Let's not blow this out of proportion

On a cold October morning, a handful of juniors made a fateful decision as they groped through their closet for a comfortable sweatshirt. They arrived at school with lettering stamped across their chests, spelling out the all-too familiar names: YALE, BROWN, STANFORD–words they would soon wholly regret advertising.

The senior class, as stressed out as James Franco is attractive, stormed the offices of the authorities, torches and pitchforks in hand, and insisted that this wrong be righted. With early application due dates rearing their collegiate heads, they argued, the apparel of the junior class was insensitive, pretentious, and, in a word, inexcusable.

The two sides have now reached some kind of a stalemate. And now that the cacophony has subsided, may I suggest that our reaction was a bit overblown?

Let me start by pointing out some painful truths. First, this firestorm erupted on a free dress day, a day when people are allowed to wear whatever they want (yes, even if it makes you nervous about your future). If a junior is wearing a college sweatshirt on a uniform day, I am all in favor of subjecting them to the tidal wave of demerits they deserve. This, however, was not the case.

Second, I hope none of us think ourselves so important that a person would plan their entire outfit around offending us. But I am not going to waste this small space trying to convince my classmates that the juniors did nothing wrong- -if there’s one thing I admire about the class of 2010, it’s their loyalty to their convictions.

What really bothers me about this whole fiasco is the bigger picture–how we allowed ourselves to (in the words of President Obama) get all wee-weed up about this.

Believe me, it is a stressful time. I will not deny that. But the amount of gravity we are placing upon a mere four years of our lives is absolutely ridiculous. Do we all really want to believe that the greatest years of our lives end at 22? As for the argument that our futures are dictated by our bachelor’s degree, that I also find depressingly limiting, and untrue. When I hear a fellow schoolmate proudly claiming that movies like Rent and Into the Wild “changed my life,” I would hope that they can recognize their own hypocrisy in obsessing over academic establishments.

Let’s say, however, you are not one to swoon over movies that romanticize the “downwith-the-people” lifestyle. Let’s say you are simply one of those who argued that juniors fail to understand “what we are going through.” I understand that the college process is a mixture of emotions, but I urge you to make sure that the feeling that rises to the top is one of gratitude. “What we are going through” deals with a small fly in the overall caviar of our exceedingly privileged lives. I hate to get all “people are starving in Africa,” on you, but as we learned from Dr. Mathabane, people are not only starving in Africa, but getting their feet eaten off by rats in Africa. If I recall, every member of the student body stood up in applause for his advice to be thankful for what we have.

Let’s not make fools of ourselves with contradictory behavior. Making mountains out of outerwear will not get you into college.

Just wait young ones… It will get better

Okay, ladies (or perhaps girls, as I can barely even apply to myself such a genteel term as “lady”), listen up, and listen good.. I have been the seventh grader circling above the upper half of the school four or five times trying to find the elusive science buildings that overlook the pool. I rode the 104 bus route down the windy roads of Sunset Blvd. with the best of them, and furtively parked on the once forbidden Arden with the worst. I speak the wisdom one can only gain from five years of tests, essays, and throngs of hungry girls tearing out each other’s hair for a free Chinese Chicken Salad – so you can trust me when I promise: IT GETS BETTER.

To understand my reason for assuring you of this fact, I must revisit the date of September 1, 2009: I had returned home from a flawless, one could almost say, heavenly, first day of senior year. Buzzing with the excitement of seeing all those so familiar faces, I logged on to my Facebook to see what my fellow Marlboroughnians had to say – and I was shocked. Every status I read sounded like a line from a Hamlet soliloquy: there were levels of abject despair in these lines that I had not seen in my entire seventeen years of life. And after I read a handful of these poetically tragic outcries, I found myself laughing. Not because I think the image of you writhing in agony on the floor of your English class over an in-class essay is amusing–no, it was because I suddenly remembered that feeling.

