I write you now because I believe you misplaced the contents of your stomach Tuesday night on the fourth floor Allison men’s bathroom. It is my understanding that the kind cleaning staff took your vomit away, but perhaps you may yet be able to claim it from them. I’m not sure if there is a lost and found for vomit disposed of on the bathroom floor, but that may be something worth looking into.

Now, I’m not interested in pointing fingers when it comes to this matter. I’m certainly no model of gastrointestinal fortitude, especially once hard liquor enters the equation. I get it — Blackout Tuesday is worth celebrating, and I’m sure it was a lot of fun until you vomited on the bathroom floor. I’m not judging you for the decision you made last night.

Yes, you could have held it in for three more feet, at least until you could make it to a bathroom stall. There would have been some courtesy in that if not for the other residents in the hallway, for the poor, beleaguered cleaning staff.

But I’ll say this to you, O anonymous vomiter: you showed real strength of character last night. While others may have hidden their vomit within the safe confines of a garbage can or toilet, you alone had the courage to spill it onto the bathroom tile for everyone to behold.

And make no mistake, sir — almost everyone beheld that particular show of overconsumption.

But no, sir, I cannot judge you for your actions last night. You see, gentle vomiter, we share something in common. I have also vomited before from overconsumption, although I’m sure your tipping-point was much greater than mine. Mine was a mixed drink — clementine-flavored Izze mixed with mango Absolut — followed by an ill-advised shot of Captain. I was young and idealistic, the unfortunate combination of “skinny kid” and “hyperactive gag reflex.”

When I stepped out of the bathroom, bleary-eyed and embarrassed, and found myself questioned by the girls waiting to use the bathroom, what else could I tell them?

“Yeah, I just threw up,” I said.

“Should have chased,” one of them said to me in a told-you-so sort of sing-song.

That was my secret shame, sir. As I sat in the corner, quietly nursing the Mike’s Hard Lemonade offered to me out of pity for my weak constitution, I felt lower than ever before in my life.

Vomiting after too much drink may be a natural reaction, but it is not the sort of thing that does any service to a young man’s pride. Vomiting can bring out the worst in any man — bring tears to his eyes and a dull burn to his throat. Throwing up is too often seen as a sign of weakness.

In hindsight, two drinks do not make for a particularly pathetic rock bottom, especially for my first encounter with intoxicating substances. Two drinks is a very middling pregame, or perhaps what one may be able to consume at any reasonably attended fraternity party. I should not be surprised by the fact that my first experience with alcohol was also my least enjoyable one.

I am glad to say that I have not encountered my vomiting problem since. My tolerance is still low, but it at least allows me a couple of drinks before I feel their effects. Even to this day, however, it would be easy for me to fall prey to this destructive tendency. All it would take would be perhaps one shot too many, a beer too far, an ill-advised glass of wine.

And then there would rest Sam Daub, in front of the toilet, sobbing quietly between heaves. Here is my point, sir: it is easy to feel shame for a natural thing like that. Any lesser man — myself included — might hide from vomiting, might try to deny it.

But not you, sir. You walked out of the bathroom — you were led out of the bathroom, I should say — with your head drooped high. You had no shame, no regret, no disappointment. You vomited like a gentleman, sir, and for that I salute you.

God bless you, nameless resident! May God bless you and your stomach!

“[My mom] is now following you on Twitter!”

Serves me right, I thought, for putting my name next to my account. She knew I had an account. She probably just plugged my name into the search bar. I’m the only hit that comes up. I mean, this was bound to happen at some point. I texted a friend from high school:

“My mom’s following me on Twitter. What do I do?”

She responded a few minutes later. “I don’t know. Tweet about it?”

My heart started to race. I’d settled on panic.

Now, I’ve never had anything particularly lurid on my Twitter page. I know that it’s one of the first hits when I Google myself, and I’m sure any prospective employers will have access to my history of tweets when I go on the job market.

