Then there’s that constant push to take on what’s next. I think I’ve been on that track since middle school. Taking honors classes so I could take APs in high school, clawing for A’s and hoarding extracurriculars in high school so I could squeak my way into a top university. And college? For the most part, I feel like I’ve avoided those fast-track urges. Until now. Senior year at Wash. U. feels a little like high school all over again, except this time I’m fighting back.

High school, for me, was all about getting out. But I don’t feel that way about college. These years have been important to me; I’ve learned so much about myself—what I care about, who I love, what interests me, what I want. These years have been packed with self-discovery and important lessons. Funny how all of that threatens to fly out the window with a pile of applications on my desk. I feel the what-next panic taking over, creeping up on me horror-movie style. It’s like I go into autopilot, already set to strive for the top. Only this time, I’m not so sure what the ‘top’ really is. Instead, I’m asking myself, ‘What do I really want?’

Not an easy question when I’m supposed to plan my future around the answer. I can’t even order a sandwich; how can I possibly be expected to know what I want out of life? Or even out of next year? I know I want to go to grad school, but for what? Where? Do I want to go somewhere sunny? East? West? I always thought I’d get a Ph.D., but now I don’t even know what I’d use it for. All of these questions leave me feeling lost. And that’s when I decided to stop trying so hard.

Sure, it’s blasphemy, I know. But I’ve given up on having all the answers (frankly, I’ve given up on even having a large fraction of the answers). Instead I’ve decided to just let it be. From here on out I’m living in the moment. In other words, I’m getting in touch with my inner surfer dude/Zen master. There’s just so much to savor in the here and now that I refuse to break my back tackling my entire future. I want to give myself a chance to really appreciate my last semester of college. And hopefully, amidst all of that appreciation, I’ll learn a little more about what I want next. If life is really about the journey, I’m buying an open ticket.

1. Language Barriers

You know how relationship gurus are always claiming communication is key? Well, I’d say that communication-failure can spell doom for any budding (or budded) love. I’d know. One of my relationships clocked at three weeks; it ended because we suddenly realized that he was French (and spoke practically no English), and I could barely pronounce his name. When a relationship needs a translator, it’s probably best to just shut up and move on.

2. Emotional Barriers

This one is simple. Some people have feelings; some people don’t. And other people have way too many feelings. Don’t get sucked into another person’s emotional black hole. And don’t drown in someone else’s flash flood of feelings. Happy mediums, people.

3. Geographically Challenged

Long distance: a feat only intended for the strong, steady and emotionally-invested. An ample cash supply wouldn’t hurt either. Otherwise, after a couple cross-country flights, you’re left broke and pining, wasting away on gmail, waiting for a certain name to pop up on your buddy list. Proceed with caution, for distance has a way of making things dwindle and die.

4. Vertically Challenged

Maybe this is shallow, but very short people should not date very tall people. It’s freakish, wrong and likely to cause serious back and neck problems later in life. Do not date someone more than one foot taller than you. Pick on someone your own size.

5. Bad Timing

The timing is never right. You need to come to terms with that. “Right place, right time,” I’m starting to believe, is an urban legend.

6. Baggage

We all enter relationships with all our previous emotional baggage in tow. History is something with which we all have to grapple; perhaps some people just have a tad more grappling to do.

7. Phobias

Everyone is afraid of something, right? Fear is natural, fear is ubiquitous, but some fears are no good for relationship bliss. Commitment phobes and germaphobes could make for scary boyfriends. Sometimes you’re afraid for a reason.

8. The Unbalanced Seesaw

A relationship doesn’t function well when it’s unbalanced. When one person feels way more than the other, it’s like when a really fat kid and a really skinny kid try to get going on a seesaw. The fat kid will be stuck in the dirt. Period.

9. The Wandering Eye (and Hands)

If you really need to check if the grass is greener on the other side, prepare to lose access to your current grassy lawn. Don’t be greedy (it’s unattractive).

10. General Insanity

Men are from Mars, women are from Venus, and some people are from a planet all their own. Enough said.