I remembered my junior self sitting in the back of Caswell with a dour expression, swearing my revenge upon the construction workers as they drilled their way into the now beautiful Munger Hall. I remember sitting in my living room at midnight weeping over a Chemistry Honors final, the grade of which is now utterly irrelevant. And I definitely remember sitting in pin ceremony, my knees aching from keeping them in that rigid “ladylike” position, wondering, “My God, when is this going to end?” And yes, at the time, every vexation seemed like a scene worthy of a tear jerking documentary. I often lay upon the field with friends during those dozens of slow, stewy April afternoons, as we exchanged half-dreamed plans of running away to the mountains and living some classically unconventional life, to escape the horrors of this soul-sucking establishment. I wish I could save myself some embarrassment in saying we weren’t serious, but I will not lie to readers – we were utterly oblivious to the absurdity of our conversations.

Now, as I recline upon the pillowy mounds of furniture in my senior lounge, I realize that, in all honesty, what seemed like the end of the world was really just the end of a day – and usually, the next one worked out just swimmingly. So, to juniors and seventh graders alike, I have one thing to say: suck it up, stick it out, and soon you’ll be laughing with the rest of us.

Give us something to gossip about

As much as I am trying to embrace my inner know-it-all that is essential to the senior persona, right now I am feeling as confused about my school as a seventh grader fresh off the Catalina boat. How can an establishment that encourages us to speak up about controversial issues now put its figurative hands over our mouths without shame?
Marlborough, much like the teenage girls that its ever-graceful halls contain, has its phases. My seventh grade year was marked by lectures on the evils of theft after numerous incidents of stealing were reported. More recent was the Era of the Recycling Bins. Who could forget the countless videos threatening physical assault upon students who dared let a glass bottle go to waste?
However, I have quite a bone to pick with the new subject of recent lectures: gossiping.
I have now sat through about three meetings in which both my class and others’ were chided like toddlers for utilizing our school’s social grapevine. So far, the only effect I’ve seen is no effect, unless you count the resentment for being treated so condescendingly. As much as America’s guidance counselors would jump to disagree, gossip is inevitable. When was the last time you heard of a school successfully eradicating the exchange of rumors from its campus? And no, last night’s episode of Hannah Montana does not count.
The point is, gossip is and will always be a foundation of our society. We are a species that thrives on communication, and especially in this day and age, the spread of information is unstoppable. The only way to truly restrict gossiping is to make it a punishable offense, and this is not an option. Why? Because (and AP US students will back me up on this) the censorship of gossip is a violation of the First Amendment. And to be honest, to hear my fellow students be reprimanded for raising concern about certain incidents around the school is enough to cause my hand to reach for my pocket United States Constitution.
It’s time for the Marlborough establishment to admit there are some aspects of a teenage society beyond their control--and perhaps channel their energy into a more productive realm. A suggestion: we have not had a single speaker this year. Perhaps if that was provided, it would give us something more interesting to talk about than the latest trivial mishap.

Senior-seventh grade bonding is not too bad

Moans of agony echo throughout the living room. Bodies cower on the gargantuan beanbag and cushioned chairs, and as the door swings open, seniors grimace and wince like they’re vampires seeing daylight. “Seven-twelve buddy activities! Come onto the field!” We succumb.

Have we any other choice?

I reluctantly trudge toward the grass, my steps so heavy, as if I’m dragging my shadow. Ultimately futile was the email I sent last night: “Ms. Moser, please let me be exempt. I have so much work to do and I think that my buddy, along with the entire seventh grade, hates me anyway. Sincerely, Taylor Thompson.” To no avail. I’m about to face the girl to whom I had recently waved and received no response (I can presently infer that that was a misunderstanding).

Seniors and seventh graders gravitate toward their peers, because let’s face it: No one enjoys inter-grade activities, especially not me. Faculty members overlook the scene, their mouths curling into pleased, toothy crescents. I’m thinking they must get some sadistic pleasure from watching two alternate herds (seniors and seventh graders) hesitantly transform into an unhappy smorgasbord of awkward pairs.