So it’s not like I was tweeting about how I was “drunk as sweet shitttt” or how I was “so glad I brought an extra set of sheets.” The majority of my tweets were about Duran Duran songs or funny videos of Glenn Beck being a schizoid. It was nothing I’d be embarrassed to mention in front of my parents, although I might not readily cop to my love of Ordinary World outside the impersonal bubble of the web.

But I was still uncomfortable with the thought of being followed. Some of my friends tweet, and it felt like my mom was listening in on my conversations. Were it anyone else, I wouldn’t have a problem with it. But it’s my mom, and that changes things.

I didn’t think she was actively trying to snoop on me. She’s never had any history of that. She missed me — this was without a doubt her primary motive. If she was intentionally trying to invade my personal space, I don’t think I’d have a problem telling her to stop. But she wasn’t trying to do that. All she wanted to do was stay in touch with me during college.

I guess it’s one of those weird “have-your-cake-and-eat-it-too” moments. On the one hand, I love the voyeuristic thrill of having my life’s 140-character highlights seen by anyone in the world. On the other hand, “anyone in the world” doesn’t include my parents. I could put my account on private, but I tweet primarily to get attention from strangers. My parents already give me attention — I don’t need to tweet to get it from them.

I checked my account to see if I had any ability to remove her as a follower. The only option they gave was the uncomfortably harsh-sounding “block.” Facebook was easy — when she added me on Facebook, I was able to ignore her request. It wasn’t that I was actively rejecting her, just, you know, forgetting about her. As a native Minnesotan, “ignore” is exactly how I wish I could deal with just about any situation.

It didn’t help that she had two tweets — the first said she was “missing sam,” and the second, a few moments later, clarified that she was “happy for [me].” Oh, Jesus Christ. I am not qualified to handle this.

I came to Northwestern because I wanted a clean break from my home life. Life at home was great, but I was ready to open myself up to something new, or whatever else it is I’m supposed to find in college. I wanted the opportunity to divide up home and school into two tidy, discrete little boxes, and never shall the twain meet.

I know, dumb expectation of mine, right? But it’s especially hard to divvy up my life when my parents have access to the banal details of my everyday life at Northwestern.

If there’s any irony in all of this, it’s that my parents might be the only people in the world who really, truly care about what I eat for lunch and when I do a load of laundry. Twitter may not have been made for concerned mothers, but there is definitely a market waiting to be tapped. My mom’s not Jewish, but that doesn’t mean she can’t follow my Twitteleh.

I called her a few days later and mentioned how weird it was that she was following my page.

“Just keep your Twitter clean, and put all your dirty updates on Facebook,” she said, unaware that that was more or less what I had been doing. My Facebook friends knew when I was drunk as sweet shit, and my Twitter followers knew when I was eating right and doing my homework.

Two discrete, little boxes. Funny how that all works out.

My mom stopped following me a few weeks ago. I’d like to think it was out of consideration for my privacy, but I have a feeling it’s because even my mom doesn’t really care what I had for lunch the other day or what YouTube video I can’t get out of my head.

I’ve been discovering a lot about dorm life lately. One thing that stands out is the need for boundaries. My roommate and I hashed out our Roommate Agreement, and it’s worked okay. I’ve decided to apply the same process to other aspects of my life.

My roommate brought his Nintendo 64 from home, and it’s hooked up in our room. As a result, there are people in my room playing Super Smash Bros. virtually all the time. Two weeks into the year is a good time for all of us with new roommates to reevaluate current boundaries, and change them if necessary. Our N64 boundaries need to be reevaluated — it’s time for me to lay down some Smash Law.

Super Smash Bros. is a fun game, and is a great way to casually hang out with some people you (sometimes only sort of) know. With that in mind, if you are the sort of person who is wont to come into other people’s dorm rooms to play video games on their television sets, there are a few ground rules you should follow.

1. Introduce yourself

If someone comes to the host’s room, the host is entitled to that someone’s name. The host is not asking for a lifelong friendship, he simply wants to know how to refer to the dude sitting on his bed and working Cheeto dust into the analog stick.

