I did it. I did the thing I swore I would never do. I joined Twitter.
Several times I have been on the verge of writing a post about the evils of Twitter and how it really shouldn't be allowed. I didn't really dislike Twitter so much as I disliked my sister's cell phone buzzing as the Twitter messages poured in all night long. I swore up, down, left, and right that I would never, ever join such an abomination.
But I said the same thing about Facebook and look how that turned out. The very last thing I need is another addicting website to distract me from what I really should be doing. I suppose I'll just have to stay up later, get up earlier, and drink more Diet Coke.
Never say never.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Say Cheese
First, a confession: I never went to the prom. But for. Heaven’s. Sake. It can’t be that exciting.
At least two area high schools had their proms last night and today Facebook has been a flurry of photos. Not just a few photos, mind you, but entire albums of fifty photos or more.
Now, I actually like to look at people’s Facebook photos because I’m nosy like that. But why on earth would I or anyone else want to look at fifty pictures of you, your friends, and your dates posing with your arms around each other in the living room, in front of the house, etc. Nor do I care what you had for dinner. I’m sure you were just way too excited about participating in such a quintessential high school experience, but nobody else cares.
I don’t have the picture gene. Every time I go on vacation I vow that I will be like everyone else and take eleventy seven pictures which will be posted on Facebook the moment I return. Then I get about ten minutes into my trip and go, screw that, I’m tired of remembering to take out my camera every time we see something interesting. But some people take pictures of everything, including the prom.
I know this doesn’t matter. If you want to spend the entire evening taking pictures, knock yourself out. I just have one question. Do you really think that by now anyone has any desire to look at ninety-eight photos of you in a prom dress? Yeah, that’s what I thought
At least two area high schools had their proms last night and today Facebook has been a flurry of photos. Not just a few photos, mind you, but entire albums of fifty photos or more.
Now, I actually like to look at people’s Facebook photos because I’m nosy like that. But why on earth would I or anyone else want to look at fifty pictures of you, your friends, and your dates posing with your arms around each other in the living room, in front of the house, etc. Nor do I care what you had for dinner. I’m sure you were just way too excited about participating in such a quintessential high school experience, but nobody else cares.
I don’t have the picture gene. Every time I go on vacation I vow that I will be like everyone else and take eleventy seven pictures which will be posted on Facebook the moment I return. Then I get about ten minutes into my trip and go, screw that, I’m tired of remembering to take out my camera every time we see something interesting. But some people take pictures of everything, including the prom.
I know this doesn’t matter. If you want to spend the entire evening taking pictures, knock yourself out. I just have one question. Do you really think that by now anyone has any desire to look at ninety-eight photos of you in a prom dress? Yeah, that’s what I thought
Monday, April 5, 2010
True Confessions Part Two: How it Began
I didn’t want to go away to college. I didn’t really want to go to college at all, but I especially didn’t want to go away to college. I happen to live in a city with a fairly respectable state university, but in my family, going to a state university is simply unacceptable. I’m not saying this to put down my family. It’s just the way things are. Or at least, it’s the way they used to be. My parents were never going to settle for anything less than a selective, private, liberal arts college.
I applied to four schools. Two were in my state, about 30 minutes to an hour away from where I live. Those were safety schools. I was not to consider attending either one unless I didn’t get in anywhere else. The third was a well-respected, but very Christian school in Illinois that I added to the list at the last minute (later I would realize that, out of all the schools I applied to, visited, or read a brochure about, this was the only one that I discovered entirely on my own, without any input from my parents). Then there was St. Olaf.
Situated at the top of a hill in Northfield, Minnesota (population: somewhere around 20,000), it was the perfect school. It had a renowned music program, five major choirs, and even handbells. I could major in Latin and the chapel…well, you should have seen the chapel. It looked eerily like my church back home. When I walked into it for the first time, it took my breath away. We went to visit in October of my senior year and I have to say, I was enchanted. I decided that if I got in, that’s where I would go.
I got into all four schools, of course, but I never gave the other three a second thought. I mailed my deposit right off to St. Olaf and started preparing to leave home the following August.
