When as freshmen we arrive to college it’s normal to feel dwarfed by a new place, especially since we most likely came straight from our family homes. At Colegio, visiting the different buildings for your classes opens doors to many “prepada” possibilities. It’s totally common to spend an hour searching for a classroom in Stefani, when the class really is all the way at the Business Administration building, for example. Rest assured that no matter how much time passes, the memory of other students’ faces in that wrong class you stepped into will be seared into your mind. Up until the end of my first year I still checked my phone every now and then in a little campus map so as to avoid these mishaps. Rookie mistakes like these are almost too common and laughable but, then again, the only thing that you can do apart from running like crazy, is to laugh at your mistakes. I know I did. Even though I had this and the help of upperclassmen like my sorority sisters and dance team companions, I somehow managed to stay very true to the freshman personality of committing many “papelones.”
For me, it wasn’t so much as mistaking the building or getting into the wrong classroom. Barely a month had passed since “Prepa Week” that I committed my full-on “prepada.” I think it was a Friday and I was horribly late to my 7:30AM English class, so naturally I got in my car (I live, at least, a half-hour away from campus) and channeled my inner Evel Knievel “y me comí la carretera.” I took all the shortcuts I’ve learned thanks to my mom and in one curve I pressed on the brakes too late and smashed into the side of a white minivan; thankfully no one was harmed. I started trembling and, of course, burst into tears because the sound of metal grinding was insane. I felt like such a kid because it was the other person, the lady whose minivan I smashed into, and her sister who comforted me. The “I’m sorry’s” fell automatically from my mouth. When people say that time slows down in stressful and quick situations like these, it is truer than true. In that split second, I remember pressing the brakes and gritting my teeth; I even glanced down to where my phone was because the next thing on my mind was to call home.
Needless to say, I never got to the class because of all the waiting and because, eventually, I had to go to the police. While waiting for the police (and my mother) I sent a very descriptive email to my English professor, who I think sensed my scared freshman energy and in turn was surprisingly nice in his response. The same applied to my coach, whom I called and sent pictures to. I couldn’t bear to look at my little Toyota Echo because he looked so beat up. To this day, my mom still holds this over my head. But, like I said before, you’ve got to learn to laugh at your mistakes, and I have confidence that it will not happen again because, for starters, I no longer take that road. Now you know, if you’re late to a class, my dear freshmen, take it easy. “No se coman la carretera” so you don’t wind up shaking like a leaf after crashing your car. Also, and if you’re lucky enough to have one of those chill professors, do as they do and chill.