“Hi, my name is Kara and I’m a freshman.”
It’s official. No more counting-down. No more waiting. No more packing, unpacking, or thinking about boxes. (FYI-Every single thing I packed fit perfectly, with a little room to spare). My room is set up, my pictures are hung and Roomy-Dearest is wonderful. I’m a freshman (or, a first year, as my very liberal college calls us). Though I sure as hell don’t feel like one yet (unless you count the semi-awkward search for friends). They’ve scheduled more ice-breaking, mind-opening, rule-setting welcome events than I care to mention. I almost feel like I’m in summer camp. Camp College. Except instead of making friendship bracelets and gluing noodles and beads to paper plates, we’re learning the difference between drunken sex and date rape and wearing trash bags (yes, really).
Classes start Monday, bright and early, and will keep me occupied (and help me make friends in a less awkward way). I actually am excited for classes, and not just for the aforementioned reasons. All of the professors here (who you call by their first names) seem like genuinely interesting people and all the classes I’m taking, with the exception of one, seem genuinely interesting. All of the people I’ve met here, while most are quiet, seem like people I could get along with (though no real best friend candidates yet, so Twin and Coco can rest easy). I also don’t mind not smoking as much as I used to (as there are only a few designated smoking areas on campus and I’ve only found one).
The only less than favorable thing I’ve encountered here is Sweet-n-Slow*, a football player who helped me carry my boxes up and then stopped by later to make sure I was settling in well. He introduced me to a few of his friends, showed me a good diner, and got me in good with my RA. He likes me (and my body, which he’s made perfectly clear). There are only two things missing from this match made in heaven-his intelligence and our chemistry. I see him and I think big, goofy friend. He sees me and thinks…something, I’m sure. Please excuse my stereotyping, but it’s not really stereotyping in this case.
If I could just ignore those two little things, and his annoying sexuality, it could be something good. He would get a nice girl friend that laughs at his jokes and looks good on his arm. I would get a boyfriend who adores me, which after the last year of my love life, would be good; great; helpful. Not exactly the picture of health, but a band-aid. And while band-aids don’t solve anything, it does help in the healing process.
*Sweet-n-Slow-A nice enough guy who is not nearly smart or interesting enough (or even my type at all), but seems to mean well.