//

So here I am faced with Rule One of Attraction: It’s unpredictable. Sometimes it feels so completely, maddeningly and suddenly random. You just never know when it’s going to hit. For example, one moment I’m in a New Zealand bakery ordering an almond croissant and the next I’m all weak in the knees for the boy behind the counter (yes, he makes it into my top five). I don’t know how people manage to function when faced with the constant risk of these sudden bouts of insanity. I mean, what do you do when unbridled lust strikes when you’re out buying your morning muffin? I immediately gave my number to that particular bakery boy, but that wasn’t necessarily the most judicious or prudent behavior. Learning to manage attraction with class is a constant effort.

I’d like to think of myself as a girl blessed with good sense. I’ve known a small collection of guys whom I would have loved to love. These were good, quality guys­—smart, sweet, funny and considerate—who would have made outstanding boyfriends. But I just couldn’t make myself be attracted to them. This conundrum leads us to Rule Two of Attraction: It’s unmanageable. Control freaks everywhere, prepare to have the reins ripped from your grasping fingers. You don’t decide who you’re attracted to; it just happens (or doesn’t happen) whether you like it or not. It doesn’t matter how good looking or perfect some guy is; if the sparks aren’t there, you’re in for one icy cold night. You really can’t force it (believe me, I’ve tried). Unfortunately, there are two edges to this sword: Sometimes you are stuck being attracted to someone you’d rather not be attracted to. Pheromones can really be a pain sometimes.

But, as always, there’s an upside. For when powerful attraction meets with your good sense, the result can be simply spectacular. When, by some divine stroke of luck, you end up attracted to someone who makes even your most sensible impulses feel satisfied, the fireworks can fly regret-free. And that contented combination is so much better than anything you could have managed on your own. Rule Three of Attraction? It has the potential to be unbelievable.

//

While I can’t deny that I’ve been mindlessly flipping pages for the last handful of hours, or that I’m merely taking a break to write this article, I’d like to say in my defense that I’m reading critically. And so is my roommate. Reading obsessively, yes, but with a skeptical mind (a mind that is rapidly losing brain cells). And as a product of all of our skepticism, my roommate and I have managed one interesting Twilight-inspired conversation. Our topic? Obsessive love.

If these books are really going to take up all this time we don’t have (finals, anyone?), we at least have to fight back by being snide and cynical. Sure, we both agreed that being in love with a vampire would be awesome—who wouldn’t want a boyfriend who could carry you from class to class at lightning speed while also saving you from impending death at least twice a day? That’s transportation and a life insurance policy all in one! And all you have to do for him is smell nice. Sounds like a good deal to me. But what we had a problem with was the way love is portrayed in these stories. The books go on and on about love being irrational, obsessive and worth laying down your life for. That’s not the love I want.

Yeah, I get that the characters in the books are dealing with special circumstances (one of them happens to be undead), but that kind of instantaneous, all-consuming “you are my life now” love really gets on my nerves. Maybe that’s because I’ve felt shades of that in the past, and I know it’s just not healthy. Actually, I wonder if it’s even love. Really, how can obsession be love? I think of real love as something that brings you balance, something that makes you even more confident and happy with yourself. Twilight love is anything but stable. Frankly, it’s borderline clinical.

I wouldn’t want to be consumed (either literally or metaphorically) by another person again. I wouldn’t want to experience first love twice. It annoys me that Twilight seems to present itself as a story of the way love should be. Maybe it’s just how love is when two people don’t know better yet.

Pardon the cynicism. Perhaps I’m just overcompensating because I’m still dutifully reading these books. Maybe I can’t buy in and long for that kind of connection, but I can at least relate. And even if the fantasy is unhealthy, I could use a little fantasy during finals week.

I’ve experienced a lot of big happiness in my years here, but it’s been the fight for small, everyday pleasures that has kept me sane. I think there’s a lot to be said for the little things that give you comfort or make you laugh. For my part, I’d like to extend a deep and sincere ‘thank you’ to the Wash. U. squirrels for never failing to bring comedy to my daily march to class. I’d say at least twice a week I’m laughing like an idiot over a squirrel. Like today, a squirrel stared me down with about a thousand yellow leaves crammed in its mouth. Maybe I’m sleep deprived, but it was hilarious. In the spirit of honoring mini-pleasures—no matter how lame—I’d say that squirrels, whether bounding up stairs in front of me or peering at me out of trash cans, have their own small impact on the quality of my day.

