“There and back again”: Not an epic tale by a hobbit

When I went home for Thanksgiving weekend this past weekend, I was a statistic for the first time ever. You know what I mean: I was part of the group of students to whom the priest said “Welcome home!” in his opening greetings to mass, I was the person the church friends crowded to see how school was going, because they no longer had an opportunity to each week, I could even use the guilt card to see my friends at late hours of the night to provide optimal time with family during the day, and “catching up” (or as some smarty-pant friends of mine would term “ketchup”) time with friends at night. Or so I thought. I have to admit, before Thanksgiving weekend, I was optimistic about my time management, but nevertheless, there was a little bit of visiting with friends still. So anyways, you know that statistic (and by statistic I am completely just guessing that a statistic exists somewhere)? The one where hundreds of thousands of students flock to their hometowns to celebrate holidays and become the special kids to whom everyone pays their utmost attention during those short two or three days? Yes, well, I was one of them, and boy, did it feel weird at first. But I guess it’s nice to feel special. *understatement*

Going home and coming back to Queenstown was an interesting experience. You have to do all these backwards things, like pack to go home, since, as a girl in love with clothes, almost all of my wearable clothes moved with me. You have loose ends to tie up, or time-consuming computer jobs to finish at home since if you’re essentially home tech support for your parents, like me. And yet every moment you spend away from your family, whether it’s the time downloading new music, or transferring all your sunset pictures, or looking down at your phone to make plans with your friends while with your family, there is an Eeyore-sized-raincloud of guilt hanging over you. It takes a lot of time, for me at least, to realize that even if there is no such thing as too much time with parents when you’re a visiting student, they still want you to visit with your friends from elementary and high school. And they’re okay with that. 

Being home is the most comfortable thing in the world. I finally get what people mean. Being back in my apartment is also comfortable. But it’s not home. Is it cliché to say it does feel like a home away from home? That really is its function, though. But now I have this strange distinction in my head. I made a home for myself here. I got two fish that both have lasted 48 hours so far. I have plants to water. I have carpets to vacuum, and laundry to do (in a few weeks… Obviously, I came back with a freshly laundered closet, courtesy of my mother’s hard work). Does a part of me actually enjoy taking care of myself and making a home for myself? At what point is it “okay” to start to grow up and be a responsible adult, without an overwhelming sense of guilt and loss of childhood ignorance? Maybe it’s time to read Catcher in the Rye again.

Whatever it is, I officially have less than ten months to figure it out.

Finding Your Big-Girl Pants: Part 1

Orientation Week.

Affectionately and unofficially known as the best week of your undergraduate experience, “O-Week” is typically synonymous with summer camp for frosh. Well grad students, I have news for you. Graduate school orientation is less faculty-team-building, and more pub nights with the few others in your program. Now, as someone who does not drink beer this tends to be a tad awkward since it becomes more obvious and is a general topic of conversation revisited when everyone orders another round of drinks except you. Anyways.

Walking around campus to the constant cheering and never-ending energy remains an exciting way to relive the O-Week experience without actually reliving it. At the same time, it also makes you feel old, despite my direct transition from undergrad to graduate school making me only one year older than the average oldest undergraduate student. And, as you might expect, with feeling old in a new city comes the old-people activities. Like laundry. And ironing. And cooking… Things that you might have learned as an 18 year old student living in residence, or as a 19 year old student living off-campus. Nevertheless, here I am in my twenties and sending snapchats of myself ironing to my friends to validate the fact that I now have my big-girl pants on.

And while my inventive set-up of a kitchen counter with a bed sheet tucked into the cupboard a-la-makeshift-ironing-board is all kinds of luxurious laundry tools, I can’t even take credit for the idea (thanks Mom!). However, I started to realize today, there were so many ways I could approach this Orientation Week:

1. Ambitiously, I wrote down all the general graduate student activities into my planner, alongside the program-specific activities, including the times and locations. I could go to all of these activities, which would result in 5 hours of sleep per night and a burnt-out Felicia by Sunday night.
2. I could ignore all of the activities, sit in my apartment, and watch Friends like it’s still the summer it feels like outside (cue 30 degree weather. Celsius, incase anyone thought that was sarcasm).
3. Sweat on my bike and rush to roughly 50% of the activities – rushing, since I still have not completely mastered time management while biking, and biking, since walking is overrated. Spend the remaining 50% of my time learning how to hand-signal at stop signs and traffic lights properly so as to avoid as much tippage as possible while on a moving bicycle with a full backpack.
4. Repeat Option #3, but also use the remaining 50% to complete big-girl activities. Cue: Mom’s voice telling me to iron that one shirt with wrinkles that I know I’ll wear soon.

Clearly, based on my anecdote about make-shift ironing boards I chose #4, but you must know that I fully considered all four of those options. Dear Reader, I washed my floors, too. Housekeeping is a skill I fully enjoy at the moment, because I can fully, one hundred percent justify that it is important to establish good housekeeping habits before getting into the depths of an MA. Right? Maybe. But hey, feeling like a big girl, singing that Pull-Ups song, “Mommy, wow! I’m a big kid now!” while dancing with the wet-wipe Swiffer is a productive use of my time. Those five readings for the first class next week can wait. Besides, when it comes time to do them, I’ll already have my big-girl pants on. (I hope.)