Friday March 27, 2009 at 8:00 pm
Learning to seethe
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.
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.
You remind me a lot of myself in college; I hated pretty much everything back then except my homemade “FUCK THIS SCHOOL” t-shirt. I hated the beer pong every night, the music at parties, and not being able to respect the girls at those parties. When I did hook up, I hated myself for it.
I’ve told myself if I were to do it over again, I’d do it with the understanding that it’s just college, and there will be plenty of real life to live afterward. Do you think that would help?
Yes, although, I think I knew that, at least a little bit, and was too anxious to get to the “real life” part.
I went to a college that was incredibly similar only in the sticks of a different state. I found some great friends though and after my freshman and sophomore year tended to avoid the bar scene. I’m still not much a crazy, dancing on the bar kind of gal.
I almost didn’t click through from the feed reader because I thought you weren’t taking commnents. (Which I happen to welcome, as a choice, btw.)
When I was in high school I visited two schools one weekend. The first let me lunch with the dean of my department who was wild-eyed and inspiring. The other let an auditorium of high schoolers ask a panel of the college’s students questions about cheerleading and lacrosse. (sorry) My path was then clear. I guess I was lucky.
Of course I still had some wild-eyed adventures with classmates at the more academic institution, but that’s college. I learned a lot of important lessons then about breaking rules. Now long removed, I look back even more fondly, provided the pictures never surface.
Hey you,
Isn’t that the whole purpose of going away to school! Get it out of your system and move on, it’s part of growing up. As a guy we all know people that had a bit to much to drink or whatever the buzzzzz may be, thank god that was befor the digital craz, but I guess that the memories are still there. However, I just can’t see you as afrat rat.
Having a real good time and partying is a part of college, and life after that I guess, seeing I live in a city with dozen clubs people love to go to. But it depends on the people you know, if you don’t like it then don’t do it. I say don’t let peer pressure gets you.
ps. And although I love going out and have fun, I still don’t like that kind of behavior shown by that girl you wrote about. Skanky much.
I’m just starting college… and I’m realizing that I’m a lot like you in that sense. It’s not that I hate partying. It’s just that I can’t do it like most people my age. That and I think it’s pretty lame that your coolness factor is measured by your alcohol tolerance. That makes me very, very cool but seriously?
I know I’m supposed to get it out of my system but maybe the utter need to dance atop tables with a can of Busch Light isn’t even built into my system.
I guess I was lucky in that it was possible to be a party animal or a study bug. Or both depending on your mood. It also helped that there were at least three other colleges in my area.
College is not for everyone for a variety of reasons and not every college is going to be suited for every body. The good things is that you recognized what you wanted (and didn’t want) and made the change. A lot of people don’t have that initiative and stay someplace where they are not happy.
I never really liked those crazy parties either. Unless a hot guy I was currently stalking was there….
Why did you change the title?
BTW Derrick is starting to drool on the couch.
I hated college…
mainly because I hated class. Because I didn’t have that gene either. And I hated reading textbooks all day and studying and working in groups…
shit, I hated all of it.
Yeah, the same sort of thing happened to me. I waited for my awkwardness and self-righteousness to fade upon entering college, while I found it just increasing. I spent way, way too much time imagining ripping my trashy bleach-blond tennis-playing roommate off her bunk and slapping the crap out of her. Not the healthiest way to live.
Then I moved out, lived with mentally-ill intellectuals who didn’t wear sparkly nail polish but generated angsty social drama at every turn — that is, the *other* most common college experience. It wasn’t much better.
Possibly this is why I dropped out.
You must have a really low toilet if Bello is drinking from it!!