I hated my 20th birthday almost as much as I did my 19th. The three years before then, you see, were jam-packed with excitement: at 16 I could drive; at 17 my legal curfew disappeared and I could see R-rated movies; and at 18 I became an adult — so not only could I view pornographic films, I could also star in them. (You’re not quite there yet, Miley Cyrus.)

Now, as a Penn sophomore on the last day of classes, I’m getting that same lukewarm feeling as when I turned 19. There’s just nothing that great about finishing sophomore year.

I remember my last day as a freshman, when I was overcome with a sense of relief at having completed the first of my four collegiate years. At the time, I was excited for summer, nervous to see my home friend(s) again and eternally convinced that life was just one giant episode of The Hills. (I’ve learned from Penn that it’s just one giant episode of The Hillels.) The end of freshman year left me in that comfortable, pressure-free interim period: I was too old to be considered a minor, but too young to have declared a major. The story’s just not the same after sophomore year.

Then there’s the end of junior year, celebrated on this campus by an animalistic tradition where seniors throw condiments and water balloons at those one year below them. This is the official reigning in of the new senior class, often marked by one too many juniors wondering what “condiment” is naturally brown in color. (And a note to this year’s juniors: if you happen to make eye contact with Nick Barr on Hey Day, run like hell.)

And finally, there’s the incomparable feeling of finishing senior year, when your completed degree is not unlike an adopted child: you’ve finished the paperwork to get it, but you have no idea what to do with it now. That said, you’re done with being an undergraduate forever — no more TAs, no more midterms and no more immaturity (except for that time you threw excrement at a junior). You finally turn into someone with an actual career, and realize just as quickly that you’d much rather be on The Real World than in the real world.

But alas, I’m just a petty sophomore. I don’t get the first-year relief of a freshman, nor the ketchup-smeared face of a junior or even the sense of accomplishment of a senior. The best I can say is this: like a hot pocket after one minute in the microwave, I’m halfway done. And if you’ve ever seen an undercooked hot pocket, you know it’s not good to eat. But it is great to throw at the faces of juniors.

Tags: excrement, hot pockets, sophomores

This entry was posted on Tuesday, April 29th, 2008 at 12:32 pm and is filed under Penn. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.