To my freshman self
(04/22/14 11:30am)
Dear Chelsea on FDOC 2010,
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Dear Chelsea on FDOC 2010,
Nine of my most eccentric relatives are enthusiastically trekking to Durham for my graduation. When I heard this, I nearly had a panic attack. I’m dreading graduation enough already because, well, I’m graduating. Take that coupled with the stress, embarrassment and drama that inevitably develop when I spend too much time with my family? Oh god, oh no, oh f—ck. Someone please get me a Xanax.
So I complain a lot. I complain about boredom, busyness, boys, b----es, booze, buffoonery and everything in between. Mainly, I complain to my friends, and my friends complain to me. I complain to entertain, to bond, to vent, to self-pity, to sympathize and because, sometimes, I just like the sound of my own (whiny) voice. My complaining occurs at least every day but usually more. The problem is that 99 percent of my complaints are not real problems at all. The other problem is that over-complaining is not unique to me. Dear Dukies (and everyone else), you too are culpable. We all complain way too much. And here’s why:
For most of my life, I’ve been under the impression that I’m decently attractive, funny, creative, athletic and really, really smart. Ever since I was an idiot preschooler eating rocks in the sandbox, my parents have been telling me how awesome I am. I used to habitually eavesdrop on their phone calls and would often overhear my mom bragging to her friends about how I made the best finger painting in kindergarten or was the tallest girl in my class or should probably skip a grade but she didn’t want to take me away from my friends. My dad loved to tell his buddies about how I could catch and gut a fish by age 10 (this is actually true) and even enjoyed threading the poor earthworm onto the hook (not true at all).
My earliest memory is of my first encounter with a Monet. I was barely three at the time. It was a rainy Sunday when my mother caught me finger painting with ketchup on her fancy silk drapes. After a necessary scolding, we were on our way to the Wadsworth Atheneum, the oldest public art museum in the country and also Hartford, Conn.’s only interesting attraction. My mother insisted on nurturing my newfound artistic inclination in a more civilized manner—and what could be more civilized than 19th century French impressionism?
The recent hype surrounding marijuana legalization reminded me of a particularly outrageous conversation I had with a friend a few years back. The friend—we’ll call her Sam—has been a self-proclaimed goody-two-shoes since birth. Among other self-imposed restrictions, she swore off alcohol and drugs. One day, however, she called me with news. “OMG, Chels, you’re never going to believe what happened last night. I got drunk! And then smoked weed! It was incredible!”
So, I’m an atheist. No, not your friendly neighborhood agnostic or non-practicing Protestant, but an actual atheist. I don’t believe in God. Trying to convince me to believe in God is like trying to convince me to like country music or become a Republican (don’t waste your time). I just cringed a bit, because that is usually a difficult thing for me to say. While I’ve been an atheist for as long as I can remember, the associated stigma and awkwardness mean that I’m often uncomfortable admitting it.
Today I write to y’all from my couch, where I’m trying to overcome what might be the worst hangover of my life. Despite the five Advil I chased with two gallons of water and Pedialyte, my head is pounding, and I can’t fully open my eyes. It’s 5:00 p.m. and I just ate breakfast. I feel like a useless blob of wasted potential and liver damage. Ughhhhh.
Well folks, it’s that dreaded time of year again. A time laden with stress, anxiety and too few social events to satisfy even the least relevant of GDIs. And no, I’m not talking about finals—every true Dukebag knows that the key to a seamless finals week is a reliable addy dealer and an assortment of private tutors—I’m talking about winter break. While the next month away from campus presents a plethora of dilemmas for each and every variety of Dukie, winter break is especially challenging for the Dukebag. But fear not! There’s no need to go all crazy and wrinkle your pink pants when I’ve outlined simple solutions to the Dukebag’s most common winter break woes. So sit back, pop a Xanax and enjoy, as I tell you all there is to know about having a very merry Dukebaggy break.
My all-time stress level peaked around age 4, when I became utterly terrified of everything. I’m talking about germs, the weather, the outdoors, people, shadows, the works. I was a crazy little girl with a terrible case of obsessive-compulsive disorder. Thankfully, after some strong medication and a healthy dose of therapy, I was over my OCD by age 5. At this point, all of my spazzy symptoms—washing my hands to draw blood, frantically watching The Today Show and not touching people—had scared away all potential friends. I was a kindergartner with no playmates, with the exception of Murphy, my Schnauzer. I spent my afternoons rolling in the grass and barking at him; naturally, my parents freaked out.
Do you remember those fifth grade classes about demystifying the body’s path to adulthood? You know, those lectures about hormones and tampons and awkwardness. During the lesson on breast development, my teacher suggested that girls buy a bra when gym class became uncomfortable. She also explained that some boys grow breasts; this, however, wasn’t cause for any concern (or bra). My flat-chested self was confused. If a trampoline will hurt my boobs, why won’t it hurt my chubby little brother’s? My fat neighbor mows his lawn topless—an experience that would be better for everybody with even the tiniest bra for coverage.
Hola mis amigos! I'm writing to y'all from Santiago, Chile, and I'm ashamed to admit that that is basically the extent of my Spanish. I'm in Chile as part of Duke Immerse, otherwise known as my third trip abroad that's been heavily subsidized by good ol’ Daddy Duke. While my past two Indian summers and current South American adventure don't exactly make up for the absurd tuition (or my frighteningly expensive eating habits during my Parisian semester), Duke-sponsored travel has certainly been enlightening. In reflecting upon my newly-declared identity as an engaged, immersed, global citizen, I've compiled a list of the most valuable travel tips I've picked up along the way.
ABSTRACT
My father spent a month of my childhood bedridden after back surgery, and from his boredom sprang a passion for infomercials. As a result, the Sawicki house contains two Magic Bullets (the kitchen tool, not the vibrator), a George Foreman grill, a Shake Weight and a rather advanced telescope. We also own the Wai Lana Yoga video set. Wai Lana is a svelte Asian woman who instructs you to "clench the buttocks firmly" while meditating in pretzel-like positions for a long time. As an eight-year-old trying to follow Wai’s poses, I giggled and became bored within five minutes. Where is the workout? Why all the hype? Yoga, yogis and Lululemon-clad soccer moms eventually became my favorite mockery targets.
Last week, I uploaded a picture of some red cups and my dad commented this: