by kellyduggan
The beginning of the fall semester is always a tug-of-war between old and new. A fresh start
always brings excitement for new teachers, new notebooks, new outfits, and new friends–yet
the mere notion of “back-to-school” always carries a restless nostalgia in its Fjallraven Kanken
backpack: we stroll the floors of Bailey-Howe reminiscing about the first time we did so as
freshmen, or missing hometown friends from elementary schools’ past, or fondly reflecting
upon middle-school lunches spent hyperventilating in the bathroom before we even knew what
clinical anxiety was. As I sped past the new Andrew Harris Commons, already late for a meeting
with my new therapist to discuss old problems, I couldn’t help but wonder: did I have to pee?
Am I hungry, or just a bitch? Is romance dead? When did jewels turn into juul pods? When did
the waltz turn into unreciprocated oral sex? And how, if ever, did Carrie Bradshaw make enough
money off her seedy sex column to afford Manolo Blahniks? I stared down at my beat-up fake
Birkenstocks in disgust. Was she hustling on the side? Am I horny, or just bored? And, finally–I’m
a writer, could I do that?
Categories: kelly duggan, water cooler