If your first words are, “I heard you had an N64,” and not, “Hi, I’m Joe,” then you’re in violation of Smash Law. It’s that simple.

2. Press R to cockblock

This should be self-explanatory. If it’s late at night, and your regular host is entertaining a lady-friend in the room, then it is a bad time to ask to play Smash. The host maintains the right to say no, of course, but even the implication of a game of Smash may be enough to kill his chances.

Of course, really cool girls shouldn’t mind the presence of a video game console. We can’t all be so lucky though, so this is a rule that must be adhered to.

3. You are not Family Guy

Over the course of a year, every player is allowed one “Hammer Time” joke when he or she successfully picks up a hammer. This is not to say anyone will laugh, but it is forgivable. After suffering through the inevitable awkward silence following the first “Hammer Time” joke, any player who gives another one a try will find himself in violation of Smash Law.

MC Hammer jokes have always had questionable comedic value, especially those jokes pertaining to “U Can’t Touch This.”

You get one freebie. Use it wisely.

4. Just chill out

Some Smash players are really skilled. Kudos to them.

But some of these hardcore Smash players take things a bit too seriously. It’s great that they can dash-dance and double-jump-cancel-counter and short-hop-fast-fall-l-cancel, but most players can’t. Hardcore players shouldn’t be asked to dumb themselves down, but they should keep in mind that not everyone plays competitively. For most people, Smash is just something to do when they stumble back to their dorms after Friday night’s debauchery. So, for the dedicated, don’t expect tournament-level play, and don’t be a douchebag if you don’t get it.

On that note…

5. The house sets the rules

Don’t complain if randomized items aren’t turned off. Items may not be used at the tournament level, but this isn’t a tournament. It’s a dorm. Sometimes, hardcore players will try and turn off items on the host’s game. The host then has the right to disconnect their controller. The house calls the shots, and the house wants lots of Bob-ombs.

* * *

With proper ground-rules, Super Smash Bros. can be a source of continuous enjoyment for the young men and — okay, mostly young men — of Northwestern’s dorms. Smash Law is not meant to take away from the beautiful chaos of a good game of Smash, but merely to codify some of the unspoken assumptions of casual play. Mostly, just be cool when you play.

And finally, try not to pick that one Metroid level with the rising and falling acid. That’s not even part of Smash Law. It’s just common sense. Nobody likes that level.

I’ve never been good at packing, even for short trips away from home.  When I was ten, I forgot to pack flip-flops before I went to camp.  I was so disgusted by the floor of the dorm shower that I ended up more or less going without showering for the majority of the week.  I was ten, though.  I cannot stress that point enough. My showering habits have improved since then. Let me leave no ambiguity about that.

I wish I could say that was an isolated incident, but that’s not the case.  Lord knows I’ve forgotten to pack my electric razor before any number of vacations, and nothing beats coming home from a week in Mexico with what looks like three days of facial hair growth.  Even when I plan out the number of clothes to bring — shirts, socks, and what have you — I usually end up with too many of one and too few of another.

This is different, though.  I’m not going on vacation or going away to camp.  I’m moving, and this will be the first time I’ve done so since I’ve had stuff to move with me.

I think part of the struggle for me is the finality of it all.  When I’m packing for a vacation, I’m not trying to assemble the essential material components of my life into a few boxes. I’m just making sure I’ll be clothed and entertained for a week.  With this, though, it seems more definitive.  It’s like I’m subconsciously admitting to myself which elements of my life aren’t worth taking with me.

Case in point: I’ve played the cello for eight years.  I’m not great, mostly for lack of practice as of late, but I can read the notes and turn them into some kind of sound resembling music.  But the cello won’t be coming to Evanston with me.

Granted, it really wouldn’t make sense for me to bring my cello.  It’s kind of unwieldy to keep in a dorm, and it seems like it’s been a pretty ancillary part of my life in recent years.  I haven’t played in an orchestra since middle school, and I’m not really looking to start up again.  I like playing and listening to music, but my taste has shifted pretty far from the stuff I listened to when I first started playing.  While I’d still love to play Rachmaninoff or Berlioz, I’d also love to be able to keep other things in my closet besides clothing and a cello.

