Dearest freshmen,

Even though you might have already mapped out the next four years of your lives, rest assured I’m spending this early September evening (well technically morning, but who’s keeping track?) of my senior year trying to figure out which classes to take. I’m also watching a video of a cat in a shark costume ride a Roomba, but that’s neither here nor there. Naturally, I’m looking through various Q guides, trying to find those special classes that garner reviews like “This is the most amazing course I’ve ever taken at Harvard!” or “dayum this TF is hot” or “I loved this class more than Pfister loves pfungi!” The only problem is, I can’t possibly fit all these classes into my schedule. Apparently we have very good-looking section leaders, particularly in the hist and lit department.

The American Presidency. Fiction Writing. Innovation and Entrepreneurship. Introduction to Computer Science. If only I could start my Harvard experience all over again, and take the classes I didn’t make time for the first time around. Because, you know, taking seven courses in a semester is just a little too daunting for me. So is taking five courses a semester, but I digress.

Welcome, freshmen, to the best four years of your life. Unless, you know, the following years are even better. Before you know it, you’ll be stuck dealing with adult problems, like having a spouse, or getting emails that don’t contain gifs. But I will resist the urge to lament about the current state of my inbox, and redirect our joint attention to the issue at hand. Namely, your experience at Harvard.

Freshmen, you today face a choice. Either choose to make the most out of every opportunity in these four short years here, or you resign yourself to Annenberg food for lunch. It’s that simple. Unless Dunster’s new dining hall (formerly the Inn at Harvard, formerly formerly a parking lot, and before that possibly the site of a Revolutionary War pep talk) has dining restrictions, eat there instead. You might think that a columnist at The Crimson, Harvard’s most important and influential newspaper, might have taken the ten seconds to find out whether or not Dunster has dining restrictions. You would be wrong.

And then there’s campus life outside of dining halls. Intramural sports, cultural clubs, a capella groups, all the things you read about in that glossy Yale pamphlet apply here too. There are the late nights drinking and arguing about Social Security and talking about the cute girl in section and debating who’s stuck killing that cockroach in the bathroom. You can’t forget about the countless hours you’ll spend trying to sneak a scorpion bowl at the Kong, or waiting for security to check your bag when you leave the library. (Pro tip: Cabot library has a lower countertop, so you don’t have to lift your bag as high on the way out.)

My point is that there are many things to see, and people to do, in this short timeframe. You’re going to have a great four years, if you decide to. Now I could write a piece about how you can go out and make an impact. And you certainly can. Help develop a vaccine for Ebola, or become a middle school history tutor, or design the next generation of wearable tech. But the important thing to remember is that you don’t have to do any of that. You don’t have to change the world before you turn 22.

Just don’t be afraid to change yourself. Listen to your drunk roommates when they discuss Kant, follow your friends to ballroom dancing or hot yoga (your hist and lit TF just might be there too). Unless you flunk out the first time, you only get one shot at college, that wonderful span of a few short years before you have to deal with flat tires and paying taxes. And how you respond to those problems will tell you who you are, and whether you should take anger management classes or just get a subscription to AAA Roadside Assistance.

So for the next four years, go out and do what you love. Take risks. Do things you’ve never done before. Don’t focus too much on grades. And definitely don’t listen to unsolicited advice from Crimson columns.

It’s going to be a great four years, I’m sure. Here’s looking at you, kid.

Editor’s note: Dunster’s dining hall only allows one guest per Dunster resident for dinner.

Jacob R. Drucker '15, a Crimson editorial writer, is an economics concentrator. His column appears every other Friday.