And now that I’m trudging my way toward Thanksgiving (why does every assignment need to be due either two days before or one day after break?) I’d like to give a shout out to a small thing that makes this holiday just a little bit better: my grandma’s Moldy Salad. Okay, I know it sounds disgusting, but let me explain. Ever since I can remember my grandmother has served her Moldy Salad at Thanksgiving. Basically she puts Jell-O, Cool Whip, cherries and pineapple into a mold and freezes it. The end result: icy-cold slices of cherry-purple-creamy Cool Whip with imbedded chunks of frozen fruit. It’s delicious, and it’s tradition. I can’t imagine Thanksgiving without it.

Yes, you cynics, I do take pleasure in many other things beyond rodents and Jell-O salads. Recently I’m a big fan of graham crackers and anything with feather down (I have a pair of ‘foot duvets’ that keep my feet so damn warm). And then there are super colorful skies and those occasional warm days in winter. (Why do you toy with my emotions, St. Louis?)

I’ve gotten in the habit of encouraging myself to look around and appreciate those kinds of things. Lately I’ve been walking around with my little camera, taking pictures when I think something is beautiful. This may be a totally obnoxious, pretentious phase brought on by a quarter-life crisis, but I really do want to heighten my human experience. I don’t think life ever makes things easy. You have to work for your relationships, work for a living, work to be better and wiser and stronger. And you also have to work to appreciate the pebbles among the boulders. I think there’s something empowering in recognizing and finding your own small, sometimes frozen chunks of happiness. Happy Thanksgiving.

The worst hurdles, I’ve realized, are the semester-long projects that I’m supposed to be chipping away at. Chipping away? This concept is alien to me. Who chips away when something else is due tomorrow and the next day? Who chips away when she barely has a moment to catch her breath? Not me! I’ve been crossing my fingers and whistling with my eyes closed, waiting for life to surprise me with a miraculous opportunity to catch up.

And have you experienced the Sunday guilt? I have. Every weekend. It’s that feeling you get after not working either Friday or Saturday, that deep, deep pit in your stomach when you realize you’ve passed up on catch-up once again. It’s your Sunday installment of imminent doom. Like swimming in shark-infested waters strapped to a raw steak. A library-free weekend is a sin against yourself (and your successful future).

I watched multiple friends make and then cancel plans for Fall Break (is one day off really a break?). We were thinking along similar lines. Fall Break presented an excellent opportunity to catch up. Why go make memories and have fun when you have a chance to hole up in your apartment, free of friends and distractions, and tackle some of that work that has gotten out of hand? It’s official. College has killed the vacation.

It seems life just rolls along, piling on stress and guilt and sometimes smashing you like roadkill. How is that fair? Sure, I could throw in a lecture about healthy and efficient work habits; we’ve been trying to decode their secrets for three years, and I know only about two people who have actually succeeded. The rest of us are twitchy and anxious and barely keeping up. Wouldn’t it be great if college would let us declare a kind of bankruptcy? And offer us a good old American bailout? Challenges like ours are always easier with a clean slate.

Things have really changed, needless to say, with college successfully beating into my brain that I have no control. Okay, an exaggeration—I have very, very little control, certainly in contrast to my godlike early days. I mean, look at my life now. A day without the library is a day loaded with guilt. My time is currently under lease to five different Wash. U. professors and this newspaper. However they choose to divide it up, that’s between them and out of my hands. Yes, I understand that I’m the one who sold my soul. I made the choices that got me into this mess. And I make choices all the time—I’ve hardly surrendered my free will. But now I more vividly understand the distinction between good choices and bad choices, and the pressure to make the good ones has reached a crescendo. So what choice do I really have?

And here I am, so much older, so much more experienced, so much learning under my belt. Of course, one thing I’ve realized is that there is no such thing as control in healthy relationships (well, there is self-control—but who has that?). You just have to let go—isn’t that what they always say? Well, I have absolutely no desire to exercise power over other people. But hey, the timing is always off, or the distance too great, or the circumstances too bizarre. I sure would like to have a little more power over some of that stuff. I’ve tried to fight all those things in the past and have only a bruised ego and a fat lip to show for it. Is that really fair? Should there really be so many things that affect me that I can’t do anything about? Shouldn’t I be allowed to fight back?

