COLUMN: The perks of being a grownup
Freshman year I got into the very bad hobby of taking pictures of my poop and sending photos of it in text messages to my friends.
I thought this was hilarious; they blocked my number.
I spent most of my free time sophomore year watching cartoons on Adult Swim and (illegally) drinking cheap whiskey.
It took me two full years to get involved on campus, and those years could have been spent volunteering or turning my resume into something vaguely employable.
Since I decided to stop competing against myself to set new records in cereal consumption every single night, I was able to join a writing RSO, edit an awesome magazine, work as a consultant at the Writing Center, draw cartoons for money (I know) and somehow talk my way into a job editing this paper.
I am not exaggerating when I say all of this came from simply taking off my Snuggie and just trying to apply myself a little bit.
Now that I have only a couple hours a week of time that's not already spoken for, I find myself enjoying them a lot more. Now I savor the time I have to sunburn with my friends, cook meals, and spend quality time cuddled up with my Netflix account.
The couch still calls to me, sure. There are some days when I would like to do nothing more than eat a pound of Reese’s Pieces and watch reality shows about fascinating gas stations until my eyes bleed.
But, after the fact, it always feels much better put on non-elasticized pants and show up to meetings.
Working at places like the Writing Center and Central Michigan Life has helped me make friends with people who do more than go to the bar or go to the other bar.
I find myself at the twilight of my college career with a resume longer than a roll of public bathroom toilet paper. This is a good thing.
Just by showing up to RSOs or working a cool job on campus, you build a network of people who will last the rest of your professional life, make friends and polish your resume.
I promise you'll also come to savor the time you spend doing absolutely nothing at all.
