thatnight.net

I was driving in my car yesterday when a radio DJ announced that Blink-182 would be performing in Pittsburgh this summer, and I sort of immediately squealed aloud. But then, when I got to thinking, I realized I wasn’t that excited. I don’t really like Blink-182 anymore, let alone follow them enough to know they were even touring again. And then it registered — I’ve reached the age wherein I’m subconsciously thrilled about bands I’m currently uninterested in because they provided significant background music to a much earlier period of my life.

And the fact that I marked that occasion as a significant occurrence without giving much thought to the actuality of Saturday being my last ever day of college shows how meaningful a role higher education has played in my life.

I’ve been saying for a year now that I wish I would’ve studied computer science or web design. While I don’t regret my major, which ended up being English lit (though I was only a handful of credits away from creative writing), it may have been a good idea to study something more career-oriented, as I’ve been hired to code three websites in the last two months, and not one person has offered to pay me for a pretty poem.

I do have a pretty good outlook on things, though. Twitter has my back, y’all.

(Thanks to everyone, even the jerks who landed their major-related dream jobs, for your responses, and Burgh Baby for the original tweet.)

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I was born without the college gene.

Sometimes, when others realize this, they mistakenly think that I’m impartial to or uninterested in learning. This isn’t the case. I will be the first to admit that I attempted to sit front and center in every one of my classes, especially the ones relating to my major, but would feel so much stress and disdain for then having to go back to my room and spend eight hours writing a paper on a short story we’d been picking apart for the past two weeks.

I was all, c’mon, man. Wasn’t my eagerness enough? What did I say that made you think I wasn’t paying attention to those metaphorical trees? What conclusion should I have reached that I didn’t already enthusiastically throw up my hand to defend forty-seven times?

But even more so, it was the social aspect, something with which I could never fully become comfortable, and Lord knows I tried. I wore glittery tops to several events held in the basements of deteriorating houses. I raised plastic red cups to 23-year-old shirtless men who were turned upside down and sprayed with keg taps. I mastered the throwing technique of a ping pong ball. And the whole time I wished I was sleeping.

I even joined a sorority my sophomore year, figuring that if I was stuck in that town, I might as well do something to distract myself from the fact that there was no escaping the campus. Some of those girls were so effortlessly graceful and beautiful that it made my hair ache, so much so that when I pledged and was introduced to the term mandatory mixer, I didn’t run for the very nearby hills.

But those few girls I became close with were the exception to my bitter awfulness, and when I saw another woman wasted to the point of announcing how those pictures of her up on the bar, practically procreating with a similarly intoxicated human being, would be perfect for her special Facebook profile, I couldn’t help but think the most hateful, malicious things about this person I did not know. My hate would be so strong that it would ruin my evening and send me to bed feeling gross. Thoughts including, but not limited to, her utter drunkenness (I would have more self-control after chugging a 12-pack — does she realize how massively flabby her upper arms are? — she has no business wearing a tank top or continuing to not be hit by a school van) were running through my mind so ceaselessly that I was sure I was very visibly snarling.

Here were these girls, girls who were attending my college, my higher institution of furthering education, acting like Lindsay Lohan pre-lesbian. It took a lot for me to not rip off their 4-inch heels and remind them that they were dancing atop a dirty counter in a town named Slippery Rock LOCATED IN THE PENNSYLVANIA STICKS.

(I eventually threw in the Natty Light-stained towel and transferred to a private school in the city.)

And I know what you’re thinking. So, it’s A-OK for the men to drink and act like idiots? And my only explanation for this is that it’s one of those things I, for some reason, can relate to the general screwiness of the gender, like when the dog drinks from the toilet and even though you know it’s pretty gross and unnecessary because the water dish is sitting right there, you kind of just roll your eyes, say “ew,” laugh for a few seconds, and close the lid.

Either that, or sometime during my relatively traditional upbringing it was instilled in my 5-year-old self that it’s all right if the man has a few too many glasses of red wine, as long as the woman has a buttery batch of pirogies ready before he starts drooling on the couch.

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During my first semester of college at a state university, I was perplexed at the situation I found myself in. I was five hours from Pittsburgh, and at the time, let me tell you, I was happy to be away from that place. I mean, there had to be better places! With people, who were completely different! And better skyscrapers, in different shapes!

I ended up out in the country, at a nice school that was somewhere between Harrisburg and 12,465 cornfields. “This is it,” I told myself. “This is the college part of my life. And good golly, am I ever ready!”

And so I lived in a dorm. I went to class. I met some learners. And then I went back to my dorm. Now what?

Well, there are parties tonight, with people from the college! And we have studying to do, for the college! We can take a stroll to that park near the college! We can play a game of basketball at the gym at our college!

We could drive somewhere, but we need to stay close! To the college!

And someone from home would call and ask, “Hey, what’s going on with college?”

And the only answer was EVERYTHING.

Eventually I came back to Pittsburgh, transferring a couple times until I felt comfortable enough with my school : life ratio. It took a few tries.

The point of all this? That’s a dangerous thing to do. Because now, the only interest I have in college is being done with it. I’m like that annoying kid in 10th grade algebra — Math? Maaath? Why do I need maaath? Can’t I please use this 50 minutes to read this Anne Boleyn Wikipedia article 57 times? I like it more than maaath.