My buddy and I introduce ourselves. She’s bubbly, forward, and athletic, which are qualities I often lack. Just as I’m ready to hide under the post-three-legged-race table of Diddy Riese cookies, a sweet song permeated my eardrums: “I don’t want to do this” escapes my buddy’s lips. Let us sing this song in tandem, I declare. The last thing we want to do is participate, and ironically, this fact bonds us.

We tie our legs together. Mine is considerably thicker. Despite our differences in size and disposition, we are both determined: determined to get this over with. Our arms link, and we waddle across the field like idiots. As we finish, a tsunami of team spirit crashes over me, and we exchange victorious grins and an epic high five. We did it! A-period is over! We’re now permitted to resume our lives, Diddy Riese in tow.

Everlasting friendships are sparse and age boundaries remain unscathed, but it was a pleasant change to converse with seventh graders as opposed to treating them as personal bowling pins. Inter-grade common interests are nearly nonexistent, but inter-grade courtesy can be cultivated. I can honestly say that my hallway glares became less menacing, and occasionally, my buddy and I exchange a previously unheard-of acknowledgment: a smile.

We're in the midst of a cookie crisis

If you give a mouse a cookie, he’ll ask for a glass of milk. Take one from ’90s icon Angelica Pickles, and expect a temper tantrum. The student body must channel the latter cartoon character, because the freshly baked chocolate chip cookie has been exiled from our once-beloved cafeteria. We must kick and scream ‘til we stop the injustice and cookies return to their rightful homes: our stomachs.

I remember that warm, buttery noontime scent. It felt like Otis Spunkenmeyer himself was whispering in my ear, beckoning me with sweet songs of a crusty outside and a gooey middle. One bite into the steaming, golden brown discus was so memory-inducing that I could see each grade at Marlborough sail by as if I were looking at my adolescence through a moving train’s window. From ages twelve through seventeen, I would savor this 12:00 ritual. But now it’s gone. Both my memories and those of generations to come have been unjustly stripped from our feeble hands.

Marlborough places a strong emphasis on tradition, so I’m appalled that our school has been rid of a great one. Purchasing a cafeteria cookie might’ve been the only tradition that didn’t involve standing among your classmates looking like a coiffed fastidious priss (i.e. Pin and Ring Ceremonies) or slouching miserably in Caswell feeling like a talent-less imbecile (i.e. Cum Laude and Awards Ceremonies). The cookie was a unifying tradition. I’d stand in line with jocks, princesses, and straight-up weirdos, all of whom were connected by their love of the baked treat. “A cookie, please.” I’ll have what she’s having.

Smiles are narrower, but waists aren’t. Mr. Oie and select parents believe that eliminating the hands-down best treat will spawn a healthier Marlborough, yet chips, croissants, Pop Tarts, and mutant muffins remain. I’m down with a delicious, healthy cafeteria, but something tells me that the recession won’t allow for fresh ingredients. So just keep the cafeteria OG, fools! I can’t fathom how the perpetrators of this culinary crime believed that removing cookies would improve student health, because evidently they still condone the serving of tacos blanketed in cheese, bacon-studded baked potatoes, and Chinese food. It was an incredibly pointless move.

Just bring back cookies, Mr. Oie. You can restore happiness as quickly as you destroyed it, so why not?

-Taylor '09

Big Honor is Watching You

The UltraViolet December 2008

First comes love (pin ceremony), then engagement (ring ceremony), then marriage (graduation). Looks like Marlborough has turned school creepiness up a notch with surveillance cameras: the new “Honor Eyes” that adorn this year’s honor bracelets.

The humble yarn honor bracelets just didn’t cut it this year. At the annual honor assembly, council distributed to the student body the familiar purple cords, this time, adorned with some very unfamiliar beads. The tried and true honor bracelets were now strung with evil eyes. Council told us that the beads represent the “Honor Eye,” which is meant to constantly remind every student to carry out good behavior. It doesn’t stop there. There are posters, too.

