What is college? It is, chiefly, a unique sort of social ephemera — a sudden blooming of one’s abilities as an adult human being coinciding neatly with a relative overabundance of freedom. This is the period in which we begin to realize that we can choose the lives we want for ourselves. What legacy do I want to leave behind? How do I want to relate to my friends, my family, my community? What do I love? And, most importantly, what should I do this weekend?
Because it turns out, life is all about transforming the mundane into something transcendent and joyful; much of college ends up being an exercise in wringing the most fun out of a shriveled, 200-year-old hill in Somerville, Mass. I know this to be true because I am — gasp — a senior and have attempted much wringing, achieving moderate success in this fun juice extraction. But now, as I stare down the life I have, one way or another, chosen for myself, I feel, as almost all college seniors certainly do, a faint dread at the thought of losing Tufts and losing the freedom that has defined my past three years here. It is not unlike an extended period of mourning, rife with ambiguous stress and nausea-inducing levels of nostalgia as I, and all my friends, prepare to kick the bucket.
When you go bucket-kicking, you might as well prepare a bucket list (yes, that is the actual etymology of ‘bucket list’). And this is exactly what I have endeavored to do: Create a list of 30-or-so odd items that aims to capture the Tufts experience in toto. My bucket list is a living, breathing document (and it even occasionally snores), which can be modified as needed. Its primary purpose is to generate a true feeling of satisfaction at the close of my senior year that my bachelor’s degree will surely not provide. Its secondary purpose is to generate content for this column, so that I can present my fairly tame exploits and adventures to all those interested in learning how to conjure up a few extra drops of joy in their lives. In the process, I may also gain a deeper understanding of what being at Tufts has meant to me, what we can all hope for from the future and, if things go really well, what our hearts are for.
The first installment in this series was serendipitously heralded by the arrival of a massive cyclone and, less serendipitously, by my falling sick for the better part of two weeks. This was quite a dramatic backdrop for any attempt to achieve some light-hearted mischief, but the opportunity to experience a nor’easter promised something novel for a Marylander like myself. Bonus item for the bucket list!
Unfortunately, I found myself somewhat disappointed by the performance of dear Mr. Easter, whose wind gusts and spurts of rain enticed me to brew some tea and read in the library instead of engendering the mortal panic I had hoped. Perhaps in an unconscious rejection of the inner calm brought on by the storm, I became fixated on one bucket list item in particular. It was one of the first entries added to the list, yet seemed the most improbable of all to accomplish in late September: sledding.
How does one sled when the weather is 50 degrees with an active flood watch? Simple. You find a suitably grassy hill, cut holes for your arms and head in a large trash bag, don said trash bag, lightly apply environmentally friendly dish soap to your trash bag and dive headfirst down said hill. As you glide slowly — very, very slowly — forward, you may begin to feel a peculiar sense of freedom emerge within yourself — freedom from the social conventions that prevent you from just putting on a trash bag and sliding down hills like a saddleback seal, freedom from the dictates of nature that tell you when you can and cannot sled and, ultimately, freedom to make a fool of yourself when it makes you happy. And you may also notice that your ribs hurt. A lot. Because it turns out the grass on Prez Lawn isn’t very thick, and you probably shouldn’t try to sled on it. But you do anyway.