But I didn’t want to go. I had a life in my lovely little city, a life I loved. I felt like I had worked hard for years to get where I was and I didn’t want to start all over in a new place where I had nothing and no one. I didn’t understand why I needed to go to a school a thousand miles away where I could sing in choir and play handbells when I could do both of those things at home. I didn’t care about school. I was all too aware of the need for a college degree in today’s society, or I would have told college to go stuff it. If I had to go to school, I wanted it to be a part of my life. I didn’t want it to be my life.
But my parents didn’t understand this. I had been expressing my desire to stay closer to home since long before I applied anywhere. And all they heard, all they ever heard, was that I was afraid to leave, afraid to try new things. It didn’t matter how I phrased it, I couldn’t convince them of anything different. Maybe I was afraid, I don’t know. But I didn’t feel afraid. During the last two years I had learned that there are more important things than school. I knew I was smart, ridiculously smart, but I didn’t understand why that obligated me to give up everything I loved and cared about for the sake of a school that was supposedly perfect.
Despite all of this, by the time I graduated in May of 2008 I was more or less resigned to leaving at the end of the summer. I had realized too late that there were things in high school I had missed out on because I had been afraid, and I didn’t want the same thing to happen in college, so I was determined to give St. Olaf a fair chance. But then everything changed.
I can remember the exact moment when I knew St. Olaf wasn’t right. I was on my senior choir trip. We were driving through Toronto, on our way to go see a baseball game. I was staring out the window of the bus, watching the city go by when suddenly I knew, I just knew, that I didn’t want to go to St. Olaf, that it wasn’t the place I was meant to be. I envisioned myself going to the local university, staying at home, going to bell practice with my mom on Thursdays, making meatloaf and apple pie on cold fall evenings. It sounded so perfect, like everything I had ever dreamed of, the best of both worlds. But somehow I would have to convince my parents.
I decided there was someone else I wanted to tell first, someone I thought might be more willing to listen to what I had to say. He was less invested in making sure I attended a selective liberal arts college than my parents were. I was even going to ask him to help me tell my parents. Then I played my cards carelessly, and all hell broke loose.
My friend was flat-out unsupportive of my decision. I went home after I told him, so upset by his reaction that I ended up telling my mom before I was ready. She told my dad, which meant that he only heard about it from her perspective, not mine. I wrote my friend a long email, at two o’clock in the morning, pleading with him to “be on my side.” It didn’t work. I think I knew, then, that I would have to go to St. Olaf whether I wanted to or not, but I wasn’t quite ready to give up.
After at least a week of arguing and failing to convince my parents to even consider what I was trying to tell them, I did give up. I suspected that if I stayed home, I would never hear the end of it and I would spend all of my time being miserable and feeling like an outcast in my own home. My dreams of bell practice and meatloaf were shattered. I figured I might as well give myself one last happy summer, so I agreed to go to St. Olaf. But it had lost its chance. I was going under protest. St. Olaf was never going to get the fair shot it deserved.
It really was a happy summer, maybe not the happiest I’ve ever had, but certainly far from the worst. I discovered the Twilight series. I watched Michael Phelps win eight gold medals at the Beijing Olympics. I listened to Billy Joel. But all too soon August arrived and I had to start packing my stuff in boxes and suitcases. I had to decide which of my beloved books would come with me and which would stay home. I had to watch a new school year start without me. I had to say too short goodbyes. On the last Wednesday in August my best friend and I had one last trek down the church hallway, I had one last voice lesson, and the next morning, my mom and I got on a plane to Minnesota.
In a moment worthy of the cheesiest of cheesy movies, “Leaving on a Jet Plane” came on the radio as we drove to the airport. I realized I had left the book I was reading at home, but there wasn’t time to go back for it. My mom said we could buy another copy in the airport bookstore. I cried as the plane took off, as I watched my beautiful, perfect, wonderful city fall away from me. I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t help it.
One thing that I learned during my time at St. Olaf was that leaving was always harder than getting there. I did okay when we first got to Minnesota. We stayed in a cute little bed and breakfast. The next day we went to the Mall of America and then to Target to buy all the things I would need for my dorm room. We went into Northfield to scope out a good coffee shop and then we ate dinner at a hamburger joint near our bed and breakfast.
