Frosh In the City

I never considered myself a spoiled child. Chores were a constant throughout my childhood.

I had to pay for most of my own things as early as age 11, the same year I took a baby-sitting course and began to create a résumé that would eventually be filled with entries such as “hostess,” “waitress” and “physical therapy assistant.”

But when I announced I was going grocery shopping by myself for the first time, the ludicrous looks from the people around me made me feel like maybe my parents (and my meal plan at MSU) were babying me for the last 19 years.

Although my childhood contains happy memories of pushing a Kroger mini-shopping cart next to Mom’s big one and begging to be allowed to carry something, the charm wore off as I grew up (although not the urge to run with the cart, hop on and cruise down the aisles).

Eventually, I found my niche vacuuming and washing dishes, and that was end of my Kroger experiences.

So now I was embarking on a trip to the local Meijer, half a shopping list scribbled in my planner. It was a Saturday afternoon and the place was somewhat packed.

I spent an hour finding everything, and then another half and hour deciding I didn’t need most of the food and putting it back on the wrong shelves. It took forever, and those carts are way to bulky for a girl whose relatives describe her as “not small, but fun-sized.”

Last night, I decided to make another Meijer run because dairy foodstuffs expire quickly, and I was craving smoked salmon (and cupcakes, but those seldom go well together). It was 11 p.m. when I arrived at a mostly empty lot to be greeted by a mostly empty store.

There was an employee in every aisle stocking the rows who was able to help me find what I needed (one gentleman was incredibly specific in his definitions: “Tortilla bread, aisle 10, right past the tomato sauce”).

It’s easier to maneuver your cart when no one’s around, and there’s more room to ride on my cart. And the lady at the self-check out did not take an hour to come help me.

Overall, it was even better than my mini-shopping cart days. I think everyone should go shopping as late as possible. But on second thought, don’t. You’ll get in the way of my charging shopping cart.

Spring break my senior year in high school was everything a spring break should be: good friends, sandy beaches, warm weather — all taking place in a country where the legal drinking age was 18.

It was an interesting contrast to swapping brown bag lunches and life stories with the homeless on the streets of Nashville.

Alternative Spring Break, or ASB, is a trip usually taken by a group of students to do various service projects in a city. This year, after a suggestion by one of my friends, I decided to give it a try.

Although I wouldn’t classify bpring break 2010 as one of the best vacations in my life, I will say it is a contender for one of the best weeks in my life.

The nature of ASB varies depending what program you choose. Some groups build houses, some groups take care of little kids and my group hung out with the homeless.

I’d dealt with this side of society before, but always at an arm’s distance, spooning food at soup kitchens or tossing a few coins into an extended Styrofoam cup of a man huddled in the corner of a building.

I felt there was a barrier there, and crossing it would leave me vulnerable and uncomfortable.

Luckily, my group had an amazing host. The first day we ate breakfast with the homeless, she walked right up to two men with clothes faded, beards long and half a mouthful of teeth, and greeted them like they were good friends, falling into easy conversation.

The attempts I made to duplicate her actions varied from awkward to heart-touching. There were plenty who fabricated their life stores into tales so tall you merely nodded and smiled.

But then there was the shy writer who had a college degree and a card declaring him a published writer. He was a clean-shaven man who lost his job to the recession and his wife not long after.

There also was a long-bearded man who refused the food we offered him with the words “I’m sure there’s someone else who needs it more than me.”

Connecting with the residents of Nashville’s streets was humbling. It added a new layer of color to the skyscrapers that lit up the city and the restaurants at which we ate.

For the rest of my life, I will have ample opportunity to take pampering, luxurious vacations all across the world. There are dozens of books, Web sites and TV shows showing you how to turn every trip into a high-quality experience.

But it’s rare to find a guide to the other side of city life, to know where to find the poor and homeless. The experience is eye-opening, and yet thousands of people walk by without a second glance every day.

MSU abounds with ASB trips. You have four years to party here. You can, and should, spare a week for a new perspective.

If you tell yourself something enough times, you begin to believe it, even when it’s not true anymore.

I have a particularly bad habit of falling into this pattern of thinking, so it was a snap to reality when I suddenly realized the other day that it’s March.

