Saying that college freshmen are stuck between childhood and adulthood is a cliché, but, from my freshman perspective, it’s a accurate cliché. Most of my peers and I are not living under our parents’ roofs any more. Many of my friends are no longer living with strictly enforced curfews. I voted this past fall. Yet I am still (luckily and gratefully) being supported financially by my parents. I can’t legally drink alcohol. Am I an adult? Legally, of course. Many developmental scientists would say that I’m in ‘early adulthood’ and will enter ‘full’ or ‘later’ adulthood in my mid-twenties. Personally, calling myself an adult makes me feel nauseous. I ate Ben and Jerry’s Americone Dream ice cream for dinner last week, which tells me I am far, far away from being an adult.
I don’t know what being an adult woman is, or what it should feel or look like. Am I an adult? Again, legally the answer is yes, developmentally kinda not really, and personally of course not. Is college all about finding the answer to that question? Is there a definite answer to that question? Am I asking these rhetorical questions because I am wrought with existential doubt about who I am and what I will be and am filled with residual teenage angst? Is anyone actually going to read this or am I screaming into a dark black abyss only to have my questions echoed back to me? Does asking or caring about these questions make me more or less of an adult; is true maturity understanding that your angst-ridden high school level philosophy questions are unanswerable and ultimately inconsequential? What Ben and Jerry’s flavor should I have for dinner?
Is being an adult about control? Controlling where you live, what you do, who you are friends with, etc. I lived in the same house on the same street in the same city for 18 years. This year the mysterious Housing and Dining gods assigned me my dorm. For next year, I cannot control my housing lottery number (though I got lucky with 134 out of a possible 484), which buildings I can choose from, or what rooms will be available to me after the people ahead of me chose. But I could control whom I roomed with and what building and room I wanted (given what was left of course). Much like the gray area of adulthood my fellow freshmen and I find ourselves in, we are thrust into a gray area of control.
I controlled what I could. I pored over floor plans, immersed myself in square footage, and made diagrams. I took account of my three future suitemates’ preferences and their relative importance of the different variables: a lot square footage, a high floor for a good view and less noise, distance from where new apartment building is being built for less noise, away from elevator shafts for less noise (two of my future suitemates are very light sleepers). Would we rather a larger suite on a high floor or a smaller one on a lower floor? A suite that had a more egalitarian division of square footage between rooms but was next to the street which has construction or a suite that had rooms with large differences in square space but was in a very quiet area? What if the first suite was available only on the 8th floor and the second was on the 5th? In a slight display of neurosis, I ranked every single suite in Charles Commons based on floor space (both amount and distribution between rooms), estimated level of noise (taking into account proximity to construction, streets, and elevator shafts; although I’m sure our future floormates are wonderful people, hearing them loudly stumbling drunk at 3 am out of the elevator on a Thursday might strain our relationship), and potential view. Ok, actually I ranked each suite in Commons three times, adjusting the amount of importance I gave each element.
Some did not take my approach. I was shocked and horrified to know that a group of my male friends with a better lottery number had not even really discussed their plans the night before the first day of housing picks. Aghast, I thrust the first draft of my Commons rankings upon my friend and began lecturing: “Well, this person is a light sleeper so you might not want to live here, and you guys want a good view so obviously look at these floors but several of the suites will likely to gone so you will have to sacrifice floor space or the view, depends on what you deem more important…” I received a quizzical look and a “well, you know, whatever happens happens.” Didn’t they want to get the best room they could? Didn’t they want to exert the maximum amount of control they could?
I do not consider myself a control freak and I highly doubt any of my friends would describe me that way. My room is fairly messy, I use the same notebook for four classes, I don’t really plan things far in advance, and one of my favorite sayings is “que será será” (what will be will be). But for some reason I not only spent hours on planning housing for next year, distinguishing between probably negligible differences, I loved doing it. Staring at floor plans made me practically euphoric. I feel like I have gained a new understanding with the people who use sticky color-coded labels in their textbooks. Is this adulthood: being the people who use those sticky color-coded labels? Or is it gaining understanding with the people who use sticky color-coded labels? Or not even caring about the people who organize their notes with adhesive colorful floppy plastic? Ugh, I really want to rank some more housing units right now.
Overall my study on adulthood did not yield any concrete answers. I have no earth-shattering theories on growing up to offer. I’m still some 18-year-old girl who eats ice cream for dinner. But there is always next year when I’m deciding where to live to ponder existential dilemmas. And there will be even more choices: who to live with, which building, what kind of lease, etc. etc. etc. I will gain more control over where I choose to be and whom I choose to be with and that excites me. Perhaps I should start making some lists.
