Get over yourself

My sister has always told me, "You need to get over yourself." I hate it, because I know she's right. I know she uses the phrase mostly when I'm being a pain in the ass, when I'm stuck up or gloating, whining endlessly about Duke d-bags or the injustice of living a life sans Louis. But I'd rather she call me thunder thighs or tell me I am retarded. Those are criticisms I can work with; "getting over yourself," however, that's a feat.

When I entered Duke I desperately needed to get over myself. I was a well of tension, a keyed-up, shaking mess. The first day of orientation I almost passed out in the Bryan Center. I was so concerned about saying the right thing, having the bff roommate and the perfect friends, meeting the right pre-med boyfriend, going Phi Beta Kappa, joining the right sorority, wearing the right clothes, becoming a size two, flat-ironing my hair every day.. And being funny, and likeable and brilliant, and oh, seemingly laid back.

Surprisingly, given my oh-so-realistic expectations, I failed. Completely. My roommate and I were living not only on different sides of the room, but also on different planets: a devout born-again hippie, and an uptight atheist type-A. I was too busy to go out and meet guys, and the ones I did meet failed miserably to approximate any sort of JFK, Jr. (the college years) approximation. I was so uptight about my Focus program that I stayed in almost all of my first semester, believing that I had to do every single page of reading, write and re-write every essay nights before or I would flunk out. While my freshman hall drank, hooked up, ordered pizza at four in the morning and finished papers an hour before deadline, I sulked about the noise that was preventing me from studying or sleeping.

I remember looking out the window of the Chinese reading room and watching hordes of freshman dragging the goal post after the one and only football win against UNC. I felt so stuck. While everyone else was happily reveling in rebellion mode, I was more uptight than ever.

I missed my home of Washington, D.C., in all its frigid formality, and I couldn't stand the Durham "m'am"s and "sugars" and "y'alls." What did these people have to be so happy about? Why were strangers talking to me? I kept a copy of the University of Virginia transfer application on my desktop, believing that if I went somewhere else, where all my high school friends were, college would be everything I needed it to be.

I got great grades that semester, but not much else.

A pair of underwear changed everything. I should be hanged from the nearest lamppost by the Baldwin Scholars, but the black lacy briefs I bought the day before second semester started spurred my most successful New Year's resolution. Perfect grades weren't making me happy. My hair was dried out from all of the flat ironing and I got sick of judging my roommate for the fact that she dated a guy who never showered. My hours spent on the treadmill were giving me shin splints, and I was so frightened of failure I refused to speak up, climb up to The Chronicle office or meet new people.

I decided when I bought the underwear that I needed a reason to wear them. There's no point of owning great lingerie if it's going to be spending all of its time in Lilly. So I went out, took a chance and talked to new people. I spoke out in class, and maybe I said some ridiculous crap. I met someone and found out that a "perfect" guy doesn't change much. But I learned that loosening up, giving people the benefit of the doubt, taking a few shots-all of these things weren't going to hurt me. I might have neglected econ, but I'm not interested in i-banking.

Effortless perfection: it's so passé.

Julia Stolberg is a Trinity senior. She was a senior editor and long-time staff writer for The Chronicle.