As I begin my second year at Vassar, I admit that I’m still unsure about a lot of things. I’m clueless when it comes to my major (“undecided” should definitely count as a field of study), how to successfully be an adult remains a mystery and I’m still waiting for Cappy to email me back about my request to make “Drunk In Love” our new Alma Mater. However, I am absolutely positive about one thing: I want a do-over. Yep! Forget the class of 2018; I’m repeating freshman year.
Why, you might ask? Why would I want to re-live a year full of cringe-worthy naiveté and soul-crushing mistakes (i.e. going to the Mug sober)? The way I see it, last year was a trial-run, during which I obtained valuable nuggets of knowledge that will help this year go much smoother. You know how you return a “mysteriously” damaged item to the store for a newer, less fucked-up version? That’s basically what I’m going for here.
As I embark on my journey as the newest member of the class of 2019, my plan is to have no plan. Last year, I had every facet of my life strategically arranged. I was certain of my major. I knew which classes I was going to take all the way through my senior year. Hell, I’m pretty sure I had how many times a day I went to the bathroom accounted for.
After receiving a less-than-helpful draw number for class selection, I was crushed when I didn’t get the classes I believed myself predestined to be in. To avoid disappointment, I’ve decided that this year I’ll choose my classes completely at random. I was thinking of attaching the names of different courses to womp-womps, releasing them in Noyes circle and catching four of them to be the classes I take this semester. Or, I could just do “Eenie Meenie Minnie Moe”–I haven’t worked out the logistics yet. Also, I’ll make sure that this same level of nonchalance will continue once I’m in my classes. Last year, I had at least one stress-induced panic attack every other week. This year, I will live by a simple rule: It’s only a lot of reading if one chooses to do all the reading.
While becoming more relaxed in my class selection, I also see my second freshman year as an opportunity to be slightly choosier with my friend group. Remember how you would try to be friends with every person you met during freshman orientation, only to realize weeks later that you have nothing in common? Then you become stuck in this weird acquaintance limbo. You’re not really friends, but you still have to acknowledge each other’s existence with an awkward head nod.
This year, if someone doesn’t make the cut, I’ll sit ‘em down Dr. Phil style and explain that we just didn’t work out. Maybe our paths will cross again someday, but until that point we can just pretend this never happened.
Who could forget the infamous freshmen fifteen? At first, I thought it was just a myth that parents–still bitter about the loss of their own quick metabolism–tell their college-bound children out of spite. My now too small shorts have proven otherwise. Will I be using my second chance as a freshman to eat a healthy diet and go to the gym regularly? Hell no! The way I see it, the freshmen fifteen is like death and taxes; it’s inevitable. You can succumb to it after a lengthy bout of kicking and screaming, or you can embrace it with a warm gooey chocolate chip Nilda’s.
This is the perfect plan right? I mean, I’m sure there’ll be some paperwork to push through and some administrators win over with the old Lightner charm. But ultimately, I’ve provided myself with a fresh start. The only thing I haven’t worked out is how the hell I’m going to cough up an extra year’s worth of tuition.