The greatest part of leaving your college town is nothing. Other than maybe the chance to lose a little of the beer gut you’ve acquired, the only purpose summer serves is a countdown to your return to school. If you’re doing college right, coming home totally sucks. You’re without your best friends, your various slampieces, and you’re definitely without the no-rules mentality you’ve created for yourself if your parents are anything like mine.
At school, we have exactly three grocery stores, if you *shudder* count Walmart. Somehow, though, walking the aisles with my roommates has become a beloved ritual that reminds us of home, while simultaneously serving as a respite from the dysfunction that usually surrounds us. This all changes when you return to the land of your high school bedroom.
I was at the grocery store yesterday picking up Greek yogurt and limes (mojitos, not margs) when I had to pull a duck and cover. I’d caught a glimpse of my ex-boyfriend’s dad the next aisle over. Why he still exists when I’m no longer interested in his son is totally beyond me, but I was not trying to get into an awkward conversation that started with my major, but inevitably led to his confession that everyone (even the dog) misses me deeply as a single tear fell from his eye. The grocery store is absolutely one of the worst parts of being home. Every trip becomes a high-alert situation. I really think there’s a radar that lets everyone from old teachers to frenemies know when you arrive at the grocery store looking anything but your best. It is practically Newton’s fourth law that any time you’re looking unseemly, you will see at least two people you hate and that number directly correlates to your level of scrubbiness.
If your day-to-day isn’t bad enough, there is of course, the party scene. Ordinarily a welcome break from teachers, responsibility, and the other unpleasantries that come from being sober, home parties are quite possibly the worst things ever. Sure, it can be fun to get drunk with the people you got drunk with in high school for old time’s sake, but it’s old time’s sake for a reason, people! Coming home to a lowkey backyard get-together with people who think wine coolers and hookah count as a rager is fine for a weekend, but how is anyone supposed to go three entire months without slapping a bag, or chasing a bottom-shelf pull with Fanta? Scientifically, it’s difficult to survive in such conditions. Plus, you’re practically guaranteed to catch a few stink-eyes when you inevitably try doubling up on beers. Double fisting is apparently frowned upon in polite society. Like, sorry I like two beers to your one? I can tell we are nowhere near running out of booze, but this is how I was trained by my grand-big!
Inevitably, your Instagram game will also suffer. You will get tired of posting pictures of your pet. Everyone has a pet. You’re not special. You will feel like a fraud posting photos of the meal your mom made as you try to pawn it off as your own doing. And it’s just bad form to post another photo of your bikini bod at the beach (or by the pool, or lake, or whatever body of water is nearby). You’ll find you’re averaging about half as many likes as usual, and resort to countless #TBTs of your college pals. Obviously, you don’t want your followers to think you’ve died, but if you could keep the sorority love to a minimum, everyone with eyeballs will thank you.
When you were a kid, summer was the best time of year. But as almost every college student now knows, the other three seasons truly take the cake..
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Lindeliciousss
A native Seattleite and self-proclaimed Snapchat queen, she's been a coffee addict since she found out what a coffee bean was. Believer in and promoter of the #freeguac and #freegucci movements. She is obsessed with all things Harry Potter and has been known to stop people at parties to tell them how to remove the wine from their clothes. In her spare time, she enjoys baking, writing for TSM, and pretending like she has her act together. Hit her up @ lindeliciousss@gmail.com
@lindeliciousss
@lindeliciousss