Upon seeing these 8×11 posters placed around campus, emblazoned with the vacant blue eye and bold text reading “HONOR EYE,” I thought, “What is this? 1984, Marlborough edition?” George Orwell’s classic novel 1984 illustrates a world whose inhabitants are constantly under surveillance by Big Brother, an all-powerful leader depicted in a frightening propaganda message: “Big Brother is Watching You.” Now, it’s not my intention to deem Marlborough a totalitarian society, but the Honor Eye is undeniably comparable to 1984’s mysterious dictator. Like Big Brother, the Honor Eye is always watching. Yes, even in the shower.

The honor eye actually diminishes personal responsibility, and the representation of a hawk-eyed figure hinders our growth. How are we expected to learn from our mistakes if we’re constantly under forceful guidance? Every Marlborough brochure is laden with quotes like, “It’s great that teachers trust students and feel comfortable leaving the room during tests.” Doesn’t the honor eye contradict this feature on which Marlborough so zealously prides itself? Council’s decision to invent a silly symbol of authority that is meant to scrutinize my every move makes me feel as if I cannot be trusted on my own.
Don’t get me wrong; the bracelets aren’t hurting anyone. Other than the fact that they look like they were purchased at some pseudo spiritual clearance sale, they’re pretty harmless. My main issue? The Honor Eye symbolizes what I always thought the Marlborough community rejected: controlling figures that enforce good behavior and eliminate the once-healthy notion that it’s okay to make mistakes.
Honor, integrity, and trustworthiness should not be imposed onto students by a representation of authority. With a quick snip of some scissors, Marlborough’s own Big Brother was off my wrist and into the trashcan. I’ll find honor within myself, thank you very much.

-Taylor ‘09

Lost organelle in 2009 amoeba

The UltraViolet October 2008

In seventh grade, I envisioned my senior self as a unit in a wondrous twelfth grade conglomerate, but in the amoeba that is the class of 2009, I’ve managed to feel like a lost organelle.

Unfortunately, the notion of class unity now seems a foreign concept. Have the people I used to relatively enjoy spending time with changed before my eyes? Have I been infected with leprosy and no one has told me? Have I become the doomed, hopeless loser I used to so enthusiastically mock?

Maybe it’s because as a senior, I’ve begun to completely reject the idea of “the acquaintance.” Hallway “hellos” become meaningless – Have we ever even talked about anything more than the upcoming history test or so-and-so’s party antics? I’ve realized how much more value one real friend holds than a hundred insignificant contemporaries. Mentally stimulating conversation has become a precious gem among layers of idle chatter.

The senior living room is the vortex of idle chatter, the eye of the senior hurricane. Throughout high school, I greatly anticipated the day I would inhabit the senior class’s own Mount Olympus from whence my classmates and I would reign over Marlborough with iron fists. Our Mount Olympus isn’t so epic after all, unless your definition of “epic” includes the stench of a freshly soiled diaper filled with marinara sauce. It resembles a landfill, and upon opening its door, an unpleasant symphony of squawking voices and Disney music blasts. I truly want to love it, even with all its flaws, but I’m consistently disappointed.

The fact that I am even writing a column about seniorhood is a mystery. I am Marlborough’s worst senior ever! I don’t care about which cartoon character best represents my grade. I haven’t started meticulously planning prom night months in advance. I’m uninterested in the dress I’ll wear on graduation day. Instead, I dream of burning said dress and achieving ultimate freedom from these violet shackles.

Graduates often urge me to “enjoy this year – it’s the best one of your life,” but I just can’t wait to get out. The fact that my high school career ends in just shy of a year elates me, because so far, twelfth grade hasn’t been all it’s cracked up to be. After May, I’ll never see most of these faces ever again, and yet, I find myself emotionally unaffected. I absolutely believed that I would grow closer to my classmates, but instead, I’ve drifted apart from them. I’ve chosen to be an outcast and haven’t savored the time I spend with my fellow seniors.