Now, I’m fine leaving some of my things behind. My box of Star Wars action figures probably wouldn’t get much use in college, nor would my boxes of old comic books. I’m okay with the thought that I’m not a comic book collector anymore. Similarly, I’ll probably be able to live without a three-and-a-quarter-inch Darth Vader standing over the desk in my dorm.

Interestingly enough, I’ve already decided that my Rock Band drum set will be traveling with me.  I guess there’s some irony to be found in the fact that I’ve chosen a video game controller shaped like a musical instrument over an actual musical instrument.  I’m also bringing the poster hanging over my bed.  Beyond that, I’m still not sure.  As hard as it is to leave something behind, it seems harder to bring something with.  Maybe I’m just scared of committing to things.

This is what packing does to me — it brings out the self-reflection I’ve been trying to steer clear of over the past few months.  I’m not going to be a cellist.  I liked playing, and I’ll probably still play over the summer, but it’s never going to be anything more than a hobby.  I always knew that, and I never had a problem with it until now.  I made a lot of great friends through the cello.  It seemed to give me some sort of intellectual legitimacy, and it always managed to impress my grandma’s friends.  (Yes, it also looked good on a college application.)

Ultimately, it’s probably less of a big deal than I’m making it sound.  I used to play the cello year-round, and now I’ll only play it in the summer.  For the first time, though, I’m getting the feeling that something is coming to an end.  I’m sure it’s a feeling I’ll have experienced a thousand times over by this time next week.

“Next week.”  God.  Hard to believe.

Oh God, if only I knew.

If my entry this week seems shorter, it’s for one very obvious reason: Not all that much is going on.  Seriously.  It’s hard for me to imagine leaving in two weeks, if only because things right now seem so uneventful.

It must be a dirty secret of Northwestern. The extended summer vacation is meant to break us, to drag us to the limits of our sanity before we can be remolded into productive, well-adjusted members of society.

That’s the only explanation I can offer, at least.  It’s the only possible reason Northwestern would so clearly try to prolong my suffering.  I’ll be fine once I get to school, but right now that’s still two weeks out.  I’ve got friends who are already taking classes.  They’re at school, doing school things, in a school environment.  And they’re all living it up while I’m in Eden Prairie, doing nothing at home.

This all seems like a bad Carson routine. 

“I’m so bored.”

“How bored are you?”

So bored I tried to read Hot, Flat and Crowded!

Ey-oh!  Rimshot, laughter, drop curtains, cut to commercial.  I actually did give Hot, Flat and Crowded the old college try, but I gave that up somewhere around the second chapter.  I am bored, yes, but I am not One Book, One Northwestern-bored.  Maybe there’s something to be said about that.

Interestingly enough, I think Eden Prairie’s summer break is actually a week longer than usual.  School doesn’t start here until after Labor Day this year, so there’s still a week left of that break.

Maybe I should just go back to high school for a week.  It’s not like they’d card me at the door.  I’d put the “super” back in super-senior, roaming the halls with a gusto and confidence unheard of at Eden Prairie High School.

“Look at you pathetic seniors,” I’d say to anyone who’d listen.  “You haven’t even been accepted to college yet.  You have to be here, and I’m just here because I don’t have anything better to do.”

If they haven’t changed my combination, I could even break into some poor freshman’s locker.  Maybe I’d walk back and forth outside the newspaper room, doing it just frequently enough that they’d know I was in the building — large and in charge, as it were.

This is how dire things are.  High school is now preferable to this hellishly, torturously long summer.  This is the pit I have dug for myself — that Northwestern has dug for me.  I would rather be in a high school class than where I am right now, and that should speak volumes as to how overwhelming my ennui has become.

I guess there’s not much else for me to do at home.  I’ll start picking through my personal belongings, making the tough calls about what stays and what comes with.   Maybe I’ll work on my summer homework for Medill or work my way through my Netflix Watch Instantly queue.

