Fall break almost broke me. I was expecting a much needed vacation; I didn’t realize it would be a stint in solitary. Starting Thursday afternoon, Wash. U. unleashed a mass exodus. It felt like just about everyone split. Everyone with the means to flee, everyone with ties or connections in the Midwest, everyone with a safe house somewhere, anywhere, to protect them from the vacation devastation about to hit campus. So many of my friends scurried away like rats abandoning a sinking ship. But this Californian stayed put. I held my ground, and man oh man, do I wish I hadn’t.
On Saturday, I stared at the ceiling for an hour. Then I watched “Look Who’s Talking.” If there is anyone out there who would like to argue for the comedic chemistry of John Travolta and Kirstie Alley, you have my e-mail address, and you’re going down. I’m not sure what happened to the rest of Saturday, but I do know that just to rub salt in the wounds of those who stayed, Bear’s Den closed early (so no dinner for Tess) and Bear Mart simply shut down (so no M&M fix for Tess). It was a long, long weekend. But starvation and chocolate distress are nothing compared to people deprivation. And here’s where I try to tie all this whining into something bigger and deeper.
This isn’t really about Fall Break. Fall Break was just an uncomfortable extreme that highlights the insidious truth about getting older and not being a freshman any more. I’m all by myself. A lot.
I don’t remember ever being alone freshman year. I had a roommate. I had my freshman floor. And I had maybe two other alternating social groups to protect me from the echoing silence of alone time. I traveled in a pack of freshmen and almost always ate at the big Bear’s Den tables. Forget all that stuff about knowing how to be your own best company. I unlearned all of that in my freshman year.
Now I need it back. I stuffed myself at the freshman buffet of interdependence, but now I’m on the sophomore crash diet. Compared to all the shrieking and giggling of last year’s horde, the quiet of my single room can be deafening. All this personal space is a daunting thing. At least it’s much more intimidating than I ever imagined it could be.
If I were still on my freshman floor, would I have lounged in bed for two and a half hours watching John Travolta work his infinite charm? Surely someone would have stopped me. Or at least joined in to make the scenario a little less pathetic.
The trick, of course, is balance. I haven’t forgotten the crazed, sleepless times last year when I plotted escape from my freshman floor. I now have a door that closes and locks (and locks EVERYBODY out). I no longer have to be social all the time. The party doesn’t go all night, every night any more. It has a bedtime. And so do I. This year at Wash. U., I choose my own social hours, my own study hours. I rule. And of course, I suffer the consequences. Sometimes alone time gets pretty damn lonely. Next fall break, I’m loading up on M&M’s and leaving the Wash. U. weekend wasteland in my dust.
Tess is a sophomore in Arts & Sciences. and a Forum editor. She can be reached via e-mail at [email protected].