As year begins, finding old comforts in a new place

I wish I weren't here. By here, I mean Princeton University.

It's not that I hate the place. The dining halls serve scrumptious foods, people happily point out directions, and the buildings all stand beautifully against the carefully manicured backdrop. Educationally, Princeton is giving me way more than my money's worth. I'm only taking four classes (that I secretly enjoy attending) and yet, I'm working from dawn until dusk, scrambling to finish readings and complete problem sets. So then, what exactly is the matter?

I myself couldn't answer that question until very recently when I stopped to rack my brains about what on earth at Princeton was heinous enough that demanded that I repack my two suitcases of clothes, two boxes of books and supplies, and gazillions of bags filled with junk, and head straight back home. After much thought and consideration (limited by a writing assignment that was weighing heavily on my conscience), I realized that the problem with Princeton was me.

I have never wanted to grow up; I have always been dragged into reality kicking and screaming. After all, I am still a firm believer in the existence of Never Never Land and Santa Claus even though my chemistry teacher did prove the nonexistence of that great man. He handed out a sheet of calculations proving that if Jolly Old Saint Nick actually did exist and flew all over the world in one night, dropping down chimneys and gulping down gallons of milks and munching on millions of cookies, he'd be nothing more than a blob of jelly. Santa wouldn't live past the massive acceleration necessary to start the sleigh or the continuous jet velocity required to cover the span of the earth.

I threw out that sheet and ignored its existence; I had no plans on majoring in science anyway.

When I first arrived on Princeton's campus, I rushed through everything so quickly that it never hit me that I would no longer be living at home. Although that realization should have come once my parents drove away, it never did. Hiking, eating dangerous amounts of GORP, laughing at my group's misery in the never-ending downpours, and "Jump, shake your booty!"-ing buried any inklings of fear I had about growing up and going away to college.

But then OA ended, and I was thrown into Princeton's activities-packed orientation week. I attended numerous department open houses, feeling way under qualified whenever any professor opened his mouth to speak. I met herds of smiling people and showed up for a good number of the required assemblies.

But all this time, when I was supposed to be having the time of my life, I wasn't. I wanted to turn the clock back and live my unexciting but very comfortable 12-year-old existence once again. I didn't want to feel like an introverted freak if I had to eat by myself; I didn't want to walk by masses of people and not know a single face; I didn't want to call up a stranger to unlock my door when I locked myself out. I wanted to feel comfortable eating at my own kitchen table; I wanted to walk by people in my school and greet all of them by name; I wanted to call my mom to come back home and let me in the house. I wanted the comfort and security of what I knew; the strange and weird were too much for me. I just didn't want to admit to myself that I had finally left home and gone away to college.

It's now been a month since classes started, and the need-to-go-home feeling hasn't disappeared, but it's definitely ebbed. I've slowly started to remember more faces, and people stop and chat with me on the way to classes. I don't mind setting my tray down next to a person I've never seen before and learning what their favorite foods are and what countries they've traveled to. I've gotten in the comfortable routine of coming back to my suite and talking with my roommates about how their day went and the crazy amounts of homework that must be done on a daily basis. I've even come to appreciate not knowing what to expect in class because although that might mean scoring a grade lower than Princeton's undergraduate acceptance rate on the physics quiz, I know that others will indubitably commiserate with me.

So maybe it's due to my slothful habits and carefully refined ability to procrastinate, but my bags still aren't packed. In fact, I have a feeling that they'll be remaining unpacked for quite awhile. Which is fine, since you don't ever need to pack your bags once you're home.