With all that said, I’ll admit that there’s one thing keeping me going through all this: In two weeks, for better or worse, boredom won’t be an option.

But I’ve been thinking about the past lately, about all the stuff that’s led up to the next few weeks. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that some of it has lost its significance over the past few months. Lord knows my PSAT and ACT scores have lost virtually all meaning. I don’t know when it happened, but my life has turned into a Talking Heads song.

And you may ask yourself, “Well, how did I get here?”

A little over a year ago, I did a campus tour of Northwestern. It was the Friday before Memorial Day, my junior year. I hadn’t given too much thought to the college application process at that point, but I could see it fast approaching. I liked what I saw in Evanston, as I’m sure you could figure, but my enthusiasm for the school was tempered by one thing, one lone qualifier that gave me no shortage of stress over the following six months.

The journalism program will be great — if I can get in. I’ll be able to take classes in subjects that actually interest me — if I can get in. Evanston will be fantastic — if I can get in. And so on. It was hard for me to really enjoy that campus visit, what with all the doubt nagging from the depths of my subconscious.

I didn’t want to kid myself — Northwestern wasn’t a sure thing, not by any prudent definition of the term. My grades and test scores were pretty good, but they could be better. I didn’t want to get my hopes up.

So I wasn’t sure how quite to respond when my parents told me, at the end of our tour, that they wanted to buy me a Northwestern T-shirt. What I told them was that I didn’t want to jinx it, which was partially true. I’ve never been a superstitious guy, but this wasn’t the sort of thing I was willing to risk. The words “tempting fate” came to mind.

Truthfully, it was more complicated than that. On the one hand, I didn’t want to open myself up to any sort of public failure. Wearing a school shirt at the end of junior year would be a tacit admission that I was looking at the school. I was planning on applying Early Decision, but I wasn’t going to speak too openly about it until the decision came one way or another. In case I didn’t get it, well … I didn’t want to think about that.

On the other hand, there was some serious social posturing involved. Much of my interest in Northwestern — serious interest, at least, the kind that would actually get me to apply — was kicked off by an ex-girlfriend. She had taken summer classes there, and I knew she was looking at the school. She was the one who had dragged me all those months ago to a Northwestern informational meeting at our school.

I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing that I was looking seriously at Northwestern. I was too proud to announce to the world that she had been right all along.

Maybe she was right, after all. Maybe all of this is her fault.

Truth be told, Early Decision was probably the sanest decision I could have ever made. By this past November, I had made peace with the fact that my acceptance was still up in the air. If I got in, I’d go to Northwestern. If I didn’t, I’d go to the University of Minnesota. No worries.

I still occasionally stressed about it. In my first-hour class, I sat across from a girl who had applied ED to Brown. Every day, I’d walk into class at 8 in the morning, and she’d lean across the aisle, an increasingly unnerved look on her face.

“Oh, my God, Sam,” she’d say. “Aren’t you just dying right now?”

The truth was that I wasn’t, except for whenever she’d bring it up. Maybe that was why I didn’t want to wear the T-shirt after I did the campus tour. If I wasn’t thinking about it, it wasn’t a problem.

Well, spoiler alert: I got in. The first thing my parents did was order an unhealthy amount of Northwestern paraphernalia, which I received in staggered shipments for a period of no less than four months. This was what I had earned: the right to use a Northwestern-branded toothbrush.

I guess it’s worth mentioning that I ended up at a party this past March with that same ex-girlfriend who had first sparked my interest in Northwestern. She was acting weird all night, and not just the kind of weird that I could expect from the fact that she was my ex.

Finally, towards the end of the night, she explained to me what was bothering her. She told me that she didn’t think I had “earned” my acceptance. She didn’t think I had worked hard enough. Not as hard as she had, at least. She hadn’t heard back from any of her schools yet, so college was a tense point of discussion. (She ended up getting into Northwestern, but taking a place at a school in Texas that gave her more financial aid.)

I shrugged. “Yeah, you’re probably right about that.”

