There is nothing like a spell of clement weather to bring out the uncompromising Brit within. Every day I wake up with Al (as in Roker) and depend on his soothing voice to dictate my choice of attire and more importantly, my mood. But when Al informed me that the East Coast had altogether skipped spring and jumped straight into summer, I almost had a panic attack. What about the transitional month? What about blooming flowers that emerge from heretofore budded trees? What about spring jackets? Instead, the last couple of weeks have seen a sudden eruption of foul-smelling trees and nary a breeze in sight. All of a sudden, I found myself scrambling for sun-block and sandals, with my winter coat still perched on my coat rack.
But, amidst all this meteorological-induced confusion, a profound realization struck me on the head like a club to an objectionable Neanderthal: Fling was almost upon us. My previous irritations were now welcome as I remembered that all these little summery details were announcing the coming of the Penn classic: Fling. And, admittedly, it got me a little jittery.
You see, I stopped getting excited after freshman year Fling. Having listened to upperclassmen who persuaded me that Fling is simply the best ever, expectations were incredibly high, but never met. Rain ruined the Franklin field extravaganza and my best friend’s affinity for jungle juice landed us a cozy spot in a vomitous corner of HUP. When sophomore fling rolled around, I was jaded by underwhelming past experiences. I just didn’t care.
Thankfully, this year finally brings with it something different, because being a junior during Fling is an altogether different can of worms. It is somewhat bittersweet. You are no longer a naive freshman for whom Fling is one giant pile of surprises. Nor are you a jaded sophomore. Instead, you are surrounded by senior friends who you know will be fleeing the nest soon. And you are also faced with the awkward realization that you’ve reached the end of your third year and there is only one more year left till reality comes drizzling down. There is, quite simply, an urgent impetus to have fun.
For me, this urgency is tenfold, because this year I am attempting to embrace this weekend of fun and make up for the last two years of apathy. I am ready to actually enjoy Fling.
So instead of complaining about the sweat, my dysfunctional A/C unit and the pungent smell of fertilizer and Pine Street trees; I am going to skip merrily down Locust, impatiently counting the hours until my fling jollity will commence.
