Today when I logged into my e-mail, the first message on the list — followed by deadline reminders from my editor, reports on my transcripts finally arriving at my university, and coupons from the frequented locales of my past life — was from the Dean of my university. This e-mail was sent to all freshmen (but it was personally addressed to me by some computer, no doubt) in congratulations on making it to the official one-month mark since the beginning of classes.
Following this pat on the back, was a list of all the ways to get involved on campus if you haven’t done so already.
After reading (or throwing a quick glance at) these friendly notices, I sat back for a moment and wondered where the past month has gone.
I love college. And why not? I live by my own rules, for the most part. I made friends much faster than I had anticipated, and I’m always busy with interesting tasks. (Except for my music appreciation lecture, which I’m sitting in right now pretending to take notes.) It has been one month of freedom from my parents’ rule, of living on my own and managing not to inadvertently die in the process.
I did my own laundry last week and cried as I watched an incredible sum of money swallowed by a machine which merely provides water to swirl my clothes in and nothing else. I still have to provide my own detergent and fabric softener. After recovering from the initial heart attack I suffered upon seeing just how much it costs to wash a load (the term “load” also seemed to encompass a far greater amount of dirty clothes when I lived at home), I did what any mature college student would do in this situation: I called my mom. I called to ask just how certain my mother was that I could not, under ANY circumstances, wash all of my laundry at once without separating by color. She told me not to be so stupid. I then asked whether it would be feasible to wash my laundry in the sink in my dorm or better yet, to jump in the shower fully clothed at the end of each day in order to ensure that my clothes will always be clean. My mom — loving, blunt woman of zero patience that she is — told me to suck it up.
"Welcome to the real world," she added.
Sometime later when my laundry was finished and I brought it to my room still warm, I texted my mom to let her know that this important task had been successfully completed, and that I basically expected some kind of praise.
"Good girl," my mother replied via text.
That was all. Clearly, she didn't find the occasion nearly as momentous as I did, although I honestly cannot see why not.
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