The next morning, I was a wreck. I listened to my favorite Billy Joel songs. I practiced my song for my choir audition. We went down to breakfast and met two other families who were dropping kids off at St. Olaf. And then it was time to go. Fortunately most of that day was so busy that I didn’t have much time to fret. We carried boxes into the dorm and up the stairs, I met my roommate, I had my choir audition, the entire freshman class and their families gathered for some sort of welcome assembly, we had a picnic where we met our advisors, and finally we played some meet-new-people type games.
The next day, Sunday, my mom came back and we went to the local Methodist church. We had lunch together, walked around a little bit, and then it was time for her to leave. She was going to visit my uncle in Minneapolis before flying home. I cried when she left, wishing with all my heart that I could go with her.
I think the next couple of days were mostly taken up with advising sessions and registering for classes. I remember that classes started on Wednesday. By some miracle I managed to get into choir, although that would turn out to be more of a curse than a blessing. I started to establish a routine and tried to convince myself that things would be okay somehow. I didn’t call my parents much at first because that just made me cry. My mom and I started emailing each other instead. I tried not to think about everything I was missing, but I couldn’t help it. I never stopped wanting to go home.
What did I blame my misery on? Why, the 21st century, of course. I had been blaming my problems on the 21st century for years, so that wasn’t much of a stretch, really. I would lie in bed at night longing for an era when women didn’t go to college, when they grew up, got married, had children and that was it. Little did I know that there were people right there in 2008 who were doing just that.
I applied to four schools. Two were in my state, about 30 minutes to an hour away from where I live. Those were safety schools. I was not to consider attending either one unless I didn’t get in anywhere else. The third was a well-respected, but very Christian school in Illinois that I added to the list at the last minute (later I would realize that, out of all the schools I applied to, visited, or read a brochure about, this was the only one that I discovered entirely on my own, without any input from my parents). Then there was St. Olaf.
Situated at the top of a hill in Northfield, Minnesota (population: somewhere around 20,000), it was the perfect school. It had a renowned music program, five major choirs, and even handbells. I could major in Latin and the chapel…well, you should have seen the chapel. It looked eerily like my church back home. When I walked into it for the first time, it took my breath away. We went to visit in October of my senior year and I have to say, I was enchanted. I decided that if I got in, that’s where I would go.
I got into all four schools, of course, but I never gave the other three a second thought. I mailed my deposit right off to St. Olaf and started preparing to leave home the following August.
But I didn’t want to go. I had a life in my lovely little city, a life I loved. I felt like I had worked hard for years to get where I was and I didn’t want to start all over in a new place where I had nothing and no one. I didn’t understand why I needed to go to a school a thousand miles away where I could sing in choir and play handbells when I could do both of those things at home. I didn’t care about school. I was all too aware of the need for a college degree in today’s society, or I would have told college to go stuff it. If I had to go to school, I wanted it to be a part of my life. I didn’t want it to be my life.
But my parents didn’t understand this. I had been expressing my desire to stay closer to home since long before I applied anywhere. And all they heard, all they ever heard, was that I was afraid to leave, afraid to try new things. It didn’t matter how I phrased it, I couldn’t convince them of anything different. Maybe I was afraid, I don’t know. But I didn’t feel afraid. During the last two years I had learned that there are more important things than school. I knew I was smart, ridiculously smart, but I didn’t understand why that obligated me to give up everything I loved and cared about for the sake of a school that was supposedly perfect.
Despite all of this, by the time I graduated in May of 2008 I was more or less resigned to leaving at the end of the summer. I had realized too late that there were things in high school I had missed out on because I had been afraid, and I didn’t want the same thing to happen in college, so I was determined to give St. Olaf a fair chance. But then everything changed.
I can remember the exact moment when I knew St. Olaf wasn’t right. I was on my senior choir trip. We were driving through Toronto, on our way to go see a baseball game. I was staring out the window of the bus, watching the city go by when suddenly I knew, I just knew, that I didn’t want to go to St. Olaf, that it wasn’t the place I was meant to be. I envisioned myself going to the local university, staying at home, going to bell practice with my mom on Thursdays, making meatloaf and apple pie on cold fall evenings. It sounded so perfect, like everything I had ever dreamed of, the best of both worlds. But somehow I would have to convince my parents.
