Yesterday I worked at the March Break open house and while it was fun to see all the children get excited about their inevitable doom – their cherub faces still full of the hope that is bound to be crushed – it also brought back the some of the many repressed memories from my own first year, a mere but vast three years ago. (Also, on a totally-but-actually-kinda-not unrelated note, parents are insane beings that struck fear into my co-workers and myself. If there is a question that could possibly asked, however inappropriate it may be, a concerned parent will ask it, loudly. I’m sorry sir, but no, I do not know the last time the toilets were cleaned. No, I couldn’t tell you the exact percentage of crime in the surrounding Kingston area. No, the townies don’t like us much, would you like wild and of age unsupervised young adults ruling your streets? I thought not.)
Going into university I was the same naïve and wholly inexperienced teenage child thing like the ones staring wide-eyed at the great expanse of Stauff, gasping in wonder. Little do they know of the mental and physical (and social) pain such a beautiful and awe-inspiring building can generate. But I digress, the point of this editorial is not to strike the fear of homework into the hearts of the readers, we all know the terror of the upcoming exams interspersed with various lengthy term papers. Instead I am going to enlighten you of a couple of the various and mostly true stupid stuff I did in first year.
First of all, being a totally book nerd/band kid/art junkie in high school, I wasn’t the most popular student, and neither was my small gathering of friends. Our idea of a good time was movie marathons and sugar induced comas. While all the popular kids were having Sixteen Candles level house parties because their rich parents were out of town, or hosting the party (unable to cope with their old age and having a midlife crisis that they force upon their children), or some shit like that. The point of this is, I had never had a drink until frosh week (which is totally not a thing you’re supposed to do, but I was set on being as wild as possible – rebelling against my white picket fence life and the like). As such, being an impressionable 17-year-old that quite frankly easily succumbs to peer pressure, I decided the best possible way to kick off university would be to do a couple shots of Jack Daniels and jump off the pier. I’ve never felt that thrill of the party so hard, nor felt the fear of drowning quite so clearly. It wasn’t an event I’ve been eager to repeat.
Not too far following that was Halloween, a night that to be honest I don’t remember much of. In the aftermath of what I assume would have been a very memorable night were it not for those last 4 shots I probably would have remembered (and actually probably regretted) I took inventory: A Wonder Woman costume (cape and one boot cover regretfully missing), and an empty bottle of Fireball Whiskey (the first of many drinks I wont be able to touch again). Various pictures on my phone reveal that I actually spent most of the night passed out under a table while games of beer pong and flip cup took place above me.
And now I have come full circle, preferring tea and knitting on a Friday night rather than getting “turnt” and whatnot, much to my mid-midlife crisis mother’s dismay.