Columns

Now that we are a quarter of the way through the year, you may be wondering, where has my money gone? Luckily, there are bank accounts that can reduce your surprise. Some of us have them; others want them. But only the financially savvy really understand saving and checking accounts. Today, your financial literacy peer advisors are going to explain the differences, weigh the pros and cons, and help you manage these accounts.

I like it in the entryway. What? That’s where I like my purse easily accessible and always within reach when I’m headed out the door. What did you think?

One night at the Haymarket (where else would I be on a Tuesday?), a guy I’ve hooked up with a few different times told me that he wanted to be with me. As in date me. What happened next is kind of a blur, probably because I was in shock and a little drunk. At first I was thinking, “I’ve only hung out with this guy a couple of very drunken times! Is he serious?” My next thought was “I’m the girl here, aren’t I supposed to be the commitment-crazy half of this?”

Oh hey, reality, it’s nice to see you again.

This week, the stars aligned to give me a brief glimpse into adulthood. The combination of job applications, interviews, and visits from alumni adds up to a nostalgia-filled hyperventilation for this girl. My current fragile state of emotions has become so laughable that I find myself tearing up over the most trivial “last things” (I just had my last Tuesday/Thursday class before Fall Break; you get the idea).

This past month, I’ve had more free time than I’ve ever had in college before, and while all the free time is fun, there are so many options of how to spend my time that it can be overwhelming.

All this free time is mainly due to Nottingham’s emphasis on independent study. Since classes only meet once a week, all of my classes are on Monday and Tuesday. This means, if I got the urge, I could take off on Wednesday for Ireland or Belgium or Amsterdam and get back on Sunday, ready to go back to class the next day.

The role of a tourist is an odd combo of forced alienation and an urgent need to assimilate. You’re urged to keep a distance from your home, and yet constantly reminded of where you’re from and how you got here. You have to accept and indulge in the ways of the land you’re visiting, while persistently having your thoughts infused with bitter nostalgia. This dysfunction of attitudes often diffuses my initial awe and curiosity and replaces it with an overly critical analysis of my role as tourist and tourism in general.

It’s hard to begin a column about faith when I can’t identify what it is I believe. Right now, I’m at that point in my life where the faith I was taught has loosened its hold on me. I’ve spent these past two years wavering between whispering a subtle Hallelujah and chopping my umbilical connection to divinity.