Attempting to have a social life at Harvard is a tricky business. Going out on campus on weekends, the questions always nag. Am I having a good time? Am I having a better time than that geeky kid in my section who never washes his socks? And if I am fun by Harvard standards, does that mean that I would be more fun than, say, an eggplant by the standards of any other school?
I give THURSDAY (St. Paddy’s Day) about a 5 on the College scale (1 to So-College, with So-College being a 10), mainly because of wasted potential. While I was indeed wearing green (even green eyeshadow!) the Irishness stopped there. I went to the bar I go to almost every night, which is Irish only in terms of its alcoholism, and a final club that fits the bill in a similar way.
On FRIDAY night at about 10:10 p.m. my epiphany came. I was in my room in the process of getting ready, when the monk-like chant made its way to my ears. My male roommates on the rugby team were having their team drink-up in the common room upstairs. “UHS, UHS, UHS!” they cried, in voices full and strong. “I’m gonna go to the hospital!” It was then that it hit me: these guys had goals. Lofty goals. And they were actively pursuing them. It doesn’t get any more College than that.
I resolved to quit my shiftless existence and only go out with a mission.
On SATURDAY, my mission failed:I didn’t go to UHS or come close to winning the Beirut tournament I competed in.
The tournament was about as Harvard as it gets. A massively organized NCAA-style affair, it had been put on with the kind of meticulous planning, devotion to detail, and flat-out entrepreneurialism that it takes to drive a Fortune 500 company.
As I looked at the wall above me—covered in brackets, printed-out grids complete with team names, seeds, and projected winners—it dawned on me that I was part of something, maybe something special. If this is what it means to be a Harvard College student—bringing the same precision, the same drive, and the same killer Microsoft Office skills to partying as we do to life—then dammit, I’m a fan.
EPILOGUE: On Sunday morning, remnants of college life lingered. On my desk: leftovers from late-night food. On my computer: a facebook message in which a boy I’d met that night had invited me to “celebrate senior spring the RIGHT way,” complete with phone number. On me: the shirt I’d gone out in.
But as Sunday night rolled around, I found myself back at square one. At about midnight, drunken friends called asking me and my roommate to come hang out. I stayed in bed, maintaining I was going to wake up early to get work done.
When 4 a.m. rolled around and I’d done nothing more than toss and turn in bed, I realized my friends were probably right—I could be doing much more with my senior spring.
The verdict? I am not so college. Eggplant, eggplant and a half. But at least I’ve got clean socks.
