I wasn’t surprised when I received my acceptance letter from the University of Florida during the end of my senior year of high school. During that time, females in the top 10 percent of their graduating classes were generally accepted. (But I’m not so sure I’d get in here now; these new kids are geniuses.)
UF wasn’t my first choice - I wanted to go to St. Mary’s at Notre Dame, an all-girls Catholic liberal arts college. I could have gone there, enjoyed college with Corey and be tens of thousands of dollars in debt. Instead I went here, branched out on my own and am leaving college debt-free (largely due to my hard-working parents). I converted from a Gator-hating Seminole to bleeding orange and blue.
As we find with most things in life, we don’t get our first choice for a reason. But we don’t see that reason until later down the road after several weeks, months or even years have passed. I was meant to be a Gator.
Today was my last day in Gainesville.
I even told the tanning bed employee it was my last day early this morning after she told me it was my last paid tanning session. I saved my last one for my last day to - in a way - pay tribute to the ridiculous ritual practiced by so many girls here of literally absorbing “cancer in a box,” including me. Before coming to college, I would have never done something so crazy. Many of you know about my first time before freshman year formal - I almost had a panic attack in that tiny, hot tube blaring an annoying Gwen Stefani song blaring in my ears.
I spent half the day cooking. I made a breakfast sandwich - bacon, sausage and cheddar cheese on an onion bagel. For dinner, I fried chicken Parmesan served with macaroni and cheese. Living here this year with a full kitchen has been wonderful; I’ve discovered my love of cooking. I’ve compared it to the fact that I loved to read, so I wanted to be a writer; I’ve always loved to eat food, so I’d naturally love to cook it.
I spent the other half of the day packing. It’s very depressing to see my senior year and entire college experience packed up in cardboard boxes in the corner of our living room. The duplex is going to be almost bare by the time my parents and I have packed the trailer and hauled it home tomorrow afternoon.
As much as it saddens me that this isn’t going to be our living room anymore, I just have to remind myself of what I’m driving to tomorrow: my own house.
Laurie K. Blandford