Point: Sophomore Slumping

If someone had told me last year what it would feel like to be a sophomore in college, I think I would have asked to re-enroll in the new freshman class. I think I could remain a student of higher education for the rest of my life, as long as the administration promised to bring back at least one tent dance for old time’s sake, and if The Black Keys performed at Floralia…every year.

There are some perks to being a sophomore: I have a single now, which is great because I don’t have to worry about my guy friends barging into my room at one o’clock on a Tuesday morning and demanding that my roommate teach them how to salsa dance. While I still feel awkward maneuvering my way around Harris at 6 PM rush hour, especially now that the layout has changed and I always slam some part of my body into the salad bar on my way out, I don’t feel lost like I did as a freshman. I have a routine (sort of), friends (sometimes) and zero desire to attend Cro dances unless the theme is high school and people dress up as goth kids, scene kids and pregnant schoolgirls. (I only saw one third of these people at my high school. Guess which one?)

I can now bestow nuggets of wisdom upon the freshmen, like the fact that Cro dances may start at ten but no one shows up until at least midnight. The orange Larrabee cat (also known as one of the “Larracats”) is friendlier than the gray one and likes to climb into people’s cars if they leave their doors open. Don’t bother going to the gym; just walk up and down the stairs to the AC ten times and you’ll be set for the day. Whoever makes the best-looking and best-tasting Sunday sundae wins a free sundae the following week.

These are minor joys in comparison to the first month back at Conn. Sure, it started off with a hurricane, power outages and scavenges for food, so the mood was set from the beginning. After finally settling back into the routine, I began to notice my friends slowly losing their minds, one by one. (Okay, maybe not quite to that extreme, but picture ten people all having anxiety attacks at the same time. Not enough paper bags to go around.) I learned that the term “sophomore slump” is no myth. It’s an unfortunate reality. And it has its own Wikipedia page, which describes it as “an instance in which a second, or sophomore, effort fails to live up to the standards of the first effort. It is commonly used to refer to the apathy of students (second year of college or university).” Legit.

The allure and excitement from orientation and freshman year has worn off. We mumble and complain that Harris doesn’t put out our favorite salad dressing anymore. We lock ourselves on the third floor of Shain and write three papers that are all due tomorrow. We wonder when we’ll socialize— if we’ll party on the weekends like last year, or if we’ve become victims of a rigorous academic schedule. We grow frustrated and threaten to pop the Conn bubble with a hairpin and run down Route 32 until we’re lost and want to crawl into our twin XL-sized beds and sleep away the worry.

What’s really terrifying is the idea that we’re in our second year of college. At the end of this year, we’ll be halfway done. Less than three years left until we’re part of the big, bad “real world,” and we have to function on our own (or at least get apartments, go on a bunch of job interviews and hope someone likes the resumes we worked on for two years). I recently had a CELS meeting with my advisor and talked about study abroad options, job possibilities for this summer and what I can be doing to work on my exploded resume. (Is it just me or does the name “exploded resume” intimidate anyone else?) Then, there’s CISLA and the academic centers to consider. And we’re supposed to figure out what we intend to major in by the middle of this year. Have I mentioned that we only have two-and-a-half more years here?

Last week, amidst studying for midterms and writing papers, all due on the same two days before fall break, I lost my mind. I still haven’t found it. (If found, please return to the Voice office.) I started to think about what I was doing with my life, what I should be doing, what I wanted to be doing and what other people wanted me to be doing. None of them matched up.

I decided to double major, because one major isn’t enough, and I have so many interests anyway that I couldn’t choose one discipline to focus on. So now I’m an English and American Studies double major. Some may say I love America. I think I’m just fascinated with our past and current cultural habits. You might be asking (if you’re my parents) what the hell I’m going to do with these two degrees. What kind of career will I stumble into? What kind of career DO I want to stumble into?

I have no idea. And so I’m freaking out.

But wait, I’m almost twenty. I shouldn’t know exactly what I want to do with the rest of my life. Right? Should I? I hope not because I only have a vague idea of what I want to do: write. There are so many outlets for writing that I have yet to narrow it down, though I’ve been trying for years. But here’s the cool thing I’ve learned this past week: we go to a liberal arts school, and that gives us an advantage in the real working world.

We learn how to adapt, communicate, analyze and think critically, solve problems, offer solutions and write a kick-ass resume, among other skills. This reassures me (a little). As I stumble through gen-ed classes, try to figure out how to use InDesign, learn to write in formal logic symbols, I’m wondering what this is all for. Will these skills help me get a job one day? Maybe, but really, who knows? With the booming economy and the growth of job markets, I’m sure I’ll have no problem finding a respectable career.

I shouldn’t be worrying about this now. I should be focusing on writing all those essays I have due next week and trying to stop the soap dispenser on the first floor of Wright from exploding and flooding the bathroom. Things can only get better from here.  •