My excessively cynical outlook prevents me from reaping all the benefits of seniorhood. I hope to look back on this year fondly, but I cannot do so if I continue to alienate myself. I must embrace the class-wide gossip and eruptions of hysterical laughter in the living room, rather than try to shut them out. Within this first month of school, I’ve realized how optimism and acceptance are crucial to appreciate one’s high school years. I definitely need an attitude adjustment.

- Taylor ‘09

The New View - Jonesing for Gossip

The UltraViolet June 2008

By Taylor ‘09

Greetings, Marlborough! Now that the year is coming to an end (thank God, Allah, Buddha, etc.), I have been enlisted as the new View From the Top columnist. Again, thank God, Allah, Buddha, etc. because in every newspaper that comes out next year, you get to look at my gorgeous headshot and read my poignant words. Now, let me give you an account of one of my favorite hobbies: bad-mouthing others! (Poignant, right?)
As a middle schooler, I truly believed that I would one day grow out of gossiping. I thought seniors were virtuous deities who concentrated on bigger and better things, like academics and sports and community service and whatnot. I was oblivious. Girls NEVER grow out of gossip. As a soon-to-be senior, I can sincerely say that I am still a rumor-spreading connoisseur.
It’s vicious. I’m vicious, for that matter. I need that daily dish like Mary-Kate Olsen needs to put something in her mouth besides a cigarette. At 12, my contemporaries and I zealously discussed what girl wasn’t invited to our parent-supervised, single-sex birthday parties. It was scandalous at the time, sure, but it was a mere filet compared to the juicy double-porterhouse of high school trash-talk.
Walk into the living room, if you dare. You could hear your own name echoed through that room of gossip-hungry teens. Decline to participate in these chats, and you could be labeled sanctimonious buzzkill. Instead of trying to reform myself, I’ve learned to accept my hard-hearted nature and drink up the sweet milk of Marlborough’s delicious rumors. In fact, I find pleasure in introducing new ones.
Some may classify it as “wrong,” but I’ve given up trying to stop talking about subjects that I either a) don’t know much about or b) shouldn’t know about. Upon entering high school, it becomes a great deal more difficult to stop gossiping. Hormones kick in and people want to be independent, giving rise to a whole new crop of mistakes to be made by the previously saintly Marlborough girl. It’s way more fun to discuss these mistakes than, say, make a positive contribution to our school.
Perhaps my reluctance to stop talking trash stems from the abundance of gossip in today’s media. I’d say that PerezHilton.com, Gossip Girl, and even Sex and the City have hindered my ability to just not say anything. Instead of condemning rumor spreading, the media celebrates it, even though said rumors hurt people.
But hey, I’ve come to think of gossip like getting shots at the doctor. Sure, it hurts, but what kind of idiot doesn’t actually do it?

Time for the "Big Three"

The UltraViolet May 2008

Looking out into the living room, into the sea of sweatshirts with different acronyms and colors, I have come to realize that school is basically over. First we were all counting down to spring break, and now that spring break is over, the only countdowns left are: Coachella, prom, and Hawaii/graduation. I refer to them as “the big three,” the three last rites of passage that I have been waiting for since seventh grade – actually, since I first started watching episodes of Beverly Hills 90210, believing that high school had valet parking and cute guys with sideburns.

In light of my last column, I have decided to collect information – tidbits and words of wisdom from the girls at the head of the pack who are now leaving for bigger futures: try to keep your head on straight; take hard semester classes first semester, so come second you don’t have to show up until one in the afternoon; chemistry is good in ninth grade because you can finish science by junior year; take what classes you want to take; go out for drama if you’ve never participated in an art before and make sure to support your classmates at the sports tournaments; talk to your teachers outside of class – they’re interesting people; and last but not least, laugh a lot.

