Too Tall! Go Home!
I had lots of expectations for senior year. Back in my youth, I’d heard upperclassmen describe it as a golden era, a time of bucket lists and day seizing and buying wine legally. I’d imagined I would spend it hosting terribly grown-up dinner parties, reading philosophy in the bath and swanning about campus wearing something glamorous.
The Real Housewives of New Haven
Record admissions results again, I hear? According to the reputable, peer-reviewed database Funny2.com (“the place for humor on the Internet”), the odds that an application to Yale will be successful are now lower than your chances of having a stroke next year and only slightly higher than the risk of your next flight being flown »
Still glowing with shame, I flung the Chlamydia testing kit into some corner of our basement.
The Root of the Matter
Lesson number two: Make sure you have proper dental insurance. The Yale Health Plan does not cover you. This is not a drill. Do it right now.
We wake up on New Year’s Day believing that yes--yes!--this is the day that we will kiss all our flaws goodbye. Suddenly we start tallying up everything we don’t like about ourselves. Hello again, insecurities! We imagine our year will only be successful if we become better people immediately.
CRIT FROM THE BRIT: Martha Stewart Living — Screw Edition
Fifty-two minutes ago, I got an email from Martha Stewart with the subject line “14 Ways to Enjoy Parsnip + Fall Party Essentials.” Thanks, Martha! I don’t remember subscribing to your panlist, but now I will never need to worry again about how to eat parsnips or enjoy parties in a seasonally appropriate manner. But seriously, thank God Martha has gotten in touch. As we speak, we’re standing on the cusp of a new season — and both you and I need her guidance for it. It’s the start of fall party season — or, as we call it at Yale — screw time.
Squeezing You In
Last Friday night, I plonked myself down in Trumbull, where — good Yalie that I am — I was grabbing a meal with a friend. To be honest, I was feeling pretty grim about the whole thing. The dessert table had done a vanishing act, and when I’m promised brownies and get no brownies, I »
Yale Mail Fail
Hey, you. Have you done anything bad, recently? Yes, girl cutting the Durfee’s line with your friends, I’m talking to you. Yes, guy who stole my bagel from the Commons toaster, you too. And you, kid who shoved me at Box the other day because you were taking a photo and I was “in your way,” this is aimed right at you, because you are just the worst.
Good lord, is there anything more depressing than applying to seminars?
I was told that you do things differently over here. You go in for juice cleanses and interval training and that sort of thing. But freshman year was largely the same as things are back home. Yes, I suddenly encountered people who work out. I even had the occasional sighting of that rare breed, the 6 a.m. runner. Still, most Yalies seemed sane. It was a year of Insomnia and FroCo food, of laughing about the freshman 15 at the week’s third Yorkside pit stop.