To paint a more realistic picture of this drastic but inevitable lifestyle pivot, I could have added the entire “The Fame” album to my playlist. No longer humming Belle and Sebastian on the Green, I’m just another shell-of-my-former-self rolling the Sunday scaries Novack line. I stop ordering cappuccinos, with their joyous foam, swap Bose headphones for Airpods and rediscover 2008 Lady Gaga. As someone on Twitter once wrote, “I have no idea what’s going on with my life, I’m just in charge of the music.”Įvery term, usually around week seven, I give up on romanticizing my life. Over the past 10 weeks, I’ve grappled with free will, fan behavior, email etiquette and the ethics of Instagram reels (big yikes) to the soundtrack of M.I.A. It was neglecting 200 pages of Victorian literature to bake pavlova on a rogue Thursday night and sending hand-written letters to my friends back home and abroad, whom I miss oh so dearly.Īt a mere 21 songs, my termly playlist came together short, sweet and on repeat. My simple, ever-changing pleasures took the form of sparkling snow, Bob Dylan soliloquies and orange cardamom buns. This term, I derived fulfillment from life’s many mundane joys. I’m talking cappuccino foam, salted sidewalks, “snowflakes that fall across my eyes,” flaky salt and the chorus of a heart-wrenchingly good song. But it’s important to remember that the little things count too. In an academic microcosm of over-achievers like Dartmouth, it’s easy to discredit the poets and hyperfixate on capital-S Success, to chase prestigious acceptance letters and five-figure salaries. Growing older is self-realizing the poignancy of cliches: money can’t buy happiness, time heals all wounds, life is about the little things, etc.
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