You’ll tell me what any knowledgeable person would tell me: the only thing I can ever have control over is myself. But what does that really mean? I have only minimal control over my appearance: I can change my shirt and put up my hair, but I don’t exactly have the funds for massive plastic surgery (why mess with perfection anyway?). And my body never listens to me—it trips me up with every step and occasionally makes me stutter instead of speak. What kind of control is that? And sure, I’m free to make my own choices, but you already heard what I think about that. So for now, I know what’s advisable and what’s not—I’m trying my very best to stick with advisable. I guess even freedom has its limits.

I’ve decided it’s a great misconception that power comes with age. I could never be powerful now the way I was when I was in elementary school. The years have made me a tad more impotent, all this learning and experience dumbing me down. But perhaps there is something to letting go of the desire to control. I now recognize that I don’t have total authority over my time, my body, my feelings or (much more generally) my life. And that is becoming more and more OK. So is just stepping back and appreciating how my world and the people in it are helping to shape me. Maybe the weight of all the things I can’t control will help me be strong enough to muscle myself into changing for the better. Maybe I should start raising silkworms again.

He explained to his squirmy companion that her vote would surely be canceled out immediately after she cast it—said it wouldn’t even make a difference. He told her the candidates are all the same anyway.

If I were a more confrontational person, I might have said something instead of just rolling my eyes and muttering under my breath. But I can imagine asking Chipotle guy how he could wait in line for free food but not line up for the biggest opportunity to use that voice he seemed to love so much.

Sure, my vote is going to be canceled out. The same roommates who waited in that burrito line with me will probably be waiting in line with me at the polls. I’m for Obama; they’re for McCain. Canceled, just like that. It would actually make some kind of sense for me and one of them just to stay behind, paint our nails and save the time and trouble of voting. But we’re all going. We’ll all be there standing in line, even without the promise of free food.

It’s not that I think my vote is going to decide the election. I guess I’m voting for the taste of it—a little taste of all those American rights and freedoms I’ve heard so much about. Together we can perhaps avoid eight years of the wrong leader. Or maybe not. But I really do care, and saying you don’t—saying you’ll take a pass on voting day—is worse than lame; it’s just plain lazy (you heard me Chipotle guy: I think you’d rather be napping than voting—way to stand up to the man).

Political issues are not abstract—they get at you on a personal level, they affect almost every arena of your life. You can think of voting as a statement: You’re saying, yes, you’ll break your routine and even wait in long, obnoxious lines to help make your country a better place. You’d do it for a burrito, so of course you’ll line up to choose the new leader of the free world. You are free to make decisions that are bigger than yourself. A new president, or, let’s say, global warming—these are challenges so huge, they make you feel tiny. You think, “Why would I turn off my light or recycle this cup when I know that guy isn’t going to do it? What’s the point?” But you are free to choose to be greater and more powerful than you feel.

You have to ask yourself: Do you really want to stand by while more people vote for American Idols than for an American president? Like the Chipotle guy waited almost an hour for a free burrito (and spent almost that long talking about not voting)? Of course, he’s free to choose not to vote. But if you don’t vote, you have absolutely no right to complain. And c’mon, we’re college students—complaining is what we do best. See you at the polls.

Well, physically I’m working on burning off several pastry pounds, my hair is an inch or two longer (minus the section I accidentally set on fire), and I bought a new shirt. Nationally I now know to sometimes lie and say I’m Canadian. And financially things are much the same (except for the fact that I now have no money). Not exactly shocking changes.

After the experience of living and studying abroad, the manual urges me to reexamine every aspect of both my person and my personality. I don’t really have a problem with that. Actually, I was thinking about these things all along. And what surprised me in the process was actually the lack of change I witnessed in myself. Or I suppose, the lack of radical change.

I was expecting something big to happen to me while abroad. I was expecting be shaken up and reassembled. What I got was, well, not nearly enough fodder for an early memoir. My semester abroad wasn’t some kind of disjointed, isolated event—it was more like a continuation of the steady upheaval and unrelenting change that I’ve experienced each year here at Wash. U. (but in Auckland, the upheaval came with accents!). I went to the other side of the world, and guess what? I couldn’t escape growing up.

