Pretty Girl, Beware of His Heart of Gold

Second day of orientation weekend. More parental hostility. More "inspirational" lectures (actually, there was a pretty good one or two today). And more Frosh-O.

However, today was...significantly less fabulous than yesterday. We had our first "event" with a boys hall, Keenan. They picked us up like gentleman on the front lawn, and we greeted them traditionally. The serenading was still the best part (no less fabulous by any means). Then they escorted us back to their dorm, where they surprised us with the activity: speed dating. God, it sounds so much better in theory and in the movies. The first few rounds were fun - there were cute guys, good conversations. But eventually things got pretty fuzzy - I can't even remember the name of the original guy who walked me to the dorm, which I feel horrible about because he was legitimately cute and sweet.

And then there was the rave. Keenan walked us to "Domer Fest", which was described in the schedule as games and stuff to meet other freshmen - but turned out to be a really big rave. Like, Project Graduation on steroids, in a club setting complete with strobe lights and dry ice. Of course, there were police and stuff around so it was more or less safe. All freshmen from ND, as well as the two neighboring colleges, St. Mary's and Holy Cross, were there. I can't even tell you how much raves are not my scene. And my introduction to college life was complete once the drunk upperclassmen who snuck in wearing Frosh shirts made themselves known. I realize how sheltered I am when I say that I had never seen, let alone talked to, people who were drunk as mess until tonight. Fabulous, right?

You know how when you have really low expectations, anything higher than what you expected seems incredible? Well, it applies vice versa. I loved everything from last night - and I guess I wanted to buy into the whole "Prince Charming" thing. Even if it is just a part that they play for an hour or two. But once we've done the traditional serenades and cheers and scheduled activities, the knights take off their armor and you're left with obnoxious freshman boys who are already planning when they're going to get drunk this weekend. And some that I just get bad feelings from.

Don't get me wrong, there are also some really great guys here. Good guys, bad guys, awkward guys, eccentric guys. Just no Prince Charmings. But, as someone who might be considered strong-willed and opinionated, I'm a little ashamed to admit how alluring the idea of chivalry is. I realize how old-fashioned that ideal is, and there really is very little solid, logical evidence in the expectation for men to treat women in a certain way.

But now that I actually see that sentence in writing - I'll revise my expectations - I'm not asking to be treated like a princess. I would just like to be treated with respect - not because I'm a girl, but because I'm a human being. And I think I deserve that much.

Now Where's Your Picket Fence, Love?

Sometimes, I feel like it's a little bit ridiculous to expect someone to decide what they want to do with their lives over the course of 19 years - the majority of which is spent learning basic cognitive and social skills. But the pressure starts early on. Can you remember how old you were the first time an adult asked you "So, what do you want to be when you grow up?" And have you ever noticed how children seem to have the most tenacious dreams? Whether it's wanting to grow up to be a ballerina, or a veterinarian, or a singer, or whatever else their impressionable minds can get a hold of. I think it gets more difficult as you get older because it gets scary - it gets real. Every decision is second-guessed because you're always wondering if it's the right choice: the right choice for you, or the right choice for people around you. Is it more important to do what makes you happy, or to do what pays the bills? But before you know it, you're a sophomore in college and the registrar is demanding that you place a label on your diploma. And somehow, you pick something - anything - and start your life. A few years later, there's still another question to ask yourself: Are you happy?

So, we've got the child who dreams outrageous things, and the adult who's wondering if it's too late to be a ballerina. But they're actually in similar situations. When you ask a four year old what they want to spend the rest of their life doing, they'll tell you what they know - and usually it's what makes them happy. For example, if she wants to be a ballerina, it's because she loves going to lessons. If she wants to be a scientist, it's because she follows her parents to work sometimes. If he wants to be a baseball player, it's because his dad helps him practice for rec league. You get it.

Now, when you ask an eighteen year old what they want to spend the rest of their life doing, you probably didn't notice the slight change in their facial expression when they saw it coming. You see, when a four year old tells you what they want to be, it probably isn't taken seriously - it's just so adults can fawn over how adorable he or she is. But when you ask a teenager, you're expecting a serious answer. A solid answer. Even though they're still trying to figure out if writing will pay the bills, or if they're good enough at math to be an engineer. Usually, they've got a premeditated answer. Something along the lines of "I'm thinking about majoring in [insert major]". Something noncommittal, yet sufficient. Something believable, and maybe even impressive. Or maybe they're audacious enough to tell you the truth: "I don't know yet".

But usually, the major that said teenager decides on is something that they know - whether it's because they've taken a class in high school or their freshman year of college, or it's what their parents or family friends do. But there's always some kind of background - and it's understandable. You wouldn't just close your eyes and pick a major off of a page, or choose whichever one sounds the coolest. And despite how convenient it would be, it simply isn't possible to let you test drive all fifty-something majors before you choose. You pick the one you know about. And if you find that you're miserable, you've got to start all over if happiness is your goal.

But why does it have to come down to that?

So, for everyone who's starting college these next few weeks and have no idea what the hell you want to do for the next 40 or 50 years: I'm not judging you.