A journal entry from July 24, 2007:
"My goals for the school year: first, up each day at seven! Sleep is for the weak.
Second, breakfast at eight. Time between seven and eight should be spent putting on some semblance of a face and reading the news. Third, don't take naps. See goal No. 1. Fourth, do all your reading. Being an English major and skipping readings is like being a farmer and not bothering to shuck the friggin' corn. You're just missing the point. Fifth, write in this for an hour everyday. It's therapeutic and will keep you some semblance of sane. Sixth, make your bed every day. Seventh, you don't have to attend sundae bar religiously twice a week. For Chrissakes, get a hold of yourself. Eighth, eat All-Bran for breakfast every morning. Anything that tastes like horse feed is guaranteed to be good for you."
This was written two days before my last entry. The journal has since been put aside, collecting dust alongside "1,000 Bartender's Favorite Recipes." Both texts proved more trouble than they were worth.
I noticed it this morning when I woke up about a half an hour before my 10 a.m. class, and was skimming through the first few pages of a thirty-page packet I was supposed to have done for that very class. As I scuttled off to class, nibbling two muffins I had hastily snatched in Thorne, I remembered how optimistic I had been in those days. I reflected on this again when, later that afternoon, I crawled back into a twisted pile of sheets and pillows for a brief snooze.
I'm confident, though, that this quick dilapidation of ambitions isn't unique to me. I'm also pretty sure, however, that most of my peers were able to uphold these standards of living with more than about 11 hours total of class under their belt. But I believe I quote Keynes when I say that, "in the end, we're all lazy." (It's something like that, anyway).
We always have great visions of ourselves right before the school year starts; we're politically savvy, academically efficient; we're social butterflies, equipped with charm, wit, and devastatingly good looks. We go into the school year, excited to live out this cosmopolitan lifestyle, convinced that this is the year where we will bloom into sophisticated adults, standing aloof a sea of college debauchery.
And then you have to write your first paper. Suddenly, adulthood looks less appetizing, and the sundae bar more delicious by the moment.
But as I drifted off to sleep at 2 p.m. in the afternoon, I came to this realization: this is probably the last period in my life in which I can get away with this indulgent lifestyle. Someday, I will have children who will be coming home from school when I want to take a nap. If I want them to make their beds, I need to set the example myself.
So why torture myself with these policies, when in the end I'm really only fooling myself. I should be able to have my sundae bar and eat it, too.
Now, I'm not suggesting that we should all blow off our homework and nap the day away (only if you're really, really tired). But I do think that it's important for us to realize that we are allotted a lot of opportunities in college that aren't academic or extracurricular. We have gaps of time during the day where we don't have to be in class. Was this time really meant to be spent studying? I think not! We also have a sundae bar! We can eat All-Bran, but we can also have Lucky Charms!
In just a few short years, naps, sundae bars, cocoa puffs, and rolling to class in sweatpants will be distant memories. Do we really want to look back on our Bowdoin days remembering diligence and responsibility?
I'll leave you to ponder that for a while. When you figure it out, tell me later. I'll probably be asleep.