I was wearing my Northwestern sweatshirt that night. I wonder if that was what pissed her off. Same as it ever was, I guess.

I’m leaving in less than a month, and I still can’t wrap my brain around the simple fact that Eden Prairie will exist without me. It sounds silly when I write it, but it’s the truth. I’m leaving Eden Prairie behind, and it’s going to go on in my absence.

Not that there’s much to go on, truthfully. The high school’s got a football team that usually does pretty well, and the hockey team’s not bad either. There’s a coffee shop that the young people like to frequent, which some city officials try unsuccessfully every year to close down. Ten years ago, we were one of the top cities in America to raise a family in. Today, we’re one of the top places to retire. I’m leaving this behind, and all of it will exist without me.

Case in point: My brother Andy got his license this summer, which was mind-blowing on its own merits. He picked up his schedule and parking permit a couple of days ago. My brother, a junior in high school, driving himself to school. When I got my license, I felt mature. When he got it, I felt old. It was like this small, almost insignificant function I served — driving him to school the past two years — was no longer my responsibility.

It’s not something intentional on his part, of course. While I’m weighing the existential implications of my absence, he just needs a way to get to school every day.

“Eden Prairie will go on without me.” I just have to keep saying it, and maybe I’ll start understanding it. Maybe it’ll start making some sense to me.

The summer after seventh grade, I went off to computer camp. I spent maybe two weeks away from my house, staying at the University of Minnesota. While I was gone, the city of Eden Prairie began work on a new strip mall. They started by chopping down a sizable piece of wooded land along one of the city’s main roads. These were familiar woods; my parents and I had driven past them more times than I could count. It was an example of what we do in Eden Prairie: cut down the forests to build strip malls.

I still remember how shocked I was when I came home and found that the woods had disappeared. I wasn’t an environmentalist, but I was so baffled that this major change to the Eden Prairie landscape had taken place in the two weeks I had been out of town. It’s fine if they cut down all the trees in the city, but at least have the courtesy to do it while I’m home.

I don’t love Eden Prairie, not by any stretch of the imagination. I’m definitely eager to get out and experience more of the real world — the world outside the high fences and endless suburban parking lots.

“Eden Prairie will go on without me.” Still sounds weird.

I can’t help but wonder if this is all some big lesson in object permanence. There’s a world beyond my own experiences, whether I’m part of it or not. It’s like when a baby closes his eyes, and the world seems to disappear. The baby has no way of knowing that the world is still out there, because the infant mind doesn’t realize that things exist outside of its own range of senses. Baby closes eyes, baby can’t see anything — ergo, there must not be anything to see. I’ll admit that there is a certain appeal to that kind of intellectual simplicity.

The concept of object permanence is that the brain eventually recognizes the world as a permanent entity, but I’m learning now that I’ve still got a lot of development ahead. If I want this whole “college” thing to have any chances of panning out, object permanence is something I’m going to achieve.

A couple of nights ago, I asked my parents to send me copies of my high school newspaper when I’m at Northwestern. I used to be on the paper staff, and I’m curious to see what their paper will look like this year. Yes, Eden Prairie will go on without me.

But I want to see what that Eden Prairie without me will look like. Maybe this is arrogant, but I don’t think I’m the only freshman asking this question:

My hometown will go on without me, but what will it look like?

Now, granted, my mom still has her neuroses. In the past few weeks, she’s become particularly concerned about my towels. She ordered me a new set of towels about a month ago, and since then she’s asked me pretty regularly — at least once a week, if not more — about the quality of those towels.

“Sam, you know those towels I bought you?” Yes, Mom. I know.

“Are they big enough?” They’re big enough.

“And do you like the material?” Yes, Mom.

“How about the color? Are you fine with orange?” And so on.

I’m willing to recognize the importance of a good set of towels, but I can’t help but wonder if she’s focusing too closely on a relatively minor detail. Never mind the fact that I only recently learned how to do my own laundry. The towels, those are what really matters.

