It seemed about time for someone to write in about what it's like to finally be a big kid. When we were little we pictured ourselves as big kids, having jobs where you drank coffee out of mugs just like teachers did, where you cooked big meals that involved roasts that looked so perfect that it was obvious that the animal must have died happy, and where your curtains matched your sheets, which matched your valances, which matched your tea cozies. And you had the Nintendo Power Glove too.
And then the voice of reason kicked in, and it said, "Your rent is due on the 15th of each month." The same voice that once told us to stop picking up the field mice and bopping them on the head now uses phrases like "multitask" and "daily quota." And I realized that I no longer keep picturing myself as "when I'm older," because here I am, and from now on, all I can do is take it as it comes. At this moment, I know no more about being 22 then I did when I was a nine-year-old girl. The difference is, with no expectations, I can never do wrong. It's the ultimate freedom — instead of anticipating the days of no curfews and kissing boys and thesis-free weekends, then having to wait until those restrictions slowly fell away one by one (some would say plummeted), now every day is another reminder of how much I am in control of every single aspect of my life. It no longer takes the threat of lawn mowing and hefty fines to make me appreciate what I can and can't do, 'cause I'm a big kid. I can do everything I always wanted, as long as it's not covered under law or commandment.
I'm 22 years old, and still, each morning when I wake up and mainline coffee straight into my veins, I think in amazement, "I have a job. I am EMPLOYED." When I come home at night, hungry and tired, I think "I'm hungry and tired because I was working. At my JOB. And because I can't cook." And that, too, gives me a thrill. I make grown-up purchases each day that send little jolts through my body and checkbook, everything from pints to dish soap. The other week I bought an ab-roller. I know it's not a car or a house, but the magnitude of adulthood involved in the first purchase of something as luxuriously serious as an ab-roller is really a very frightening thing. And that's one of the main drawbacks to this whole freedom institution — things like exercise equipment begin to take on this larger than life symbolism and meaning, coming to represent unnecessarily abstract ideas like your mortality and your youth, when all you really wanted to do was be able to shake your stuff in a slightly smaller version of your black pants. You almost want to go back to the blissful ignorance of the importance of things you had before, unaware of the existential implications of everything you do, but that just ain't the way it works, Algernon. Once this train gets going, it doesn't stop for no one.
You start to develop rules too, little self-imposed guidelines that may someday manifest into classic parental mantras such as "Don't take candy from strangers" and "It's time you learned the value of a dollar," only these start off so seemingly harmless — "Don't date bartenders" and "Don't spend more on clothing than you do on groceries." I used to think that the original point of growing up was to get away from rules, but yet again, I'm wrong. See, without rules, there's no sense of danger, you're a true rebel without a cause, except without the cool car. The halloween candy never tasted as good as when you were sneaking it into your lunch box, and the pasta doesn't taste as good as when it is in severe disagreement with your Atkins Diet. I asked my flatmate to ground me the other day just because I thought it would make "sneaking out" on Saturday night more fun. Instead she took away my allowance.
Sadly, sometimes money becomes everything you always hoped it wouldn't. A measure of your success, your happiness, your limits. It's not any easier to say no to going out because you're broke than because you have a paper due the next day. But unlike in my days and nights sequestered in front of my computer (please stop laughing, anyone who ever knew me. There WERE a few), I have power over my standing in this department. Believe it or not, you can SAVE. Buy knockoffs. Eat only from the 99 cent McDonald's menu. Don't do your laundry as often. These reclaimed funds channel directly into your fun budget. For instance, I've started cutting my own hair — I figure I've got the same tools as the hairdresser, and an ever-so-slightly more vested interest in whether I end up looking like a freak. And when I look in the sink after the latest "styling," I don't think "Whoah. That's my HAIR," I remember the money I've saved and think "Whoah. That's dinner and a movie." Simple pleasures for richer minds.
I love life after Princeton. It's new, it's fun, and it scares the hell out of me on a regular basis. It's the haunted hayride of your life, only there's fewer guys with masks and chainsaws. People ask me whether I like it better, but it's the proverbial apples and oranges — a comparison can't be made when the only thing that exists between the two are differences. I may not own a tea cozy (and believe me, writing a thing like that while living in England could get you drawn and quartered), but just because life isn't what I expected, it's not a bad thing. In fact, it's the difference that reminds me daily of where and how I actually stand. Of the fact that I'm still standing. And yet the dreams of Power Gloves still dance through my head. Jen Adams is a former 'Prince' columnist from Ogdensburg, N.Y. She can be reached at jladams@alumni.princeton.edu.
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An open letter to President Eisgruber and VP Calhoun concerning minoritized student safety
Patrick Jaojoco, Brandi Bushman, and Humza Gondal"We — the undersigned leaders, community members, and allies of cultural affinity groups of Princeton University — condemn in the strongest possible terms the University’s utter disregard for the safety and wellbeing of its students of color."
"We — the undersigned leaders, community members, and allies of cultural affinity groups of Princeton University — condemn in the strongest possible terms the University’s utter disregard for the safety and wellbeing of its students of color."
On the occupation of Clio Hall and the treatment of Graduate School staff
Cole M. Crittenden“There are real power differentials on this campus, and we all have an obligation to be mindful of them. The students, postdocs, and faculty who occupied Clio Hall seem to have abused their privileges in the ways they treated staff as an expression of protest. That is wrong.”
“There are real power differentials on this campus, and we all have an obligation to be mindful of them. The students, postdocs, and faculty who occupied Clio Hall seem to have abused their privileges in the ways they treated staff as an expression of protest. That is wrong.”
Regulations on ‘disruption’ restrict dialogue at Princeton. Let’s change the standard.
Rishi Khanna“When Princeton administrators suppress mere disruptions tied to progressive speech, they effectively suppress a substantial portion of the speech itself.”
“When Princeton administrators suppress mere disruptions tied to progressive speech, they effectively suppress a substantial portion of the speech itself.”
