Applying in Pajamas

Today was an ordinary day. It's kind of overcast outside, the kind of sky that leaves everything looking a little gloomy and a little sad. The kind of day that makes you want to curl up with a book all day, or watch that list of movies you've been putting off watching, and certainly the kind of day that never provides enough motivation to change out of your obnoxious pink-flowered pajama pants.

But today was not an ordinary day. It was the day I began my application to my dream school.

Everything I've done in my life for the past four years, possibly the last seven, was at least partially motivated by the promise improving my college application. A far away mysterious and hazy goal, it hovered in front of me like a carrot dangling by a string, begging me to chase it through my adolescence. I would get frustrated with all the club meetings, events to coordinate, class load to bear, but I just kept those blank application fields in mind and kept plunging through.

But now it's over and I've sealed my fate, good or bad, and I'm documenting it all in those indifferent, character-restricting boxes. There is something about it that hardly seems fair.

I need twelve word documents, 10,000 characters, more checkboxes, to explain. I need to explain why I need Carolina, why I'm worthy, what I've been doing with my life, what I want to do with my life. I can't sum up myself in these confines!

But I must. I haven't got a choice. I have to find a way to squish myself into the tiny boxes without losing any of the desire, personality, and competency I hope I have and wish to convey. Every word I type onto that application carries so much meaning. I feel the weight of each one in my typing-wearying fingers, in my blurring eyes, in the knot forming at the back of my neck.

The whole time, I felt this weird feeling that I should sit straighter. I should dress up. I should comb my hair. This apple juice wasn't fancy enough for the occasion. I was half-listening to "VH1's 100 Best Songs of the 90's." That isn't fitting. I should be sitting in complete, immaculate silence, dutifully focusing my attention on deciding my fate.

But alas, it was no production. Just a gloomy, overcast, pajamay day. The day I began the process that seals my fate.

Stupid College...

The applying to college is unnecessarily complicated. Why do we make it so hard? It's just this constant cloud of stress hovering over me, no matter what I do.

Everything feels too inadequate. Somebody's always preparing better than I am, sending me into a fury of panic. "There goes one more spot in my dream school!"

It seems so silly. Almost everyone that wants to go to college gets in somewhere. Why do we make it such a big deal when if we all relaxed, it wouldn't have to be? The right people can get the right education without facing almost unbearable stress in the preceding years. For some reason, we've decided to create this intimidating aurora around college that probably does more scaring off than anything else.

I know where I want to go; I know what I want to study; I know I could succeed. But that's not enough. I have to prove this by jumping through six thousand unnecessary hoops. My needs get lost in a sea of test scores, statistics, and transfer credits. Somewhere along the way, my voice gets drowned out by the paper trail that consumes me. Every breathing second, I'm supposed to be doing something so I can make a mark on those blasted applications.

I just want to get in, get my degree, and get out. Is that too much to ask?