For those of you who have recently stirred from a coma and are perusing this column from your hospital bed, you ought know that this past weekend was Homecoming. Fans filled about two−thirds of the Zimman Field Stadium, outnumbering the players for the first — and no doubt last — time this season. Their inebriated support made all the difference, yielding a major defensive accomplishment for the Jumbos who lost by a margin that was far narrower than usual. It was Tufts' one opportunity to do what big state schools do every Saturday — minus the really good football team, the actual tailgate and the really huge, awesome and super−fun parties that don't get broken up by the cops by 1 a.m. Valiant effort, Tufts — I raise my glass.
For me, however, thinking back on this glorious celebration of sunshine, Div. III athletics and daytime intoxication leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Upon reflection, I'm disenchanted and downright sad. I'm sure you're all wondering, "What, Chelsea, could possibly have tainted this stupendous college weekend for you?" Well readers, this ubiquitous sophomore plight pertains to none other than that looming double−edge sword: off−campus housing.
Grand visions of my junior−yearoff−campus chalet have been dancing through my head since the winter of freshman year. Some of my girlfriends from the ski team and I were planning an eight−person house with a few Frisbee guys. We planned to call this union "Friski," and we attempted to persuade these guys to live with us through a carefully crafted PowerPoint that touted the promise that we would bring cute friends back to the house as long as they would shovel the driveway. Shockingly this vision never developed into reality, and I moved on to plan B.
Somehow plan B turned into me living with three guys. Great! I can do that: I'm hip, I'm chill, I can live with bros. So I registered with JumpOffCampus.com and found a gem of a house on Whitfield Road for $550 a month. After some serious telephone schmoozing, my group and two other groups had appointments to look at this great apartment on Oct. 15 in the afternoon, otherwise known as Homecoming.
Now if there's one thing you should know, it's that I'm incredibly stingy — frugal, actually, to put it in a more positive light. My entire life is purchased on clearance racks and Craigslist. The idea of paying a mere $550 for rent is literally arousing to me. Ergo, I didn't even care that my Homecoming festivities would need to be kept pretty tame so I could be composed for the meeting with the landlord. When we looked at the house and found out that it wasn't even a s−−−hole, we were totally sold. I was prepared to do whatever it took to dazzle the landlord with my charm and wits to snag this apartment. I even started Craigslisting furniture.
You know how this story ends. Despite my composure, professionalism and charming follow−up emails, the landlord relinquished the place to rising seniors who wouldn't have leasees going abroad, eliminating the need for subletters. Now instead of living somewhere close, awesome and cheap, we're doomed to end up somewhere far away, terrible and expensive. This disappointing housing tragedy, coupled with my friends' lack of rallying for Saturday's nighttime offerings, leaves me associating Homecoming 2011 with thoughts of that which could have been.
So now that you've read this far, take it one step further and empathize with my plight. Have a cheap four−bedroom apartment you don't need next year? Want to make a new best friend and bolster up your karma with a hearty dose of altruism? Shoot me an email and help out the homeless.
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