Part of me wants to come home for winter break with a new set of towels. If I walked in the door with a blue towel slung over my shoulder, God only knows the interrogation I’d be opening myself up to. I’m pretty sure it would give her a nervous breakdown. It makes for some fun speculation, even if I know I’d never have the huevos to actually do it.

Incidentally, we bought another couple of towels at Ikea. It was at her insistence, since apparently my endorsement of the previous set wasn’t glowing enough for her. To her credit, I do like these new towels better than the old ones.

It doesn’t stop at the towels, though. The fact that I’m leaving in September has even made it difficult to be in the same room with her when the television is on. Last week, she and I were talking briefly during a commercial break from So You Think You Can Dance. She stopped mid-sentence, at the sight of a preview for the next season of House. It said the show would be back in September. This wasn’t enough for her.

“When in September?” she asked me, anxiously. I didn’t know.

She was worried she wouldn’t get to watch the season premiere of House with me. She suggested that we set up a video chat during the show, so that I could be on-hand to explain anything for her that she might not understand. At the very least, I could walk her through the steps to work the TiVo.

God only knows what she’s going to do when Lost comes back. Even when I was filling her in, she could barely keep that story straight in her head.

I’ve been trying to put myself in her shoes, though, these past few days, and I think it’s helped me get a sense of why she’s acting so wigged-out. The way I see it, we’re both anxious about the next few months. Mine’s more of a practical anxiety. I’m concerned with things like finding my classes and doing my laundry — you know, the day-to-day stuff.

She’s worried about those things as well, I suppose, but she’s also got to look at the bigger picture. She’s been biologically conditioned to fear for my survival out in the wilderness. She has to know I’m clothed, fed, and away from dangerous predators. And also that I’m not in jail. In my nightmare scenario, I can’t figure out how to work the laundry machine on my floor. In her nightmare scenario, I’m passed out on the front lawn of a frat house with curse words written on my forehead.

Viewed in that context, her neuroses seem a little easier to cope with. Maybe she’ll still make a big deal every time another box of bedding comes in the mail (or continue to ask awkward questions about my roommate), but I think those are the eccentricities I can deal with. She’ll always have a degree of craziness to her, as I suspect most mothers do, but at least that will keep the next five weeks interesting.

With that said, she seems to have dropped the towel issue, so I guess I can call that progress. She’s worried, and I have reason to believe she’s going to miss me, but I feel like she’ll be able to talk herself off the ledge by the time I leave. She’s not there yet, but she’s getting there. It’s a pretty good start.

As we were driving back from Ikea, I reminded my mom that I was leaving in five weeks. After a moment’s pause, she told me it wouldn’t even seem like I was gone.

“I mean, you leave in September, but then they let you guys off for Halloween,” she said. “So it’ll only be six weeks until you’re back.”

I hope she doesn’t actually believe we get Halloween off. I’m going to have to break the news to her sooner or later.

Sam Daub is an incoming Medill freshman from Eden Prairie, Minn. Photo courtesy of the author.

Freshman year. I thought I got that over with the last time I was a freshman. Thanks to the miracle of Xanga, I’m actually able to look back to 2005 and see the person I was. I’ll be honest: It’s pretty embarrassing. All the entries were about either video games or Lost. And my “now listening to” box always—always—had an Oasis album. Because nobody rocks harder than Liam Gallagher. Nobody.

Basically, it’s history’s most inconsequential primary document.

Needless to say, I was pretty awkward as a freshman in high school. I had left the safety of the middle school and suddenly was thrown into the shark tank that is high school. And all the sharks swore and partied. I usually told people my lack of partying was due to some moral objection, but the truth was that little freshman Sam never got invited to any of those sexy high school parties.

Of course, I didn’t think there was anything dorky about myself at the time. I spent my first pep rally at Eden Prairie High School sitting at the edge of the bleachers with some friends, poring over a printout of an IGN news article about the newly revealed controller for the Nintendo Revolution. I really do feel for the poor soul who had to sit in front of my friends and me as we raved about the “potential” of what would become the Nintendo Wii Remote. I was a pretty annoying little dude. The barely post-pubescent voice couldn’t have helped matters. But were happy, and it was times like those that probably got us through the year.

