Losing my VCard: An oddly impersonal retrospective

I headed into senior year pretty positive that the learning part of being a college student was over. Not the book learning part, the part where you get into a routine and know where offices are. The part where you know stuff. At least, that’s what my Mom kept telling me. Then, within the first 48 hours of being on campus, I was informed that the post office closes at 4:30, not 5, which explains why I thought they ALWAYS closed early, and I had to look at a map of Sander’s Classroom because where on earth is Room 117!? I don’t even have my drinking rules down.

Thanks to the school provided “Party Class” – a class where you see how many tequila suicides you can do before you pass out (footnote: tequila suicides involve snorting salt and squeezing a lime into your eye, it’s like an extreme sport for masochists).

Just kidding. It’s where they tell you that for every 30 beers you have you also have to have an ENTIRE LOAF OF BREAD pre-made into peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Because who doesn’t want to nom on an elementary school lunchtime staple while they are out on a Saturday night, making intense eye contact with the person across the room and hoping that they “get it”. And by “get it”, I mean get that you’re mad the sandwiches are cut horizontally. Along with not knowing all of the above, turns out I also am still incapable of remembering my VCard.

I lose (or, to avoid the virginity jokes, “forget”) my VCard like 15 times a year on average. I probably find it again 13 of these times, and the other two I am left paying the College the somewhat absurd fee of 25 dollars to get my piece of plastic back. I usually wait about a week before going to pay the fee, which is a week of me climbing through the window right next to the back door of Cushing which for two years I made sure was always left slightly open for that purpose.

Things got trickier in Jewett my junior year, probably because it’s “new-ish” and therefore has things like “windows that close”. Whatever. I adapted by spending at least 15 hours of my life sitting in the little room between the two entrance doors waiting for someone to come swipe me in after giving me a slightly suspicious “are you actually a Vassar Student what if I let you in and you rob everyone” look.

Now that I am a senior, I don’t need a VCard to get into my house, but I still need it to 1) buy food, 2) do laundry, and 3) get into the gym. None of these are really that important except for the “buying food” part because it turns out I can’t cook for myself and I keep eating beef jerky for lunch, which is causing my doctor to have MSG related stress dreams. Laundry is irrelevant for at least another week, and I will continue to annoy the crap out of the gym workers by knocking on the glass door and trying to look my best like a sad puppy so they let me in, then sprinting by them without making any more eye contact so I don’t get asked for my card.

This could all be pretty easily solved if I would just go to the Card Office for the bajillion- th time, suck it up, order a new card, and pay the 25 dollars.

However, I just can’t bring myself to do it. I’m already giving them my summer wages, which, granted, was like 5 dollars, but still, I could have bought a meal with those 5 bucks that wouldn’t turn me into a large salt lick. That fee is STRAIGHT PROFIT for Vassar College. The card takes like three seconds to make. By “like” I mean exactly 3.18 seconds because I timed it on my phone the last time I got a new one.

I alone have probably given Vassar enough money for my flimsy pieces of plastic that Vassar could buy its own set of science textbooks! I would absolutely protest the 25 dollar fee, if I wasn’t aware that there is no one to blame but myself for the fact that I seem to throw my VCards about as if they were dolla dolla bills and I was an affluent rapper.

All the same, I probably won’t go get a new one anytime soon, because I want that money for my next party so that I can make an appropriate amount of sandwiches.

Cut correctly.

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