In an effort to make flying a little more pleasant this spring break, I decide to pack light. I threw a few sweaters, some jeans and a couple pairs of sneakers in a bag and headed to good ol’ PHL International. I was confused, however, to step off the plane into 85-degree weather. Had I accidentally hopped on the Penn express to Pulco? The distinct lack of tequila and illicit behavior indicated otherwise.
While I was delighted by the lovely weather, I realized that my sweaters weren’t going to cut it this week. So I ransacked my closet in the hopes of finding something decidedly less wooly. What I found was piles and piles and piles of t-shirts. After averaging one week at home every few months since my freshman fall, I had successfully moved all of my stuff eastward. All of my stuff, that is, save for dozens of t-shirts. What struck me (aside from the sheer number of tees I had amassed) was that each one of these shirts commemorated something — some group I had once been a part of, some event I had once attended. High school student council and prom had given way for Greek powderpuff and Fling, but the sentiment remained the same.
Why did I have this many t-shirts? More importantly, why did I keep them long after they lost their relevancy? Well, just like the millions of pictures we take for the sole purpose of those precious Facebook albums that show the world we did something cool (and that we, by extension, are cool), we keep these t-shirts (the majority of which we will never wear) to prove that we were a part of something, that we were there.
For those of you looking for a more permanent display of “we were there”-ness, take the advice of Isaiah Zagar (see our feature, pg. 11). And if you’re in need of a place to show off your beloved cotton blend, try the four-square court (pg. 20). I, for one, am going to stop with the t-shirts and just enjoy the “there”. With Fling less than a month away, maybe you’ll do the same.