It seems as if I’m turning into a more simple version of myself, which is completely backwards. I really wish I had the motivation to write a four-page paper on mitosis, but I’ll wait until tomorrow. Because really? I’d rather just sit in that chair and cross-stitch for six hours. But not seven, because King of Queens comes on at 9.

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“So, Rachel, what are you studying?”

“English.”

“So, you’re going to teach?”

“No, I’d prefer not to. I’d just like to write.”

“Oh, so, like, journalism?”

“No, not really. More on the creative side, I guess.”

“Oh. Like, stories?”

“Maybe.”

“What are some of your ideas?”

“Well, there’s this one about a girl who walks into a mini mart, and her head rolls off.”

“Oh.”

“…”

“…”

———-

“So, Rachel, what are you studying?”

“English.”

“So, you’re going to teach?”

“Absolutely.”

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It’s my fourth year of college, and even though I’m probably not graduating for another year, it’s absurd to think that I once expected to be engaged by the time I was a senior.

But maybe, given that I had met the right person, things would have worked out that way, and I wouldn’t find it so strange.

No, it would still be strange. For me, at least. Although I wouldn’t mind that sort of lifestyle, I can’t let myself get married just because it’s the next step.

Unless it really is the next step.

Bangs. I’m definitely getting bangs.

Edit: Got the bangs.

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Shouldn’t a one-credit, 8:00am class entitled “Lifetime Fitness” be a lecture course regarding topics such as flexibility, healthy eating, anatomy, etc.? Was I surprised by being tested on the number of pull-ups I’m capable of? Should I have worn anything besides jeans? The answer to all of these questions is yes.

At my college, only the undergraduate portion is all girls. The graduate school is coed. Both have a very small student body. Every once in a while, as I sit in the public areas packed with chicks, a lone grad boy wanders in. He looks somewhat uneasy, tossing his folder on a table in an attempt to seem completely nonchalant, and usually doesn’t stay long.

It’s the beginning of January and the AC in the classrooms just kicked in. I went out last night without a sweater. Does this mean no more snow ever? Because I would be totally OK with that.

The ghosts at the new place have been laying low, probably because I’ve been too tired to pay them any attention, even at their scariest, and once I’m asleep, all of their chain rattling would be for naught.

Thank you to everyone who did the whole Bloggie nomination thing. It made last week THE BEST WEEK EVER!

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My first college was located near Philadelphia. It was pretty average, a state school, with brick buildings and a large student population.

Since then, I’ve made a few transitions, the biggest of which being my current college, a private school tucked away in the “park-like acres” of Pittsburgh (the most fantastic place in all the land).

I’ve wanted to describe the experience, but I always had trouble finding an intro, never able to come up with the appropriate things to say. The entire undergraduate student body is only 800? Too boring. The campus is composed of historical mansions and covered in botanical gardens? Too haughty. It’s an all-women’s institution where everyone is BFF? Too weird.

I was on campus tonight, though, at a small gathering and ended up taking a lot of pictures, and I think it provides a nice window into life at this particular school.

University President Esther Barazzone’s home on campus was recently decorated for Christmas by local designers and florists as part of a show for our local conservatory.

Earlier today, she sent out a mass e-mail to the students, welcoming them to stop by later in the evening to take a look at her house and drink hot chocolate and cider.

When I arrived, there were six or so girls there. I knocked on the front door and was greeted by Esther (who remembered my name), her dog, and several of her friends. I was given a tour of the rooms and introductions were made.

I wondered around for a while, awestruck at the detail in the decorations, taking pictures and eating cookies from little china plates, and periodically being led by Esther as she explained her art collection.

I was crazy about the table settings.

After a little while the small group was ushered into the living room, where we were coaxed into singing a few Christmas carols. Esther led, of course. There she is on the right.

It was like stepping into a magazine, everything was so elegant, but it was also surprisingly warm and comfortable.

It lasted for about an hour, after which everyone said their goodbyes and wandered back to their homes or dorms to sleep or finish homework.

The photo set can be found here.

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It’s interesting and disheartening that the only time I’ll be able to truly enjoy learning, without having the constant torment of insufficient finances that I need to make it through, will be after I’ve graduated and finished with higher education.

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One nice thing about college, besides beer pong, is the ability to generally form your own schedule around how often you want to be lectured consecutively. I piled everything on Tuesdays this semester, straight through from 12:30 to 9:30, with some minor overflow on Thursdays.

As I sit here between Biology and Psychology, trying to throw an entry together, this ladybug flies in the room and lands on my armrest. And I couldn’t deny its ambition.

So here you go.

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The professor is struggling to get the overhead projector to work. This happens at least once a week, in any given class. She turns it on. The blue screen comes up. There’s sound, no picture. She stares at it, exasperated, and turns to the class. “Are any of you technologically inclined?” Nope! We don’t know computers here!

Us students are rowdy today. That means we’re actually talking to each other. A boy in brown corduroy on the right side of the room is telling a story about alcohol and elephants. There’s a boy to the left of me in a leather jacket, straining to hear. He shouts back, “WHAT! HA! I just caught the end of that, man!”

The boy in corduroy has an audience, and he is happy. “Hey man,” he says, “Come down here!” The boy in the leather jacket makes his way across the room. I think they’ll be friends.

Tonight is Blogfest 12 in Pittsburgh. Did you know that Pittsburgh is the third bloggiest city in the country? There are some good looking people involved in this. I’ll show you sometime.

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