I know these words of advice might seem trivial, but they will make everything seem a lot better. And another word of advice to the seventh graders: don’t bother buying another skirt. See, the Marlborough skirt is sort of like a trophy – it can weather through thick and thin, through six years, ripped hems, staplers and however many spilled lunches. And lastly, work hard. This seems pretty obvious, right? But, do me a favor - enjoy every single minute, because Marlborough is unlike any place you will ever find in the entire world (even if we are missing a library).

– Evan ’08

Tradition, unofficial and official

The UltraViolet Febuary 2008

Ever wonder what it’s like to have to walk down the halls with your back plastered against a wall, constantly checking over your shoulder, unable to trust anyone? In the game Assassin, nobody is your friend. Your friends are not even your friends. Little red stickers become the enemy, and I was more on time to classes in one day than I have been this entire semester. I secretly think that Assassin is a ploy that Ms. Moser is using to get us to classes on time, and to make sure that we actually stay on campus. Well, good job Ms. Moser because although I was sadly killed five minutes into lunch on Monday (standing RIGHT OUTSIDE the living room, our “safe zone”), I was on time to all-school meeting, and actually excited to attend class.

The unofficial traditions of being a senior are the types of things that have made my last year of high school special. Any grade can get together and play a game of Assassin, but the fact that it has become a “thing” second semester seniors do is what makes it exciting for us to participate in.

At Marlborough, everything seems to be a rite of passage – and not just the big ones either, like ring ceremony or pin ceremony – but smaller ones too. Especially your senior year, when it seems like everything transforms itself into some sort of tradition – the senior mother/daughter tea, lunch with Ms. Wagner, the “un”offical prom ditch day – even something as silly as heading down to Palm Springs in April with all of your friends to Coachella for three days. Everything is done now with a sense of “okay, this is it, now or never, we don’t get another shot next year.” It’s sad, but at the same time it’s also exciting.

Question: what sort of white is the appropriate white for our graduation shoes? These are the types of things that I think about now while I watch my little sister worry about her history test and English paper. Cream? Ivory? Off-white? This is really deep stuff you guys, I promise, especially when I couple it with my list of dresses that I want to buy for prom (hey, every girl needs to have options!) and figure out just how I can avoid getting sunburned while still enjoying the sun in Hawaii.

– Evan ’08

Senioritis kicks in

the UltraViolet December 2007

I’m going to make a confession right here for everybody to read – it’s getting more and more difficult to open my books every night and focus on schoolwork. YouTube music videos, magazines that are six months old, making ‘what I want to bring to college’ lists and even shiny objects are becoming increasingly distracting.

And I know that there is no cure for Senioritis. There should be though; some little white pill that we could take whenever we feel ourselves straying off into the land of “Gossip Girl” and reading old text messages we have saved onto our cell phones from boys we once had crushes on. I’m not quite sure how to handle the fact that in less than three weeks I will officially be a second semester senior. It’s so anti-climactic when you sit down and think about it – six years for one semester, and now that it’s around the corner I stare dumbfounded at the John Mayer poster on my wall wondering just what I’m supposed to do. I remember seeing seniors when I was in seventh grade strut down the halls wearing flip flops and regular V-neck t-shirts, and thinking that they were more badass than James Dean in “Rebel Without a Cause” – but now I can’t help but wonder if they were thinking the same thing I am now: “So, I’m a second semester senior… now what?” It would be nice if there were a handbook on how to navigate the last few months of school, which is fewer than 100 days, according to someone’s planner I saw yesterday. Prom, graduation, grad night, the trip to Hawaii, and finally large and small white envelopes that have already begun to arrive in our mailboxes. Oh and what about that amazing Mascot presentation, hmm? How surreal it was to listen to our moms sing to us about growing up and moving out, and knowing that these are the last couple of months that we all will be sleeping in our own beds and arguing constantly with our siblings on a nightly basis. As the New Year slowly creeps up upon us, and the final deadline for all applications are due, it’s a real shock to realize that for every single one of us, this happens to be the beginning of the end.

