US Airways welcomes you to Phoenix, where the local time is 11:30 a.m. and the weather is a fabulous 75 degrees." The flight attendant's caffeinated voice woke me from the restless recovery slumber I was enduring as a result of my crazy last night in Charlottesville.
While vainly attempting to disguise the greasy hair and bloodshot eyes before facing my mother, I glanced out at the arid landscape below the flimsy oval window of the plane. Chills ran through my body at the thought of being back in the "Valley of the Sun," where jeans are acceptable at any restaurant and flip-flops are standard party footwear, year-round -- aren't you jealous?
It was my first time returning to Arizona since August, and I was clamoring to get off the plane and behind the wheel of my car on a direct course to Kokopelli for a (legendary, very un-Chipotle) burrito.
Emerging from the late stages of mono, in serious need of a major dye job to my admittedly fake blonde hair, yearning to wear something other than wrinkled Polo shirts and a North Face, and craving the fruit and veggie bin of my mother's well-stocked kitchen so badly I felt like a scurvy victim, you can understand my overwhelming joy to be back under my parent's roof.
In the span of seven days, I had experienced a claustrophobic panic attack in the stacks of Alderman, pulled an all-nighter in Clemons, written three exams and a 15-page paper
and I'm sure I had it easy compared to those Engineering students asleep in their cubicles.
College folklore has always said going home for the first time is like taking a cruise -- fun for about five days until the all-you-can-eat buffet and putt-putt course lose their appeal and you are ready to step foot on dry land.
Similarly, there is nothing shameful about wanting to sleep late in your own bed, watch TLC all day, and hang out with your high school clan at night
but eventually you start to miss the twin bed of the dorm where the only watchful eye at 3 a.m. is that of your sleeping roommate.
I, however, had been ignoring this valuable piece of collegiate advice since October, when I realized I actually had to read for my economics class, the number on the digital scale at the AFC was not leaning in my favor, and, to be frank, it got really cold. I was more than ready to hit my gym (where, I might add, you can run for more than 24 minutes), watch Tarantino marathons with my brother and do the "house party" scene with all my old high school buddies. If it's not obvious already, I thought I would be in heaven back in Arizona.
What was I thinking?
The first few days were fabulous. I took care of those aforementioned hygiene chores, spent some quality time in the kitchen helping my mom with the holiday baking, chauffeured my 15-year-old brother and his friends (sun roof OPEN on my car) and basically ran around in my Rainbows and sweats in pure ecstasy. Life was good, and the Clemons smell of old coffee and Newcomb take-out seemed a distant memory.
That is, until I pulled a social double-header.
Please do not misread me, as I do adore many of the girls and guys of my past. But honestly, everyone is exactly the same, especially the boys. Same beer in hand, same poor pick-up lines, same position perched in front of the X-Box in my friend Andy's guesthouse.
I mean, I guess I can understand this, considering my entire high school transplanted to either Arizona State or University of Arizona. But not really, because the "gang" seemed to be stuck in junior year in high school. Rather disappointed, I headed home pre-curfew (another lovely memory of high school still popular with Mom and Dad).
Night number two was the turning point. Welcome to the debutante ball, which granted, can be really fun. But I was with all my girlfriends who also had traveled out of state for school.
Misery loves company.
As we all sat in the lobby of the hotel trading first semester stories, I spotted a pleasant surprise across the room. A group of U.Va alumni living in Phoenix (plus a few of us first years) were congregating in front of the bar. Ecstatic, I jumped up and left my friends to their boredom.
Needless to say, I am proud to report that we Cavaliers soon became the life of the party. After a good half-hour of listening to fond Virginia memories and telling of my own chaotic semester, one particularly tipsy boy decided to propose a toast in the form of "The Good Ol' Song". As we raised our glasses to "dear old U.Va." and chanted "Wah-hoo-wah" (incurring many stares from old women in ballroom skirts and a few jealous glances from my U of A friends), I experienced an enlightenment of sorts.
I positively love my school.
I've never been able to say that before, about any academic experience. But then again, U.Va. is not just a school, it's a lifestyle. And it's one fabulous life that I am leading in Charlottesville. Gyms, clean bathrooms and burritos all are bonuses to seeing my family and dogs
but never again will they be my motivation to jump on US Airways. I have never seen love for one's school comparable to that of U.Va. students. We are all so lucky to be here. And, as one who finally has found her niche, I personally would like to warmly welcome you all back to the University.
By the way, I'd like to make a revision to an earlier statement -- it only took me four days to yearn for U.Va.
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