But what about neglecting one assignment in favor of another? Or cleaning your room and editing your resume instead of finishing your required reading? In these instances, you’re doing something useful with your time—just not necessarily what you ought to be doing at that moment. This is the essence of what I call “productive procrastination” and, unfortunately, I’m a pro at it.

My struggle with productive procrastination has gotten much more difficult to manage since becoming an upperclassman. Because I’m involved in so many activities and have a more rigorous course load, I can always think of at least ten things I could be working on, in place of what I should be working on.

The fact that productive procrastination can sometimes be justified makes it quite the conundrum. First off, it’s exponentially better than unproductive procrastination (doing something useless). And in some situations, productive procrastination can actually be appropriate. For example, if you’re stuck on an assignment you could benefit from taking a break, working on something else, and returning to it with a fresh perspective.

That being said, one thing to keep in mind about productive procrastination is that, however you slice it, it’s still procrastination. So even though you may be able to reorganize your closet, map out your five-year career plan, or write a short story in the time you took off from your assignment, be warned: that whale paper will still be waiting for you. Only now, you’ll have even less time to finish it.

— Monique Hall ’14

As I sat in my favorite hometown restaurant over summer break, something felt different, but I couldn’t figure out what. I was in the town where I’ve lived for most of my life. I was surrounded by the four girls I was inseparable with all through high school. I was eating my favorite sandwich (a grilled tuna Caesar wrap) and yet something felt off. As we sat laughing and catching up on our past few months of college, a thought ran through my mind: “Take me back to Cornell!”

My first semester of college, I spent most of my time homesick. I would constantly compare my times here to the crazy adventures I had with my girlfriends back home, and thought that nothing in college could ever compare. Keeping in touch was my main priority; if it wasn’t text messages and phone calls, it was Facebook posts and video chats. Fall break and Thanksgiving were the highlights of my semester: a chance to see old friends and to go back to what I’ve been comfortable with for most of my life.

The problem was that I wasn’t living in the moment and embracing change. Cornell could provide so many amazing opportunities, but I wasn’t letting them happen.

Second semester, I decided it was time to try new things. I rushed a sorority, attended more on-campus events, and let myself get closer to my college friends. I started to enjoy myself so much that I wasn’t even thinking about home. People I’d known for only a few months became closer to me than friends I’d had for years. We were going through the same things, from stressful prelims to crazy frat parties. We spent all our time together, from meals to study sessions to trips to the mall. I was starting to mature, and my friends from college were growing up along with me.

So when I finally went home to see my high school friends last summer, something was missing: Cornell. They couldn’t relate when I talked about prelims, gorges, or late-night runs to the Louie's Lunch truck. I’m not saying friendships can’t withstand distance or survive big changes, and I love to look back on the memories I made with my high school friends. But the truth is that the last real conversation I had with them was that lunch last summer.

College has a way of pulling you away from the familiar and introducing you to things you never could have imagined. If you’re willing to leave your comfort zone and let it happen, college can truly be the best years of your life. It may have taken a year, but Ithaca is becoming my home—and my Cornell friends are becoming my family.

— Jillian Knowles ’15

After getting out of the shower, I found my phone lit up with a notification: 3 New Text Messages. I thought, I must be popular! But each text turned out to be essentially the same: “Can I get a ride to Wegmans?” Apparently word had gotten out that I was going grocery shopping.

This semester has been my first with a car—a silver Honda CRV that seats five. Naturally, my carless friends (and sometimes distant acquaintances) expect me to play chauffeur, driving them around for errands or late-night excursions to the Taco Bell on Route 13. And I’m usually happy to oblige, because I know how hard it can be to get around Ithaca without a car. If you’ve ever tried lugging a week’s worth of groceries on the bus, you know what I mean.

My car has given me flexibility. I’ve had the opportunity to venture off-campus and explore previously inaccessible parts of Ithaca. So far this fall I’ve been to the Ithaca Farmers Market and seen a play at the Hangar Theatre. For a fall break visit to Brooklyn and a Thanksgiving trip home to Maryland, I’ll be able to drive instead of taking the bus.

