There are mornings when you wake up—not to the coos of birds building nests outside your dorm window—but to the hellish heartbeat of your alarm clock. There are afternoons when you’re forced to choose between finishing your homework before your next class, and waiting in a half-hour line for dry pasta baked by an untalented chef named James—those days, your stomach growls pretty loudly by dinnertime. (And Monsieur James’ skills never seem to improve by dinnertime, despite the fact that he’s getting daily practice on a few thousand mouths.)
Sometimes, you’re late to your 8:10 class because you feel fat in all five of the outfits you’ve tried on since waking up at 7:49. Inevitably, everyone on your floor has an Orgo test the next day—no one has time to listen to your anguished rant about feeling fat, or endorse your plan to swear off Oreo-toppings on your fro-yo for the rest of the week. In desperate need of moral/emotional support, you call an old high school friend in anticipation of a peaceful chat with a voice you’ve known for years. (“No Bestie, you’re not fat. I mean, I haven’t seen you since summer vacation, but you don’t sound like you’ve put on any weight!”)
Inevitably, those are always the days when your friend just got back together with her loser boyfriend; you politely let her gush about him for forty-five minutes, and then you realize that you’re five minutes late for a club meeting and your friend still hasn’t shut up about BF’s beautiful smile/big biceps/ lucrative career plans. You excuse yourself from this disappointing conversation, decide against making the club meeting, and want nothing more than to crawl up your six-foot ladder to bed. Unfortunately, you attend the seventeenth-best school in the nation (measured by percentage of Adderall-dependent students) and have a Psych exam the next day. Instead of pulling yourself under your covers, you head to the Baseball Glove Lounge with a six-pack of Full Throttle. You choose a seat facing a brick wall, so as few people as possible see the tears streaming your face as you ponder the eternal question, “Why didn’t I save my parents $200,000 and go to community college?”
Asher Roth wasn’t lying when he proclaimed the wonders of college, but we all occasionally endure days here that drive us very close to fits of tears. Last week, when I began writing this article, there was an overwhelming sense of “blue” clinging to my thoughts, feelings, and ability to concentrate on Calc homework. I adore Vanderbilt. I love Thai Thursdays; the leafy-green smell of campus in early morning; the everlasting opportunities for late-night conversations; the liveliness of frat parties after a long week of studying; the friends who force you to rethink opinions and stereotypes you solidified in high school; the beautiful memories made last year in the Commons; and the promise that the next five-and-a-half semesters will be filled with even more precious moments. Intermingled with all of the joys of living in the Vandy Bubble, however, are small disappointments and little heartaches—in the form of pop quizzes, insecurities, the opposite sex, and Rand food—that leave us feeling raw and wounded.
Both of those adjectives describe the state of mind I found myself in two weeks ago. Unless I told you—and I probably didn’t—you couldn’t have known. If you’re a girl I’m friendly with, I likely smiled and complimented your shoes when we saw one another in the salad line. If you’re a boy I know, I certainly flirted and touched your arm too much when we stopped to chat on the way to our respective classes. I hid my blueness from most people (though I did mention it, lightly, to several good friends); partially because it’s always embarrassing to admit when we’re having problems, and also because I knew it would pass, eventually.
Nothing particularly exiting happened today—although I did spend several hours exchanging life/Fall Break stories with a friend; and received an email from a teacher, stating that my quiz scheduled for tomorrow was moved to two days later—but I was happy being pleasantly bored. After all, it’s a delicious feeling—being “pleasantly bored” in the cozy piece of Nashville we now call home. It seems preposterous, today—as I recall the finer moments of the last two weekends, and the weekday chats and laughs I shared over meals—that I have ever felt gloomy at beautiful Vandy. But life, emotions, and hormones are cyclical. Sadness clung to me two weeks ago, it has struck me before; and, as circumstances shift and situate with the falling of leaves and changing of seasons, it will visit again.
Part of growing up, I’ve decided, is not becoming immune to periods of blueness, or numbing ourselves from our feelings, but learning to accept fluctuations in emotion as an inescapable aspect of life. And so, I’ve composed an action plan for the next time sadness strikes: I will smile often; flirt freely; help a friend; pray before bedtime; study diligently; and let someone in front of me in the salad line (but only if it looks as if there is no danger of the chicken running out). Blue can be a beautiful color. Blue is the color of the yummiest popsicles, my favorite wintertime jacket, and—of course—the sky. While we wait for our personal skies to clear up, we can challenge ourselves, every day, to do something that makes someone else a little bit happier.
Right now, though, I am going to climb up in the air to bed and perfect my costume plans for Halloween this Saturday. I love college, too, Asher.
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