On my first visit to New York’s Museum of Modern Art, I wore a baseball cap. While my curly hair protested vehemently as I forced its tendrils under the crown, I received louder complaints from museum security guards regarding my fashion decision.
With May 1 approaching quickly, College Confidential has blown up with mothers of high school seniors who are desperately searching for the ultimate answer to the Colby vs. Bates vs. Bowdoin (CBB) debate. These moms converse as if they’re trading secrets, whispering about the diameters of the campus pond (Bowdoin’s can be found between Moulton and Hyde when it rains) and the width of their tour guides’ smiles.
Temperatures in the high 40s beg the lingering piles of snow to sink back into the earth, and bare legs to begin to peek out below shorts and dresses. With spring break over and many students’ closets swelling with newly thrifted overalls and bucket hats, murmurs begin to wind their way through dorms and dining halls: so, how close is Ivies?
“Claustrophobic.” “Elitist.” “Boring.” Worse has been said about museums. Maybe you’re imagining pairs of women in patterned scarves and narrow red glasses with beaded straps gliding through cramped hallways spitting nonsensical art jargon. Staring at yet another oil portrait of Jesus and some other guys that looks like every other painting in the hall, you can’t help but feel that museums are only a place for art historians and pretentious hipster wannabes.
You can see the glow of yellow light and the shadows of passing figures through the windows. You leap up a few steps and pull open the front door to be greeted by a rap song from Spotify’s Top 50 hits playing over someone’s parents’ speakers and, subsequently, you inhale an odd fog of beer, body odor and half-assed Febreze.
Would you choose to be immortal? I think it’s fair to generalize that everyone has pondered immortality at some point in their lives. Maybe you watched “Twilight” for the first time and wondered what it would be like to stay a teenager forever.