I’m
taking a break from Carnegie Mellon next semester, interning part-time and
taking classes at Georgetown University in Washington, DC. I didn’t anticipate being overly nostalgic,
but I also didn’t expect to be so nervous. After all, DC is my hometown and I
am totally and utterly convinced that this is the right program for me.
But, to
be honest I’m kind of terrified. For me, this is truly the beginning of my
venture into true adulthood. And so I’ve been trying to reflect on previous
experiences and gain some wisdom from my previous new beginnings….
I will never forget my third night
at Carnegie Mellon. It was orientation—a non-stop, loud, regimented week of
activities meant to bond us to our colleges and dorms and brainwash us into
remembering spirited chants until we are 80.
We had all broken out into college
groups for dinner and entertainment. True to form, the humanities students had
the most formal activity. For us, it was dinner and conversation at the
beautiful Carnegie Music Hall, while the scientists had a tour of the aquarium,
engineers a game night at Dave and Busters, and I’m sure equally cool plans
were arranged for the computer scientists and artists among the class of 2014.
I was excited, but anxious. With no
way to impress via my ski ball abilities or to bond over how cute penguin
waddles are, how was I to make friends? But I did. I just sat at a table with a
bunch of other kids and started talking. And I kid you not; it was a scene from
a movie. Laughter and conversation as slowly the hall emptied out around us
until suddenly we realized we were the only ones left.
“How
wonderful!!” I thought, elated. One evening had confirmed that this college was
indeed the place for me. And all my worries about my being the only social
fiend in a sea of awkward, antisocial CMU student went flying out the window.
We headed from the hall, merrily talking of IM sports and informally planning
to form a humanities powerhouse team. Right as we were discussing my position
of either sweeper or striker, a call of “heads up” came from beyond us where
the athletic, cute CMU frat team was practicing for some sort of soccer
tournament. And the ball came rolling towards me slowly, so why not show off a
little?
I
took two steps to clear the ball all the way back to them, aiming to playfully
pass it to the cute one smiling at me. And…
planted my foot in mud, slipping up
in the air like a cartoon character victim to a strategically placed banana
peel. I’m sure I was suspended for at least a full minute, before hurtling to
the ground in front of my new friends and those I had been trying to impress.
No
one knew what to do or say. My cheeks were flaming and I wished I could just
sink through the dreaded mud that had been the problem in the first place. And
then, I started laughing. Hysterically.
It only made things worse. The
others didn’t know whether to feel pity, make a joke out of it, or help me. So
with tears streaming down my flushed face and an oddly springy step, I headed
home to shower and try and get mud out of my best skirt. And I wish I could say
we did form that soccer team and dominate the league, or even that we all met
up again. But, frankly as soon as I see any of them coming, I head down a
different hallway, avoid eye contact, hope they mistake me for another average
brunette on campus. More than three years later, I think about that interaction
with mortification wishing it had been different. And then I wonder what
difference it would make.
Knowing me, my clumsiness would have
won out eventually and they’d get to know me for my true, overly gregarious,
spontaneous, clumsy self. And perhaps that’s the message I need for this next beginning
looming just ahead in 2013.