But as a rule, if my destination is less than thirty minutes away by foot, I walk. It’s tempting to cut my walk to class in half by parking at my fraternity house (which is conveniently close to the Arts Quad), but I don’t want to lose my Cornell calves—or, worse, regain the freshman fifteen. It just seems lazy to drive to Collegetown from my North Campus apartment—and though the trip downtown is about twice as far, I still often end up walking. After all, gas is expensive. And so my Honda usually stays parked in the driveway.

But I do need to go to Wegmans today—and so do my friends. And I sure could go for some Taco Bell right now . . .

— Daniel Tsoy ’13

At the beginning of fall semester I was eating dinner when one of my housemates walked in the door. “Hey, John, how’s it going?” I asked. A perfectly normal question—if his name were, in fact, John. But it’s not.

Last year I leased a Collegetown apartment with two fraternity brothers, but this year I rented a room in a five-person apartment and didn’t know who I’d be living with until I arrived. Introductions were made, and I did my best to remember the name that went with each face. Unfortunately, I always seem to forget it before I’m even done shaking hands.

I know there’s a simple solution: ask again. But this is where it gets complicated. How many times is it socially acceptable to ask? Forgetting once is one thing—but two, three, four times? It’s embarrassing for me, insulting to them. I’m currently trying out mnemonic devices as a potential solution, but in this case I’d failed to use one.

We’ve all had the dilemma: endure the embarrassment of asking again, or risk not knowing indefinitely. Some of us employ covert tactics; we ask a friend or steal a glance at the name on a homework assignment. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of trusting my memory and called my housemate by the wrong name. I was corrected, by Joe.

After that incident I remembered his name for good. And as for my other three housemates: I resolved to ask again to make sure I got them right.

Last names can wait.

— Daniel Tsoy ’13

It’s not just freshmen who are susceptible. I was two weeks into my seventh semester at Cornell when I came down with the same illness I always get when I’m away from Maryland for too long: homesickness. I missed watching basketball with my dad, cooking with my mom, talking hip-hop with my brother—even shopping with my sister. And of course, I missed our poodle.

It happened on a beautiful Friday afternoon—partly sunny with a light breeze. I had just finished class and was walking along the Slope to my apartment when I decided to sit down and enjoy the view. I was in a fine mood, but homesickness always seems to strike unexpectedly. Suddenly, a yearning overwhelmed me—for my hometown of Potomac, Maryland, and everything about it.

Then I got to thinking: I have a car, and if I leave now I can be home in time for dinner. Home cooking! Turkey burgers, maybe, or mushroom risotto. I’d return on Sunday, so I wouldn’t miss any classes. At that point I was standing, ready to call home. But then I snapped out of it.

I’m still not sure what triggered this particular bout of homesickness; perhaps it was something about that expansive view of Ithaca that made home seem so far away. But I think the reason I stayed in Ithaca that afternoon was because I realized something: the Slope is my home, too.

— Daniel Tsoy ’13

I walk into Urban Outfitters and am surrounded by clothes I would love to have in my wardrobe, from lace dresses to oversized cardigans to Jeffrey Campbell wedges. After shopping the sale rack for a while, I have a half-dozen items slung over my arm. Then it hits me: the $150 I’m about to spend was supposed to go toward food, books, and toiletries. I check my dwindling account balance and am left with two choices. Do I get my new outfit? Or buy groceries for the next month?

In high school, my parents were always there to buy my clothes (or veto unnecessary purchases). But once I got to college, they no longer had control over my spending habits—and they made it clear I was expected to contribute to my living expenses. I applied for a campus job at the Fine Arts Library, opened a bank account, and started to save and budget on my own. It hasn’t been easy; in the past year I have paid multiple overdraft fees and made countless calls home to ask, “Dad, can I borrow grocery money?”

Although I know I should be more responsible, as a shopaholic I’m constantly tempted to improve my wardrobe. My parents are not here to watch over me or question why I bought yet another pair of shoes. Without access to my bank account, they can’t even track where my money goes. It’s my responsibility to decide what is truly necessary (like groceries) and what can wait for later (sorry, Urban Outfitters).