– Evan ’08

So boys go to college, too...

The UltraViolet November 2007

Two weekends ago, I went to visit the University of Oregon campus. I was lucky enough to be able to stay with my friend Sara in her dorm room (or rather, her shoebox) on her co-ed floor. Yes, co-ed floor. As in there were boys right next door. And down the hall. And boys who randomly walked into her room and sat down on her bed to watch “Hitch” with us. Yes, boys who watched romantic comedy films. The first time this happened that night, I sat there on the opposite bed staring blankly at him until I realized that I looked like an idiot and diverted my attention to the gorgeous Will Smith. The second time that happened I stared blankly. The third time? The third time Sara nudged me the moment the boy walked out of the room and asked me what the hell was going on.

Boys in rooms and boys in hallways and boys in classrooms. To be honest, the last of those three freaked me out the most. Like, boys go to school? Real school? Sitting in an intro to psychology classroom the following week with my friend Rena at the University of Colorado at Boulder, I couldn’t help but be more focused on the fact that there were boys in the classroom than on the actual lecture. Having spent the past six years of my educational career in classrooms with no testosterone, it’s weird realizing that it is possible to have a co-educational experience.

On that note, it’s even harder to comprehend that the most difficult (and possibly most important) quarter of my academic career is over. By the time you read this, early applications will be sent in and hopefully we’ll all be a little bit nicer to each other. Not that it’s really going to get any easier – I can feel senioritis creeping up over my shoulder, the type that tells me that we’re all so close but still just out of reach. So, it isn’t getting any easier, but at least we all know that this is as hard as it is going to get for us, right?

Alright, maybe that’s not as reassuring as I hoped it would be, but our days here are numbered; it’s our turn to chant “one more year, you’re still here,” and in January, “oh my God, we’ll be SECOND SEMESTER SENIORS” (by which point our brains will have officially shut off).

And if none of that gets you through it, just think, next year? Flip flops, noon wakeups, and BOYS.

– Evan ’08

Wake me up - I'm a senior?

The UltraViolet September 2007

Ever have one of those dreams that is so real and vivid, you are sure it has to be real? And it’s such a good dream too, that even when your alarm clock says 7:00 a.m. and you know that you have to be at school in 50 minutes, all you want to do is stay in bed and dream that same dream all day? Okay, now ever have one of those dreams where even though it’s really real and vivid, you just know that it can’t be real?

My entire first day of school was exactly like the second dream.

For the record, six years ago on my very first day at Marlborough, I honestly thought the seniors were at least 23 years old. Not only that, but there was nothing more frightening than the very first day at an all-girls school seeing boys dressed in skirts, patrolling the halls like they belonged here. This year when I had my best friend change into my skirt in the middle of the seventh grade locker hall, I couldn’t even begin to imagine what the seventh graders were thinking. Or if we’re really as scary as I thought the seniors were when I was a seventh grader – because, oh my God, I was terrified. Not only were they tall, but they all had cars and came to school with Starbucks. And not only was I in shock, but I was also in complete awe.

When I was in seventh grade, after that lovely trip to Catalina and those even lovelier wet-suits, I couldn’t imagine ever becoming a senior. Even this year I couldn’t imagine it until the first day I stepped onto campus. And the fact is, sitting in the car the other day talking to my friend Katie about graduation dresses and how neither of us has any pictures for our senior page, it still hasn’t dawned on me that this is it. We both want to just take Marlborough with us to college – except with members of the opposite sex, classes that start at 2:00 p.m. and the ability to wear flip-flops whenever we want.

However, this year has only just begun. And between filling out college applications that reach into the double digits, studying (once again, yippee!) for the SAT, pulling in excellent grades for the first semester and then good grades for the second one, finding pictures for my senior page and designing graduation dresses, I think it’s really important that we all just take a breath; if not, the year is going to get the better of us. So take a breath and memorize all of the steps to the Soulja Boy dance, of course.

– Evan ’08