of all though, I feel 21 years old, emphasis on the old, every time I go to visit my sister in East Halls.
Now before you get your unmentionables in a bunch, please hear me out. I was a freshman but four short years ago, and boy was it fun. The random snowball fights in the quad, -- trust me froshies, if we ever get enough snow it'll be a blast -- Sunday brunches spent piecing together the weekend's activities, frat-ratting with my floor and the first nice day of spring have left me with some fabulous memories I'll never forget. But was I ever as young to the seniors as today's freshmen seem to me?
God, I hope not.
Every now and then my sister takes pity on my pathetic hungry soul and takes me to Fresh Express. While I sit there and catch up with her while picking on that freakishly-tall boy she seems to like, I can't help but be amazed by some of the things I overhear.
"Oh man, I was so wasted last night I came to class drunk and told my professor she was hot!" True story.
One time the "Apache Dance" song came on, the bubbly blond behind me practically jumped out of her mini-skirt and tights. "Oh my God, I know all of the moves to this song!" Are you serious?
About two weeks into last semester I was talking to a freshman about how she was adjusting to Penn State so far. She told me she was having so much fun, she hadn't been to a class yet because of all the partying she was doing. What? I mean, I understand the freedom of cutting the parental chain is an empowering one, but I bet when daddy finds out his $20,000 a year is going toward Natty Light, those shackles are going to come back twice as tight.
They say hindsight is always 20/20. Looking back on some of the things I did as a freshman, I sometimes wish for selective amnesia. Maybe someone should have rolled their eyes at my exuberant youth and told me to lighten up on the hair gel, makeup and fake cleavage. Perhaps I should have realized that I was better off looking for a cute boy in my English classes and not while being groped from "the windows to the wall."
But, dear freshmen, please listen up.
You don't have to be a Natty-guzzling Barbie to attract the boys, at least not the good ones. You don't have to give into peer pressure and go out on a Tuesday if that paper due for your 8 a.m. tomorrow hasn't been started. But most of all, when you do those stupid things, keep them to yourself. Four years from now you'll be at the bars reminiscing with your friends and it's guaranteed they'll bring up the time you made out with the guy dressed in a cow costume.
Now I know everyone's entitled to their youth, and I am all for blissful innocence. Go out and do all of the stupid things you're only allowed to do when you're young, but while you're busy complaining about how I'm an old loser, just remember to think of me four years from now when you're rolling your eyes at the freshmen.
