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As someone from a small town (as in, I can’t get groceries without running into half of my graduating class), one of the things I was most excited about when I started college was getting to live in a bigger city like Baltimore.
“Are you planning on going to medical school?”
SARAH:
Dear Freshman Jessica,
The Beach
400 students were surveyed for this infographic.
400 students were surveyed for this infographic.
400 students were surveyed for this infographic.
400 students were surveyed for this infographic.
400 students were surveyed for this infographic.
400 students were surveyed for this infographic.
400 students were surveyed for this infographic.
400 students were surveyed for this infographic.
400 students were surveyed for this infographic.
400 students were surveyed for this infographic.
400 students were surveyed for this infographic.
400 students were surveyed for this infographic.
I am, as my mother would say, a “sensitive person who feels things deeply.” She’s not wrong. I have atopic dermatitis — a fancy medical term for “sensitive deep-feeler.” When I’m upset, a rash breaks out on my arms; when I’m stressed, I get bacne that looks like a topographical map of a piece of pizza. Even when I try hiding my feelings, my skin betrays me.
It’s 9 a.m., and you’re trying to rush home before anyone sees you in oversized sweatpants and a T-shirt, carrying your clothes from last night. The infamous walk of shame. But why do we label it as shameful? Why do we consider sex shameful?
In seventh grade, somewhere between the classes that neither students nor teachers cared about and the hormone and Axe-filled gym period, we had one hour set aside every week to visit the library. While I’m sure I would have preferred the patented middle school time-waster coolmathgames.com, the presence of our terrifying school librarian forced me to pretend to actually read.