As of Saturday, I am a St. Paul resident. And that, dear reader, is the last piece of information that I've processed since.
The flurry of activity, the bombardment of information, the diverse palette of emotions, and the generally hectic air that naturally accompanies any change of address have been a marked change from my painfully lengthy between-semesters chasm.
Since my current mental state allows me to focus on little beyond eating, sleeping and my move to the Cities, and since 600 words on meal plans or loft beds would be ridiculously dull, allow me to elaborate on the onslaught of change this past week has brought me.
Saturday began with last-minute packing, and was promptly followed by this school year's third attempt to fit my entire existence in the back of my parents' 4-Runner, a task that, despite practice, I haven't acquired the skill to accomplish.
Mom, Jake and I set out for the capital city mid-morning, stopping for nothing short of the finest on-route cuisine: Mountain Dew, cappuccino, and two-for-one gas station donuts.
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After four hours, we ended our jumbled navigation of the elder Twin City's streets at Hamline University, the site of this semester's post-secondary education. I checked in, got a horrifyingly unattractive ID photo snapped and was handed the golden key to my new big city existence.
We then spent several hours cramming a 4-Runner full of books, bedding, baubles and belongings into a dorm room with furniture already stacked to ceiling. Good thing I cut myself off at 10 pairs of shoes.
After some creative maneuvering, we found that everything fits...except me.
Being barely more than five feet tall, and having been teased about it since I stopped growing somewhere during middle school, I never thought my height would inhibit me from fitting wherever I might need to fit. Wrong.
In order to get to my closet, I have to hunch underneath my lofted bed; if I want access to my dresser, I've got to get on my hands and knees beneath my roommate's also-lofted bed.
Good thing the five pairs of shoes I left home were heels.
Once Mom and Jake left, I was invited to a floormate's room, where I was given the verbal lowdown on everything Hamline.
I feel that requires repetition: everything.
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Within a matter of two hours, I knew who to avoid, who to seek out, what to do on weekends, which cliques I'd be accepted in, what classes not to enroll in and the life histories of everyone in my building.
Once more: everything.
The nuttiest part wasn't even that I'd barely been in St. Paul long enough to breathe in the city air: it was the terminology used to describe everything I hadn't been around long enough to encounter.
What's a hipster? (I've already been labeled one.) How do you feel if you're "sketched out?" (Does it have to do with charcoal pencils and contour lines?) Does SA stand for something I should be aware of? (I figured this one out myself -- it's Super America.) Why did no one tell me I needed to take language courses in City Slicker before I transferred?!
The chaos hasn't let down since. Three days of orientation mashed into seven hours, transfer credit meetings and red tape with the Student Accounts Office, bus schedules, new networking systems, 17 gazillion names and locations to remember and reminding everyone back home how much I miss them has kept me bustling.
I haven't been able to mentally absorb anything before Saturday, beyond a distinct feeling that life as I knew it has taken a turn toward the drastically different. I guess this is the crazy/scary/exhilarating feeling you're supposed to get when you go away to college -- the one I didn't get when I was still hanging out in my backyard, aka Moorhead. It's time for one serious game of catch up for this relocated Laker.
