When I was home for winter break, I mentioned here that I saw a car bedecked with "I just got into the University of Chicago!" written all over it. While it was a little bit sad to see that I would no longer be the only Santa Clarita native here at this school (I suppose I am a little bit exclusive), I left a note on the car and restrained myself from writing "You'll be mighty sorry."

In any case, I met up with this girl last week when she was here for prospie day. This is a day all the Ras, RHs, tour guide leaders, and all manner of University-affiliated fanatics dream about throughout the year: the day they get to influence someone's decision to attend this school, whether it be to confirm that they are indeed fit material for this school, or whether it is to make them feel like an outsider.

(Getting in off the wait-list here, I never got the chance to prospie. Which I wouldn't have done anyhow. Adventure is my middle name.)

I remember first year we got stuck with some prospies. I say stuck because the RAs on each floor had to make the rounds begging students to house these prospective people for a night. I remember that the two girls we had were blond, and that's it. I have no idea if they came to this school, if they were tall or short, had big or small ears, or if they had little button noses. They came and they left, life went on, we never hosted prospective students again.

Perhaps to assuage some latent guilt I felt about not being more hands on with these blond girls, I went out to eat with this young lady and two other prospective students she had with her. And as I sat across the table from them eating my grilled portabella mushrooms with them munching on some garlic bread, I decided that I, Adrianna Klara Gyorfi, would try to impart some invaluable insight to these young people ready to set out on their own, something that would begin an informative and critical part of their life. And when I announced this to them, and they turned their bright eyes upon me, eager to soak up each piece of wisdom I was willing to impart (at least, I'd like to think they were looking at me because they were interested. Not because the portabella mushroom was stuck to my nose), the only thing that came to my mind was that there was only 5 mere years separating me from these three people across the table from me, but man. Are those 5 years ever critical.

And I had no idea what to say. Not that I would say anything, I guess, now that I think about it. It was fun coming here without prospie-ing, without knowing what to expect. That was just my style, I suppose I'll let the prospies develop their own.

(I almost went on an end of college reflection post, but not yet. Not today.)

A Nagging Thought

I was always in denial about being reluctant to accepting change. In fact, I think I went out of my way to assert to people how open I was to change: on several occasions I said that instead of ordering a salad, I would take their recommendation and get the soup, and I was a vegetarian for AN ENTIRE MONTH, everyone. If those are not examples of someone who embraces change, then I don't know what is.

However, I always knew in the back of my mind that the whole thing was an act. A farce. There were examples abundant successfully stripping me of my facade: my unwillingness to wash certain articles of clothing, to change my glasses, to get a cell phone with a camera, or to pick out the three day old piece of apple wedged in between my back molars, for instance. A recent trip to the grocery store solidified the ugly truth.

Our over-priced grocery store, the Coop, was recently replaced with another overpriced grocery store: Treasure Island. I have no shame in admitting that I went at 8 AM the first day it opened to check it out. Lots of people I know camp out in front of shoe stores to be the first people to get dunks or high-tops or whathaveyou. I would do the same with grocery stores.

The store has the same decor as the old one, due to the rushed turnover period, which still took a painfully long time. This was a time with my section of the fridge was embarrassingly unstocked. I was reminded of rationing during WWII. It has the same prices, basically the same articles of food, and many of the same people.

One thing that did change was the location of foods. While the font, size, and color remain the same above each aisle, nothing is where it was originally. The pasta is a full 3 aisles away from where I am used to seeing it, the spices are 2 aisles to the right of where they should be, and the baking stuff is...I can't even recall. Not where it's supposed to be, though.

And I can't even begin on the produce.

This situation led me to become very disgruntled and impatient while shopping, while desperately having to go to the bathroom. So I wandered down the aisles doing the I-am-nearly-incapacitated-with-my-desire-to-use-the-loo walk, trying to find where the thick spaghetti strands were. Not with the Cecco pasta in aisle one, nor with the Barilla in aisle three, and since I was by now aware that different pastas were spread out in different parts of the store, that thick pasta could be anywhere. With the frozen food. With the beef. With the dried fruit. Wherever the fancy so struck the stocker, because it was not with the other pastas.

Treasure Island's catch phrase is "The most European grocery store." Such a hoity-toity claim is completely unnecessary at this point in the game, as it is the only grocery store in the area, and I would go to it even if it claimed it catered to extraterrestrial beings. Or if it said it was smelliest store around. I have no choice. I feel like I can control the interior organization of it, though. From now on, every time I go shopping there, I will move one food group to where it was in the Coop. After all, in Europe they're keeping all those old ruins sticking around that are everywhere. Like them, I'm reluctant to change some things.