The manual exhorts me to “develop realistic expectations.” It says I should “read and reflect on the myths [I] might subconsciously believe.” Such as, “everything will be the same as it was when I left.” Or, “I can pick up friendships where I left off.” Or, “people will be interested in hearing about my exciting experiences in New Zealand” (no, I wasn’t planning on telling you all about them).

Okay, I get why they’re warning about these things, but with a healthy nod to my still-expanding social savvy, I’d like to think I learned these lessons a while ago. Heck, it doesn’t take study abroad to change my friendships—that happens just after coming back from summer break. I mean, everything is always changing whether or not you’re climbing glaciers in some foreign country somewhere. If I’ve learned one lesson in college, it’s that one. None of this holds still. I’ve been away for a while, and, yes, things are different. Most of my friends are 21, and I’m not. The construction is finished on campus and the South 40 is a giant hole. I’m a senior, and I should have plans. Like it or not, I guess that’s life.

As transformative as traveling can be and as jarring as the return might seem, I guess I’m still waiting for the shock to hit me. Honestly, my return to Wash. U. has felt pretty natural. Sure, the cheese and crackers they sell in Whispers have vastly improved, and I can go sit on a giant beanbag in the DUC whenever I want. But beyond that my disorientation has felt more like mild confusion (and that’s more of an overall state of being).

The little book warns me to be wary of the myths betraying my subconscious, but maybe “reverse culture shock” is the myth. Or maybe life is just plain shocking, and we’re just not used to be shocked in such new and shocking ways. How about that, eh? So far, though, I am not in need of recovery, readjustment, or some radical reassessment (at least not any more than I was before study abroad.) My reentry manual cautions me: be skeptical of the myth that, “I will not experience any reverse culture shock.” Well here’s another myth: that manuals ever help you figure anything out.

People who know things are always telling me that communication is the key to every relationship. How true. And like almost every other very true thing, it’s easier said than done. I’ve learned in college that I’m downright squirrelly about confrontation—especially when my opponent knows where I sleep. So lesson number one: talk before coming to blows (I’ve never physically brawled with a roommate, but I’ve fantasized about it).

The worst thing you can do as a roommate is suffer in silence. Problems tend to build—if you give a mouse a cookie, it’ll ask for a kidney (something along those lines). I mean, once you start letting things slide, where do you draw the line? Last semester I was in New Zealand sharing a little box of an apartment with two other girls. It was tight quarters—thin walls, itty-bitty bathroom, and about five different kitchen utensils shared between us.

I should have had that conversation I was itching to avoid. I should have worked things out before the situation completely deteriorated. Oh well. I now suggest some kind of proactive plan to eliminate common roommate problems before they even surface.

One of my roommates was awesome; the other tested the limits of my sanity. Looking back, I probably should have shared this with her sooner (but maybe put it more nicely). I spent most of the semester doing this girl’s dishes and cleaning up her messes because I felt uncomfortable with the idea of giving orders to a peer. So instead, I let my resentment build up like soap scum or the wads of her hair clogging our shower drain. Instead of stewing, I should have had that conversation I was itching to avoid. I should have worked things out before the situation completely deteriorated. Oh well. I now suggest some kind of proactive plan to eliminate common roommate problems before they even surface; I’ve become a fervent believer in trash schedules and assigned tasks (it’s type A, but it works). You just can’t assume that people will live like you. And however much you may hope for mind reading, sometimes it doesn’t pan out. Put it in words, put it on paper—just say something.

The other major (and uber cliché) lesson of roommate relations is you must be willing to compromise. Rigidity isn’t a great quality in a roommate. Accommodating others may not always be fun, but, hey, that’s democracy for you. I have this really awesome penguin mobile hanging in our common room right now, but my roommates have strongly vetoed it and I think it’s coming down. I guess not everyone appreciates having five species of Antarctic penguins hanging at face level in the middle of their living space. See what I mean about sacrifice?

And then sometimes things simply don’t work out, and that’s when you should always remember to lock your door. I mean it—once my New Zealand roommate started listening in doorways, I never left my apartment or went to sleep without fumbling with that lock for a few minutes. Safety first, and have a great year!