Middlebury: Exposed

Dear Prospective Student Who May Read My Blog From Time to Time,

If you have been accepted to the prestigious Middlebury College, small private liberal arts school extraordinaire, then I extend my heartiest congratulations to you. Hurrah. Now that Acception/Rejection month is nearly over, you must be rather conflicted about your choices. Which school should you spend four years of your young life in? Decisions, decisions. Believe me, it was difficult for me too last year. I had to choose between Emory and Middlebury, two very different post-secondary institutions, each with their own pros and cons. In the end, Middlebury won out, and here I am, firmly entrenched in a swivel chair in front of a computer in the college's Main Library, typing this letter to You.

You see, I do not wish for You, Prospective Student, to undergo the same agonizing process that I had to endure. I want to make your decision-making easy and without any second doubts. Therefore, I will now tell you an excerpt of my life here at Middlebury--just a chapter out of my daily life as a Middkid, nothing more--to give you some sense of what you may or may not encounter in rural Vermont. And...here I go:

Today I wake up around 8:30 because my alarm sucks, so I wind up being 5 minutes late to French class. As my dear professor rambles about "La Cigale et La Fourmi," I sit there in my little corner of the classroom, scribbling in my planner for this week's chores, the French part of my mind still in a comatose state. We are let out ten minutes late, as usual, and I have to sprint to the dining hall in order to scrape up whatever's left of this morning's breakfast. I have waterless oatmeal that is congealed in a lovely, unidentifiable shape, which I eat with frozen peaches that I must stab at with a fork.

On my way back to my room, I take a detour from my usual route due to the 9000 construction vehicles and yellow tape parked in the middle of the road in front of Proctor Hall--whose renovation has been ongoing since September. I open the door of my room to be greeted by the sickly sweet n' salty odor of my roommate's side of the dorm, a strange combination of make-up pigments/powders, week-old ramen noodle fermenting in her trashcan, and the damp pile of clothes sitting at the foot of her bed. (And I can't decide whether or not the clothes are wet because they have just been popped out of the laundry machine or for some other unknown reason.) I vegetate at my desk for roughly two hours before changing my books and heading for the door, taking care not to trip over one of my roommate's 9000 shoes/towels/books/other shit that litter the floor of the room in perhaps one of her misguided efforts to decorate my side. In any case, I had an unfortunate incident last night with a particularly vicious purple ballet flat so I tread carefully.

My other class drags by blissfully, and before I know it, I am at one of the library's computers, attempting to print something. When I walk over to the printing station on the main floor, I discover that it has a paper jam. No matter. I send my document to be printed at the third floor. I walk over there. That printer has run out of ink. Again, no matter. I send said document to the first floor. I walk over there. It has been out of order for a week so I have no idea what is wrong with that printer. Alright one more printer at the basement level. I walk down into the dungeons to the printing station there, and apparently, that printer is on its period and has not had its Advil yet so it really cannot be bothered to print any damn papers for this petite Chinese girl who is sweaty and out of breath from having run up and down four flights of stairs. Really, the nerve of me. And despite the funny habitual coincidence that every time I want to print something off at the library, all the printers are broken, I shrug and think "Oh they'll probably work tomorrow. I should try again then."

Dinnertime. Ross dining hall has turkey breast, mashed potatoes, and bread stuffing. My favorites. And do you know why they are my favorites? Because Ross serves this faux Thanksiging cuisine at least three times a week, besides the usual fare of cheeseburgers and london broil. I have had no other type of food since coming here, and I see no reason in introducing me to culturally diverse dishes now. After I eat dinner, I walk back to my dorm, where I then make inane small talk with my floormates, sweet, well-meaning girls who enjoy "the outdoors, reading, and hanging out with friends." Then I retreat into my room, where I consume an entire bag of Lays' Barbecue Chips in one sitting while refreshing Facebook over 9000 times.

Time flies by, and it is a half-hour til midnight. I grab my toothbrush and toothpaste and run to the bathroom, where I find that all of the sinks have been taken by girls whose nightly activities include (but are obviously not limited to): brushing teeth, flossing, face masks, and scrubbing your face with various lotions/ointments/exfoliation liquids/nightingale poop. Fifteen minutes later, I at last have an empty sink where I then spend approximately three minutes washing up for bed. And as I lay in my squeaky creaky springy bed, I wonder if I have to wake up to the dulcet melody of power drills going off directly below my room like I did last week.

/Day in Middlebury

Well, Prospective Student, I hope that this letter of mine will help you in your decision-making process this month. I know I would have benefited greatly had someone sent me a message like this last April.

Good luck!