Freezing to death in the name of getting to class on time.
FREEZING TO DEATH IN THE NAME OF GETTING TO CLASS ON TIME.
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Remember those mornings? The kind where your alarm screamed, but your bed felt like the only safe haven from the sub-zero reality outside. You’d peek through the blinds, confirm the brutal frost, and sigh, knowing full well what lay ahead. That walk across campus wasn't just a commute; it was an expedition.
We’ve all been there, layered up like Michelin Men, faces stinging, ears numb despite the hat, hands shoved deep into pockets, refusing to admit defeat to the elements. Every gust of wind felt like a personal attack. You’d see fellow students, hunched and shuffling, a shared, silent understanding passing between you. No words needed. Just that nod, that mutual acknowledgment of the sacrifice.
It wasn’t just about making it to class; it was about the unspoken expectation, the inherent drive that pushes you to endure. Missing a lecture felt like a cardinal sin, regardless of the weather. You’d arrive, a human icicle, ready to thaw out only after the professor had already launched into complex theories. Your fingers, stiff and clumsy, would struggle with note-taking, but you were there. You made it.
This wasn't just a cold walk; it was a badge of honor, a small, absurd ritual that bonded us. It’s a moment you try to explain to others, but they just don't quite get it. "Why not just skip?" they'd ask. And you’d just smile, because you knew. You truly knew. Only at an Ivy.
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