At Boston College, the visions of a typical college—Maruchan ramen and red solo cups—quickly fade to something out of a Pinterest board. When I visited as a high school senior, I was not only left gasping at the staggering gothic architecture and perfectly manicured lawns, but also by the seemingly perfect students. They were abnormally attractive. Like the grounds, they didn’t have a hair out of place, and if their puffer wasn’t Canada Goose, it was Moncler.
This memory didn’t turn out to be an illusion. Once August came and went, I had the astounding realization that these kids truly weren’t your average college students. They wear heeled boots to their 9 a.m. discussion, opt for salads at lunch when fries are available, go out three times a week, attend the gym on Saturday mornings, and somehow have never gotten a C.
Sitting on O’Neill’s fifth floor, I don’t see a single person without the entire Apple ecosystem or wearing a ragged t-shirt. I can count six perfect slick-backed hair-dos, excluding my own.
The need to fit in, to be just another blade of grass in a perfectly manicured lawn, is overwhelming. One thing about me, however, is that I’ve never met a challenge I can refuse.
So I, too, went out every night of the first week of school. I needed to make friends, of course. I ate crouton-less salads at noon. I hit the gym at 6 p.m. with a bottle of Glaceau SmartWater in brand—it feels like it’s the only brand they sell here. I did my makeup every morning. I highlighted and annotated every reading. I scrambled to raise my hand in class. And I, too, learned to run in heels to make it to my 9 a.m.
Every day when I finally made it back to my room, I’d rip off my boots as if they’d burned me. My posture would slump, and I’d tear my hair from its binds. I would eat some chocolate in the safety of my dimmed desk light. I’d study for an exam that’s a month away, and if everything went according to schedule, I’d get a lovely six hours of sleep. The following morning I’d post on social media, and zip up my heeled boots. Someone will ask me how I do it all, and I’ll ask them in return, “Do what?”
Other days, three (or four) cups of coffee won’t be enough to pay my sleep debt. I’ll glance at the fries, or maybe a bagel—and give in. The gym will get one less visitor, and the words from the reading will dance on the screen to evade my attention. My comforter will hold me hostage, so it’s a pity I won’t make it to my discussion. My sneakers will simply look too appealing, and my footsteps will be silent. My hair will be on the verge of coming loose, and I’ll settle for sweatpants. On the same day, my classmate will walk into the lecture hall in a Reformation mini skirt and heels.
The same evening, when my mom asks what I want for Christmas, I’ll say, “I could use another pair of heeled boots.”
Sometimes, I want to click down the halls, hoping everything might click into place. Fitting in is equal parts terrifying and exciting, and despite the pressure, I adore the sound of a powerful strut down Fulton. I enjoy going out, drinking coffee, wearing pretty clothes, and studying. But I’d be a fool not to recognize that there are days when I crave the glamour of heels, and others when all I want is the comfort of flats.
Perfection is an illusion, and the image of perfect BC students is no exception. We’re a school full of overachievers, who tend to look at a challenge, such as fitting in, and say, “I can do that.” But I believe it’s best to stay true to yourself. Face your fear of missing out—watch a movie or call a friend instead of going out. Find a routine and lifestyle that works for you. Discover a balance between salad and fries. Cut yourself some slack, and wear whatever shoes you want.
