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.)

(more…)