March? It can’t be March. I just got to MSU. I’m new and awkward and a bit helpless.

But I’m not. (Okay, I’m kind of awkward, but that always will be there.) Yes, I’m still a freshman. But with second semester’s midterms a week behind us and only a little more than a month ahead until summer, being a freshman doesn’t mean the same thing anymore.

I’m in the middle of my college experience, and if I don’t stop to savor it, life will slip away. Just like these last six and half months.

Actually, time might rush by no matter what I do. When I told my mom how surprised I was that it was already spring, she told me as you get older, time goes faster.

Or maybe it was as you get busier. And I have no doubt I will get busier as I get older. Unless I invent some kind of awesome Web site that thrives off of schadenfreude and am able to retire when I’m 30.

Looking back, the past six months haven’t been horrible. Between all-nighters, food in the community bathroom sinks and cross-campus treks in freezing cold temperatures, college has been full of those unforgettable moments.

The feeling in the student section when our team scores, grabbing the trolley down Grand River Avenue, feeding the squirrels and, of course, taking full advantage of the college party scene.

I’m sure when I’m a sophomore, a junior and a senior I’ll still probably be looking around a bit bewildered wondering how I got so old with almost no time passing at all. I’ll probably still be doing it when I’m 40.

But the fact is for now, and for the next four … three years, I’m here. And loving it. And in this moment, life is pretty great.

The concept of all-nighters is far from foreign. In high school, I’d hole up in my room into the wee hours by lamplight trying to balance my A.P. Biology book on my stomach, interrupted only when my mom, clad in a pink bathrobe, shuffled down the hall at 3 a.m. and hissed at me to go to sleep.

College (job included) has brought many more all-nighters, but has provided a new environment: a well-lit, robe-clad mother-free library.

I have to say, on the whole I prefer it. Just sitting in a library makes me feel more productive. But with more freedom comes more choices.

Second semester is said to be harder than the first for the majority of freshmen and with midterms around the corner, I thought I would offer up my humble advice and observations on library all-nighter options.

West Side vs. East Side
The difference here is obvious, the West Wing is for those who study better with noise, or who are doing a group study. East Wing is covered by a strict silence, which will freak you out around 4 a.m. when a nervous looking student walks by you, announces that you’re probably the only one on the floor besides him, and then leaves.

The preferred strategy is to begin the night in East and hit your stride. When you need a break, take the time to move to West. It also doesn’t hurt for safety reasons. I’ve heard mysterious clicking on East Wing’s second floor.

Just saying.

Comfy chairs vs. Individual cubbies vs. Desks
The ground and second floors on the West Wing have couches and comfy armchairs, some with their own foot rests. There’s no doubt they beat a flat wooden surface five hours in, but I’ve never managed to go a full night without nodding off at least once. They’re ideal for reading earlier in the evening when you’re awake.

Individual cubbies are good for blocking out distractions, unless you picked one with a computer connected to the Internet, in which case you’re still at risk. But the lack of arm room is concerning. Some studying requires online material, textbooks, handouts and a spiral. Crowding it in is fine in a pinch, but not for a marathon study session.

Tables might be the best option. However, if you take one all to yourself, it’s a bit excessive, and selfish. Either get a few friends, or only use a table when it’s clear it won’t inconvenience anyone else.

Food and beverage
After 8 p.m. your metabolism slows down and food eaten after this time tends to build up fat in … hey, look, Sparty’s has white chocolate pretzels now! Where’s my MSU Federal Credit Union debit card?

Telling people to quiet down vs. Moving
If you choose to study in the West Wing of the library thinking you’ll hear hushed voices and minimal talking, you’re kidding yourself, particularly on the first and second floors. Asking someone to be quiet sometimes works and sometimes doesn’t. After all, if you wanted silence you should have picked the East Wing.

Although, be warned West Wing talkers, there are some short brunette girls who will tell you to be quiet and get angry if you don’t.

Riding the Night Owl vs. Walking
The Night Owl runs from 2-7 a.m. Monday through Friday, and runs from 2-9 a.m. Saturday and Sunday (Friday and Saturday the library closes before the Night Owl begins). Simply give them a call at (517) 432-8888 and they will take you anywhere on campus.

