The next time you're going about your business in the Bryan Center, swing by the Lobby Shop and pick up a six-pack. I've grown addicted to the taste, personally, and according to the pretty packaging, a few gulps is the equivalent of a whole piece of fruit.
Yes, single-serving applesauce is great. I very gently popped the foil top the other day, armed and ready for that saucy spurt of spillover. Sure enough, the cup hiccuped, and a little stream of applesauce poured forth. Scooping the excess off my thumb, I applauded the generosity of the applesauce producers. They had packed in as much mush as they possibly could, wholly in the hopes of pleasing me, the prized consumer; and my little plastic cup runnethed over.
But suspicious college student that I am, the overactive pessimist in me took center psyche. Was it in fact a case of extra applesauce? Or were they just scrimping on plastic?
This was quite the paradigm shift. In a matter of seconds, the cup went from overfull to half empty, much to my two-tiered dissatisfaction.
Maybe I needed to enjoy my "extra" applesauce the way most of us appreciate e-Print: With the complete understanding that every superfluous page has been paid for, but a cheery gratitude that it's been snuck onto the tab in feel-good fashion.
But feeling entitled to that extra bit of sauce, and mourning that imagined bit of missing plastic, I found my hunger unabated. The situation reminded me of the kind of diatribes that float across the walkways after a particularly disappointing lecture. Conflicted souls mull over the 127 bucks they just flushed on what was technically a necessary nap. Sensing dark forces at work, they recognize the unforeseen perk as an offshoot of an inadequately packaged main product.
Reality is harsh, and keen awareness makes it harsher: Mom or Dad or Gramps, or, aid and scholarships providing, Somebody Somewhere paid for us to be here. And evidently we aren't in any danger of forgetting it; Duke students are said to suffer from a keen and rather unflattering sense of entitlement. One unflattering justification: our time here has been paid for with cash or genes or blood and sweat or any combination of these. Perhaps it can be tempting on a bad day to crossly wonder how you ended up with less than you expected.
So take an uncomplicated look at your younger, more vibrant, less cynical self.
For freshmen remain the freshest examples of uncorrupted, unexhausted freeloaders. I marveled at the Activities Fair last Friday; enthusiastic squeals fairly emanated from the overwhelmed flock as they compared the free merchandise they had amassed. Fluctuating decibels seemed to imply that it all went on an intuited totem pole of value, ranging from much sought-after T-shirts all the way down to fun-sized, one-pop candy bars.
It was like swapping advice on Halloween, and letting friends in on all the tricks for the best treats. It was inspiring in a way, to know the freshmen were working the system with such unaffected zest. Their faces eager and expectant, they sought out the good stuff: Posters and jelly bands, clubs and activities, fellowships, societies and publications. And all of it, to hear the avid shouts and sense the chaos, was like being paid a big fat bonus for being a much-beloved member of the Duke community.
Freshmen are so smart.
Admiring one freshman systematically snatching chocolate off the tables, I couldn't help but question where my own pioneering freebie fervor had gone. Its remission made no sense, considering the misgivings with which I had consumed my applesauce, convinced all the while that something rightly purchased was conspicuously missing.
Maybe that something is lost inside me. Am I taking full advantage of my Duke identity? Better yet, when was the last time I treasured my $5 student admission to any Duke Performance of my choice? Did I appreciate the front row seat I had when WXDU faced off against the Chapel bells last weekend? Do I make it a point to pig out at the open barbeques inevitably taking place somewhere on a quad?
The other day, a friend of mine at Penn was shocked by the understuffed state of his green tea bag. The bag was huge but mostly empty and held a poor pinch of greenish granules. Clearly, they had cheated him out of tea.
Or maybe Lipton gave him an extra bag. Perhaps as a Penn man, the possibility was simply outside the realm of his imagination.
Luckily for us, we're at Duke, where we're handed some spectacularly jumbo goodie bags (with the exception of a piddling fruit cup or two).
It's just completely up to us to fill 'em up.
Jane Chong is a Trinity sophomore. Her column runs every Wednesday.
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