Graduation means no more nose-puking

BY KATE MASON

Graphic by Jessica Kung

It was kind of a creepy show, this flashing before my eyes, full of every ludicrous thing I ever did and none of the fond memories that I'm sure I had at some point. Was this what I was going to remember about college? Puking my guts out on Old Campus? Digging my roommate's contacts out of her eyes when she was too drunk to do it herself? Holing up in CCL for the night with a case of Diet Coke and a box of cold pizza? Where was the intellectual epiphany? The growth as a person? The total life-altering spiritual experience?

After hours of mulling this over while playing Minesweeper on my computer, I came to a simple conclusion: college is just not that cool.

They say it's the best four years of your life, but I say that's a load of crap. Maybe it's because I'm tired of depriving myself of sleep for a bunch of dead white guys. Maybe it's because I never had sex in the stacks. I prefer to think it's because emerging from the bubble of Yale is kind of like emerging into that beautiful light they're always talking about in near-death experiences. You're kind of scared and sad, but you're also kind of thinking that if the next life really does include the ability to sleep eight hours a night without feeling guilty, then it's going to seriously kick this life's ass.

I came to Yale in August of 1997 expecting to learn about the world. Instead I learned how to stay awake for 48 hours straight, how to write a paper in 45 minutes, and how to puke through my nose. Now if I'm really smart, I'll learn how to avoid doing any of these things ever again. A quick rundown of why I can't wait to say goodbye to Old Blue...

Flashback No. 1: It's freshman year, in October. It's 4:30 a.m. on a Thursday night. In five hours, I have to take a midterm for a course called Vector Calculus and Linear Algebra. It's a class that I took on the advice of my boyfriend, who swore it was grand. In six hours, I have to take a midterm in Organic Chemistry—another class that my boyfriend recommended. I am on my fifth can of Mountain Dew and my second order of pork fried rice. I am still trying to figure out exactly what a vector is, and what it has to do with calculus.

Lesson No. 1: Don't trust course advice from anyone who spent most of high school doing math for fun.

Flashback No. 2: It's spring of sophomore year, and I have just dumped said boyfriend. My friends drag me to Toad's, a venue I had previously managed to avoid. I'm staring at the booty cam, fascinated. There's a girl I recognize from my physics class up there, wearing something that resembles a red handkerchief, only smaller. I am mulling over the implications of Toad's Saturday Night Dance party for my feminist notions of the objectification of women when some guy with too much hair gel catches my eye, thinking I'm staring at him. I freeze and he strides over. He grabs my ass and starts dancing with me, Toad's style. I'm disturbed, but I play along. I'm a free woman now. I'm at Toad's. This is what I'm supposed to do. He kisses me, and I let him, because this is what I'm supposed to do. He finally leaves, and I turn around. My friends are staring at me, horror-stricken. This was not what I was supposed to do. I spend the next two years trying to live down my experience with the guy my friends refer to as the "New Kid on the Block."

Lesson No. 2: Avoid Toad's at all costs. If this is not possible, travel only in large packs and violently elbow anyone who tries to come near you.

Flashback No. 3: It's May of junior year. I've just finished my last final and I'm feeling great. In 30 hours, I'm getting on a plane to Puerto Rico. All I have to do before then is pack up all of my belongings and move them into the apartment I'm living in next year (which is several blocks away), then clean up my room, take Connecticut Limo to JFK, and get on the plane. I do not see any of this as a problem, because I don't see how I can possibly have any more problems until September. To celebrate this lack of problems, I go out to a leisurely dinner and buy a new tank top at the Gap. Twenty-four hours of moving and zero hours of sleep later, it is midnight the next day, I am lugging a massive box containing every book I have ever read at Yale across an intersection in the pouring rain, the only light in my apartment's storage basement has blown out, and Connecticut Limo is picking me up in half an hour.

Lesson No. 3: You can beg for a paper extension, butAmer-ican Trans-Air is not as forgiving as your TA.

So there you have it. I came, I learned, I'm leaving. Of course, this doesn't mean I won't miss college. When else in my life will I have the opportunity to drink vodka out of a watermelon?

Back to Opinion...