The service’s waiting time varies. From the time I call to the time it takes for the bus to arrive at Brody complex has taken anywhere from 15 minutes to an hour. But, unless you live relatively close to the library, the Night Owl is worth it. The cost of the ride is a toss up, one driver requires nothing and the other needs the normal 60 cent fare, or bus pass card.

Here is the spot I warn you that sleep is important for any college student, but at the risk of sounding like a total hypocrite, I won’t. All I’m going to say is five hour energy shots beat Red Bull by far.

As early as October I began to question why I had not seized the opportunity to attend school in a state such as Florida or Arizona.

The fact is, during high school, the time I spent outside during the winter was summed up to the minute walk from my car to the front doors of school.

Although I’ve lived in Michigan my whole life, 30-minute treks in below-freezing temperatures are new.

But all the numb noses and frozen fingers paid off after the first real snowfall. Real being the kind where the ground still is white two days after it snows.

I was pretty ecstatic to see how clear MSU kept its sidewalks. But I was even more ecstatic the day I woke up and discovered the sidewalks, instead of being cleared, had a layer of solidly packed snow on them.

Once upon a time, I was a figure skater. And although that is in my past, the joy of sailing across slippery surfaces has never left.

I quickly discovered the soles of my 20-dollar Ugg look-alikes were so worn down I could run and then slide on the snow.

I’d be surprised if I was the first to do this, but I haven’t seen anyone else attempt it.

And so, with buses being crowded, bikes being hazardous, walking being far too slow and adulthood being at least another two years away, I truly believe sidewalk sliding is the transportation of the future.

I’m also hoping someone will try this and wipe out.

Schadenfreude is the caffeine of emotions and the walk to my 8 a.m. class could use a kick.

When I first started this blog post, I was going to write about how easy it was to get a new student ID after I lost my old one last week.

When I first realized my ID was gone — and frantically searched through my backpack as the night receptionist probably wondered whether it would be easier to deal with an intoxicated person — I was expecting to brush quite a few elbows with excess bureaucracy in a quest that would take several days.

So, I was delighted when the entire process (including the time I took to get the ID activated with the administration at my residence hall) took less than one hour.

I was not delighted when my mother called me a few days later asking why there was a $20 dollar fine on my account for a new ID.

No one had informed me of the charge which (while small) would have been enough to prompt me to look for my old card further (I was contacted by someone who found it less than an hour after I got my new one).

I’m not naive enough to believe this oversight wasn’t in part my fault. When the night receptionist at my residence hall told me a replacement was free, I should have double-checked with the Office of the Registrar.

A quick online search also reveals that a replacement ID is $20 dollars and the charge will be placed on my account. Still, I find it odd that the addition of the charge to my account wasn’t mentioned by the employee who replaced my card.

This has to be chalked up to a learning experience. Wall Street’s events of last year brought the term “hidden charges” to my vocabulary. And while this charge wasn’t purposely concealed (or, at least I hope not) it’s clear things no longer are always spelled out.

Asking questions, even ones that seem basic, or double-checking the facts, is necessary. “Is there a cost?” “How much is it?” “Exactly how many times can I re-take this picture ­— my right eye is still twitching.”

In my elementary school days, I took the bus.

It was a simple concept. You got on at the neighborhood bus stop and you got off at school. One destination, one route, one bus.

With that being said, the Capital Area Transportation Authority, or CATA, scares me to the core. The first time I attempted to take a bus to downtown Lansing I waited at the wrong stop for about 20 minutes. Although I was waiting with 16 other kids, not a single one of them spoke English.

At long last I called the CATA hotline and was informed of my mistake. I got the impression the lady on the other end of the phone thought I was stupid — a fact I confirmed when I got on the right bus headed in the wrong direction. Instead of taking 15 minutes, it took twice as long to finally reach my destination. I then lost my bus card and had a good reason to not ride CATA again.

But lately, it’s gotten cold outside. In addition to my ID, I recently lost my gloves and neck warmer (are you seeing a pattern here?). So, I dished out $50, grabbed a map, and wondered why CATA was No. 1 in America — for its overcrowding of vehicles?

Luckily, since I go to the same group of buildings five days per week, I’ve mastered some aspects of public transportation such as doing a visual sweep of a bus prior to sitting so you can decide whether to put your bag on your lap or the seat next to you. But other lessons have been learned the hard way.