I decided there was someone else I wanted to tell first, someone I thought might be more willing to listen to what I had to say. He was less invested in making sure I attended a selective liberal arts college than my parents were. I was even going to ask him to help me tell my parents. Then I played my cards carelessly, and all hell broke loose.
My friend was flat-out unsupportive of my decision. I went home after I told him, so upset by his reaction that I ended up telling my mom before I was ready. She told my dad, which meant that he only heard about it from her perspective, not mine. I wrote my friend a long email, at two o’clock in the morning, pleading with him to “be on my side.” It didn’t work. I think I knew, then, that I would have to go to St. Olaf whether I wanted to or not, but I wasn’t quite ready to give up.
After at least a week of arguing and failing to convince my parents to even consider what I was trying to tell them, I did give up. I suspected that if I stayed home, I would never hear the end of it and I would spend all of my time being miserable and feeling like an outcast in my own home. My dreams of bell practice and meatloaf were shattered. I figured I might as well give myself one last happy summer, so I agreed to go to St. Olaf. But it had lost its chance. I was going under protest. St. Olaf was never going to get the fair shot it deserved.
It really was a happy summer, maybe not the happiest I’ve ever had, but certainly far from the worst. I discovered the Twilight series. I watched Michael Phelps win eight gold medals at the Beijing Olympics. I listened to Billy Joel. But all too soon August arrived and I had to start packing my stuff in boxes and suitcases. I had to decide which of my beloved books would come with me and which would stay home. I had to watch a new school year start without me. I had to say too short goodbyes. On the last Wednesday in August my best friend and I had one last trek down the church hallway, I had one last voice lesson, and the next morning, my mom and I got on a plane to Minnesota.
In a moment worthy of the cheesiest of cheesy movies, “Leaving on a Jet Plane” came on the radio as we drove to the airport. I realized I had left the book I was reading at home, but there wasn’t time to go back for it. My mom said we could buy another copy in the airport bookstore. I cried as the plane took off, as I watched my beautiful, perfect, wonderful city fall away from me. I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t help it.
One thing that I learned during my time at St. Olaf was that leaving was always harder than getting there. I did okay when we first got to Minnesota. We stayed in a cute little bed and breakfast. The next day we went to the Mall of America and then to Target to buy all the things I would need for my dorm room. We went into Northfield to scope out a good coffee shop and then we ate dinner at a hamburger joint near our bed and breakfast.
The next morning, I was a wreck. I listened to my favorite Billy Joel songs. I practiced my song for my choir audition. We went down to breakfast and met two other families who were dropping kids off at St. Olaf. And then it was time to go. Fortunately most of that day was so busy that I didn’t have much time to fret. We carried boxes into the dorm and up the stairs, I met my roommate, I had my choir audition, the entire freshman class and their families gathered for some sort of welcome assembly, we had a picnic where we met our advisors, and finally we played some meet-new-people type games.
The next day, Sunday, my mom came back and we went to the local Methodist church. We had lunch together, walked around a little bit, and then it was time for her to leave. She was going to visit my uncle in Minneapolis before flying home. I cried when she left, wishing with all my heart that I could go with her.
I think the next couple of days were mostly taken up with advising sessions and registering for classes. I remember that classes started on Wednesday. By some miracle I managed to get into choir, although that would turn out to be more of a curse than a blessing. I started to establish a routine and tried to convince myself that things would be okay somehow. I didn’t call my parents much at first because that just made me cry. My mom and I started emailing each other instead. I tried not to think about everything I was missing, but I couldn’t help it. I never stopped wanting to go home.
What did I blame my misery on? Why, the 21st century, of course. I had been blaming my problems on the 21st century for years, so that wasn’t much of a stretch, really. I would lie in bed at night longing for an era when women didn’t go to college, when they grew up, got married, had children and that was it. Little did I know that there were people right there in 2008 who were doing just that.
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