Georgetown University’s Newspaper of Record since 1920

The Hoya

Georgetown University’s Newspaper of Record since 1920

The Hoya

Georgetown University’s Newspaper of Record since 1920

The Hoya

Seniority Does Not Always Mean Superiority

Courtesy Anne Rittman Anne Rittman

“None of these senior girls are wearing black pants!”

That was me freshman year, in a backyard at a party on 36th Street, having just come face to face with my own tacky freshman-osity. No, Virginia, seniors don’t wear black pants, even in Fall of 1999 at the height of black pant popularity. My second observation was that, unlike me and my cadre of friends, they also were not wearing backless, haltered, cropped, stretchy, sequined tops like a backup dancer for the Spice Girls.

Nope, they were wearing little sweaters and dainty Tiffany bracelets, tailored shoes and well-cut pants that seemed to collectively titter at my Express ensemble which had really looked sexy back in my Village C mirror. No wonder the upperclassmen loved freshwomen: We were utterly clueless, and sort of skanky, too.

I remember looking at those senior girls that night and thinking that they seemed so together. They all had high-paying i-banking jobs or dot-com ventures lined with impressive salaries. They’d already dated the senior guys, and not only did they have the heart tag to prove it, but they smugly guarded the knowledge that all we could really get from the boys of their class was a night of ennui.

The senior girls had the sense to stay away from declasse wardrobe selections, and they triumphed in all the classes I shared with them. I don’t think I said one word through all of Shakespeare class first semester freshman year. I didn’t know anything about the Aristotle they were quoting offhandedly, and had no enlightening year-abroad stories with which to regale classroom audiences.

I know a lot about old Aristotle now. After an edifying semester in Italy, I’m more than happy to describe Savonarola’s bonfires or the view from Leonardo’s Tuscan home. I got a job, and even though there’s no hefty salary, it’s one of the more glamorous post-grad plans I’ve heard come out of the employment-challenged class of 2003. I’ve dated a selection of senior boys and have since purchased clothing from the more Puritanical racks at J.Crew.

Despite these so-called achievements, I don’t feel qualified to be in the same group as the seniors at that party. I might know a lot more about history, literature and philosophy than I did at 18, but I still don’t know anything important.

I came into college with a lot of headstrong opinions about what was wrong with the world and how we should fix it. Among other problems with our university, I have found it an abomination the way Georgetown treats women and their reproductive health, but I’ve never done anything about it and probably never will, besides passive-aggressively withholding donation money. The list of ills has grown, but I have no idea how to change anything, and worse, I’ve given up trying.

I was one of the many freshmen who matriculated with a boyfriend at another college, and like everyone else, that relationship capsized by February. I’d like to say that four years has taught me a great many lessons about men and love and relationships, but it hasn’t. I still can’t tell the creeps to take a hike and I never accept the sweet ones who would probably treat me like a queen. I can recognize failings in my friends’ relationships, but I can’t find clarity in my own. When freshman-year guy called me last week, what did he want? I don’t know, and I’ll probably make the same mistakes I made four years ago.

And even though I’ve netted that holy grail of college – a job – I still have no clue what I want as a career. Journalism is really just an arbitrary choice I made when my resume began to take itself down that path. Should I sell out, go to law school and stop worrying about money? Have 10 kids, forget the job and finger-paint all day? I prefer to waffle between ambition and creative sloth.

I can’t keep plants alive. I can’t cook more than one dish (and pasta – how hard is that?). I don’t get enough vitamins, drink too little water and don’t balance my checkbook. I actually like the food at Taco Bell, and I get deodorant on my shirt every day.

Looks like I’m not the put-together senior girl I thought I would be by now.

I hope I was wrong about those senior girls, that my perception that night was clouded by awe, the naivete of 18 and more than a couple Natty Lights. Perhaps those girls were just pretending to have life under control, like I do now. I’m sure they must have worried about the same things I think about. Maybe the apprehension and uncertainty, and not the knowledge or experience, is the greatest binding similarity between the classes of 2000 and 2003.

It must be, because deep down, don’t we all like Taco Bell?

Anne Rittman graduated from the College in Dec. 2002. She served as Managing Editor, Features Editor, News Editor and as Contributing Editor.

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