Waiting for Route 1, I abandoned all hope once 25 minutes had passed. After 26 minutes, the bus blew right by me. There also was the time I thought Route 26 would take me to South Complex and instead I got a lovely tour of Chandler Crossings.

Last week, as I faced sub-zero temperatures and a mile-long trek across campus, Route 31 paused on the corner of Farm Lane and Grand River Avenue just long enough for me to appear in the side-view mirror running to catch it. I did.

Just like everything else here, CATA is more complex than I thought. But I’m a regular rider now (I don’t have much of a choice without my gloves. They’re grey with a white pattern by the way).

Whoever invented college was a genius. There are minimal responsibilities, large amounts of freedom, and places that will deliver food to your dorm at 3 a.m..

But home is where the heart is and also where the Christmas presents were.

In the last days of break I was talking with one of my friends from high school who said she was glad to be going home.

“Home?” I said.

“Yeah,” she said, “Back to college. That’s my home now.”

The question of what is home bugs me. When asked my address on forms, I hesitate. When I told my parents I left my book in my room, I have to specify between my dorm room and my old room? The room back at my house? The room back at my parents house?

For some reason, a dorm room doesn’t feel like home to me. But the home I return to on break feels more like my grandparent’s cottage up by a lake we used to visit a few times each year. It’s comfortable, relaxing, familiar, but it’s missing the bustle of life I had there. The house I grew up in is far removed from my life now. It’s away from school, from work, from the life I’ve created in the last four months.

Home is where the heart is. Maybe for now that just means wherever I am.

I came back to school this semester with a sign that all my hard work form high school had paid off. Measuring snot globs in Advanced Placement, or AP, Biology, sleeping with my eyes open in AP History, and suffering through my teacher’s monologues in AP Government is all worth it now. After one measly semester, thanks to the AP credits from high school, I have obtained sophomore status.

The glory of this will not be downplayed by the fact that “sophomore” means “wise fool.”

I loved being a sophomore in high school. You got your own dance, took classes you actually liked, and you weren’t a freshman. Moving up a grade meant an increase in status and power. Naturally, I was excited to do it again.

However, I’m beginning to realize being a sophomore in college has no such corresponding perks. I can live off campus now, but I can’t move out of the dorms mid-year. I could have a vehicle here, but last summer, while I was away on a trip to Florida, my parents sold my car without telling me. So much for perks.

Whatever my credits say, I’m still a freshman. It’s only my second semester on campus. I have no clue where any of my classes are. I’m stuck in the “Brojects.” And knowing my life, there will be many awkward college firsts next semester.

Scratch that. Knowing my life, there will be plenty of awkward college firsts long after my freshman year. Probably long after I finish college too.

We compare casualties in the community bathroom. Once good skin is now subject to frequent breakouts. Night after night I watch girls slather their faces with masks and creams, using five different products and battery-operated exfoliators trying to undo the damage.

I’d been blaming most of my acne on stress, but several girls have been adamant that it’s the water.

And lately, I’ve been second-guessing the water as well. My face, while not perfect, has been fairly acne-free for my last 18 years. But after moving into the Brojects, it’s become something that stands out every time I look in the mirror.

And then, it happened. I awoke one morning to a large patch of my skin peeling and forming scabs. And then the next day I woke to another. And another.

My personal philosophy in all health related matters is to wait it out and see if it gets worse. And so I did, until people began asking what had happened. The “I fell off my bike” excuse worked for a little while, but when I final began to admit I had no idea, people began getting really concerned. And that made me worry.

So I went to Olin where some guy who I’m not even sure was a doctor pulled out a textbook full of disgusting skin diseases (I know they were disgusting because there were pictures on every page, a lot more than there should have been showing genitalia) and went through until he found impetigo, a skin infection caused by bacteria.

Or, in more common terms, flesh-eating bacteria.

Now, acne is one thing, but I have to seriously question the condition of the dorms when someone with proper hygiene gets something like flesh-eating bacteria. I wash my face twice a day, I clean my towels and pillowcases.

And when I’m asked how it happened, the first thing that comes to mind is: “Well, I live in the dorms.”