We all have those acquaintances from class or dorms at whom we smile awkwardly, nod or just pretend not to notice as we pass them on Grounds.
This new year, I decided to sign up for the Charlottesville 10-miler. I had been frustrated with the lack of direction in my life and completing this test of endurance would not only help me get in shape after the holidays, but would more importantly be a tangible goal for me to work toward Over winter break it was easy to follow the training plan I found online when my only obligations were to sleep, watch TV, and occasionally drive my sister somewhere.
Spring Break is obviously the best. Warm weather, if you’re lucky enough to go make it at least 500 miles south, offers an interruption from Charlottesville’s blustery, wintry doldrums.
Like many of you, I’m in spring break recovery mode. This was the first – read only – year of college I did something adventurous.
I could probably write 800 words about how and why certain people call me and my sister the name we call ourselves, but I want to talk about what Fuzz said next: “Tell her to come up; I’ve never known your sister to turn down a drink.”
As a member of the press, I will be the first to tell you — the press is not your friend. This is especially true if you attend the University of Virginia, where the story of President Teresa Sullivan’s botched ouster, handled with all the grace of Janet Jackson’s historic Super Bowl dance, haunts our hallowed Grounds even a year later.
We spend our entire lifetime trying to figure out how to live. As college students, we pull all-nighters to make better grades to get better jobs to make more money to improve our quality of life and “live better.” Your train of thought may not exactly follow those lines, but in general, that’s pretty much how it goes.
This spring break I spent eight days in Brazil with the Seeds of Hope trip, a much-needed departure from my life in Charlottesville and the anxieties and fixations that accompany it.
Sleep upstages food, water, and shelter among my primal needs. Seriously though, this business of calling 2 a.m. an “early bedtime” is absurd. I aim to land in my bed somewhere between 11 p.m. and midnight — and by 11 I actually mean 10:15 p.m.
There was a little bit more color than usual around Grounds last week. If you looked hard enough, you could spot the small squares of pink, red, orange and green that added subtle springtime decorations to some libraries, hallways, and even a few bathroom stalls.
Without any way to circumvent the point, I’ll go ahead and write bluntly. An old friend died this weekend.