At least I went into high school with a pre-existing network of friends and acquaintances. Sure, I had to stop a teacher in the halls a couple of times to ask where the nearest staircase was, but at least I was entering that unfamiliar territory with people I had known for years.

It all reminds me of the first time my homeroom met, freshman year of high school. Our freshman orientation included a walkthrough of the daily schedule, which started that morning with a brief introduction to homeroom. Our advisor was running late, so we spent probably fifteen minutes sitting in silence. Staring at the front of the class. Avoiding eye contact. Trying to hide the trauma we were experiencing.

There were twenty of us. We didn’t really know each other. Our last names were close on the alphabet, but that was about it. The similarities ended there. Four years later, homeroom was a very different experience. We weren’t best friends, but we knew each other. It wasn’t awkward. In fact, it was what I suspect is the exact opposite of awkward.

It was chill. I don’t need to be everyone’s best friend. I can work with chill.

Which brings me to today, six weeks before Wildcat Welcome week. Six weeks before I throw out the modest social ascension I’ve made over the past four years. Six weeks before I start again. I was never exactly the Queen Bee — or King Shark, if we’re sticking to this shark metaphor — but I almost managed to carve out a niche for myself in the social order, and that was good enough for me.

I guess it helps to know that everyone will be in the same situation. I think that’s where the awkwardness comes in. It’s a lack of a sense of belonging. High school was difficult when I felt like I was on the fringe, and it only became comfortable when I could figure out where I fit into school life. I didn’t have to conform, but I did need a reason to show up every day.

I’m sure that’s what will happen again. I’ll make some friends, find some classes I enjoy, and then some of the awkwardness will fade. I’m sure, looking back at this entry four years from now, it’ll all come back to me — all the uncomfortable introductions, the cringe-inducing faux pas, the mindless small talk. “Wow,” I’ll someday think to myself. “I’m glad that’s over.”

It’s easy to lose that sense of perspective, though. I’d be a lot more worried about the next year if I hadn’t already made it through a similar experience four years ago. I did it once, and by God I’ll be able to do it again.

Perspective. That’s what I’ve got to keep through all this. Four years ago, I was blogging on my Xanga about my first weeks of high school. Here I am, blogging on North by Northwestern about my first weeks of college.

Talk about progress. Six weeks, and then it’s back in the shark tank.

Currently Listening:
(What’s the Story) Morning Glory
By Oasis

I was completely wrong. While at the time of its conception, the picture in my mind seemed to be all that anyone could ask for from a college experience, the reality that has been slowly unraveling these past three weeks is so much better than I could have ever obsessively imagined. Sure, reality has its downfalls. Although biking to practices and meals in the pouring rain never seemed to have a place in my pre-freshman “plans,” the situation has not failed to present itself. In this same manner, I never imagined air-conditioning-less nights corrupting my sleep, or occasional weekend campus repairs causing me so many cold showers.

But while those realities had remained absent in my thoughts during the weeks before my arrival, so did the thought of an exciting, though tiring, team excursion into downtown Chicago, a lazy afternoon spent with teammates at the campus beach, or a few quiet hours at the Lakefill with my nose in a book. And just as much as I never imagined all that as ever being part of the Northwestern package, I had yet to realize the expansiveness of Evanston’s dining offerings as wells as its trendy shopping opportunities both in town and (albeit a long bike ride) at Old Orchard Mall.

Frankly though, while my initial expectations forecasted smooth sailing from here until graduation, as Welcome Week nears and the expected turmoil of orientation and initiation unravels, I find it hard to believe (and at times a little daunting to accept) that in less than two weeks, we freshman will have to sign our name to all the Northwestern “talk” that has amplified our summer.

It will soon be time to stop planning and start doing; time to start making our own name here and to begin fulfilling the expectations that we permitted Northwestern to set for us, when we all vied for our spots here last fall.