Thursday, June 28, 2012

The Great and Sometimes Terrible World of Transfer Orientation

Yesterday I went to my transfer Orientation at the beautiful Loyola University Chicago. Transferring has been a whirlwind so far. I'm supremely confident that I am making the right choice to leave Roosevelt, but as for everything else I'm a big ball of worry.
Loyola is a beautiful school. It is the perfect balance of city surroundings with a real college campus feel, and their program is going to be much more challenging (aka better) than the education I've been getting at Roosevelt. I'm psyched for the challenge, and I was equally psyched for orientation. I was picturing something similar to my freshman orientation: ice breaker games, meeting my enthusiastic peers, etc. That is not transfer orientation.
The day began auspiciously enough: my mom and I arrived to them handing out free stuff. I love free stuff! I was happy because I'd gotten up extra early so I could get semi-dressed up. You know what I mean: dressy enough that you look good but not so much that you look like you were trying.
Orientation Day Apparel!

The sessions they offered were hit or miss. Some were super informative, like the part on off-campus living. Other parts seemed like filler because they didn't know what to do with us, and during these I seriously considered escaping to an empty classroom for a nap. Among my fellow transfer students there was an air of skepticism. Everyone there was transferring from somewhere else for a reason, and we needed to be convinced that things here would be better. It didn't exactly lead to the bonding experience I was hoping for. I was looking forward to my one on one meeting with my adviser at the end of the day so I could pick my classes, and everything else seemed to just drag on.
Unfortunately, my meeting was not all that I hoped. My adviser was nice enough and helpful, but she dropped a bad news bomb on me almost right away: I will most likely be in school for three more years.
After that, I couldn't really enjoy the rest of my time on campus. I didn't want to let on to my mom that something was wrong, so I just walked around in a daze, less than enthusiastically answering her questions about my fall classes. I know it isn't the end of the world, and I'm trying to cut my extra time in school down, but I am horrified picturing all of my best friends graduating and me still having a year to go. Unfortunately I'm someone who took a bit of time to find my calling in life, and the multiple changes of major put me a little behind the curve.
If I can take positives out of my new status as a sophomore- again- it's that I know I'm making the right choice and I can't wait to be a teacher.
The Information Commons at Loyola, where I registered and will probably be spending a lot of time studying over the next three years!

Sunday, June 24, 2012

Diagnosis: Overweight

Recently, I had to go to the gynecologist for the usual yearly visit. The visit itself was uneventful, which is good, and then the nurse handed me my discharge papers. I walked out to meet my sister in the waiting room and casually glanced at them as we walked out of the office. Under the "diagnosed as" column, I saw a word that took me off guard: "overweight".
Mildly horrified, I laughed it off and told my sister it must be some sort of mistake. She asked me what my BMI was. I know nothing about BMI, so I told her it was 25.06, and she then informed me that anything over a 25 is, in fact, considered overweight.
Oh my god.
I had a brief moment of terror, staring at my thighs, and then we got in the car and drove to Applebee's.
If this was my wake up call, I hit snooze. I'm happy with my body. I may not be supermodel thin, but I take an odd amount of pride in being able to beat my guy friends in a White Castle eating contest. My body has served me well. Sure, sometimes when I put on a tank top I curse that little bit of fat by my armpits, but I really could have bigger problems. In the grand scheme of my life, being skinny is not my ultimate goal. I'd much rather spend my time writing than busting my ass on a treadmill.
Of course, being the attention whore I am, for several days following my fateful diagnosis I took up the habit of dramatically saying "I'm OVERWEIGHT!" when my boyfriend tried to get me to go get ice cream, but that was more for my love of good natured-ly annoying the shit out of him.  Luckily, he still loves me, belly fat and all.
I can't say I've gained some sort of enlightenment about my figure that other women don't have. I'd be lying if I said I was never self conscious. Sometimes I wish I had a stomach flat enough to pull of wearing a bandeau, which are those trendy half shirt things they sell at American Apparel that hip skinny girls love to wear, but then I remember it's really essentially just a bra. And I don't want to wear just a bra in public no matter how trendy it is.
I even considered adding a picture of myself to this post so that anyone reading could join in my anguish, saying, "Oh my gosh, she's considered overweight?! What is the world coming to?!" But that would defeat the purpose of what I'm saying here. I am happy with my body: I don't need everyone else to be too.
Now I'm going to go make waffles.