A year into managing my finances, I have finally begun to learn what it takes to keep a paycheck in the bank for longer than a week. I have become a bargain shopper—and even when I find a great deal on the sale rack, I often walk away. Coupons have become my best friends; I’m constantly searching for discounts on websites like Retailmenot.com. I have learned to (reluctantly) turn down shopping trips with friends who often assure me that buying that one shirt won’t really hurt my bank balance.

And since I’m doing so well: Mom and Dad, I hope you don’t mind that this year’s Christmas list may be a little longer than usual.

— Jillian Knowles ’15

Choosing a major is one of the most important decisions in a college student’s life. Luckily, I knew that I wanted to major in human development before I even enrolled—and two years later, I couldn’t be happier with my decision. Choosing a minor, however, has proved to be more of a challenge.

Now, I know that a minor is far from mandatory, but it’s something I’ve always expected to do; concentrating in only one field did not jibe with my Renaissance woman aspirations. After learning that my college didn’t allow double-majoring, I figured that a minor was the next best thing. But the hard part has been choosing the subject. So far, I’ve seriously considered a half dozen minors, from design to art history to information science.

The “minor dance” always starts the same way: I hear about a subject that sounds interesting, research the requirements, pursue it, and then change my mind. Every time. There are so many great minors available that, if I could, I would dedicate an extra year of college to completing three of them.

The semester I spent studying communication is the closest I’ve come to sticking with a minor. Things were going pretty well—until the English department introduced my dream minor, creative writing. And because it has fewer requirements than communication, I can even pursue a second minor: film.

As of now, I’m pretty confident that this will be where my search ends. But who knows? Game design is beginning to look intriguing . . .

— Monique Hall ’14

North Campus is home to all Cornell freshman. All are required to live there; they eat most of their meals in the Robert Purcell Community Center and Appel Commons dining halls. Despite Cornell’s huge size, North Campus has an amazing way of making you feel like you go to a smaller school. But all good things must come to an end—before you know it, freshman year is over and the sophomore adventure begins.

 While on-campus housing is guaranteed for sophomores, many venture off campus, living in Collegetown apartments or—like me—joining a sorority or fraternity. (Some stay on North Campus by moving into program houses like Ujamaa or Risley, while others opt for the living-learning housing on West Campus.) But wherever you live, the beginning of sophomore year can be a shock. You walk out the door and don’t recognize anyone. You run to catch the bus only to remember that—while all freshmen have complimentary transit passes—your student ID no longer gets you a free ride.

Although I may sound cynical about life after the cocoon of freshman year, there are a lot of advantages to this newfound freedom. There are no resident advisers to monitor your actions. Not being on the meal plan makes it more likely you’ll try restaurants in Collegetown or even learn to cook for yourself. There are new people to meet—and the lack of a bus pass means there’s more chance to work off the freshman fifteen. The housing costs are lower; the parties are closer.

It hits you that this is truly college: the independence, the excitement, and the uncertainty (with a little bit of fear about how you’re a year closer to graduation). Just as North Campus eases you into college life, living off campus eases you into real life.

— Jillian Knowles ’15

In June I went to an exhibit in London that had human brains on display. When I saw them in their glass jars, I turned to my friend and said, “When I was little, my dad used to take us to see the brain collection at Cornell.” As I looked closer I saw that they were, in fact, from the Cornell Department of Psychology. I felt as if I were visiting some old friends.

When I was fourteen, my family moved from a small town north of Manhattan to the South of France. Since then we’ve been traveling all over the world. The one place we’ve always come back to is our house on Cayuga Lake, which we bought almost twenty years ago. Here we spend our days sailing, swimming, and taking advantage of all that Cornell has to offer.

I grew up spending weekends and summers with my Hotelie dad (Hakan Sokmensuer ’80), leading my sisters and me through the halls of the Statler, having us put our hand inside a cow at the Vet school open house, eating lunch at the Ivy Room, and passing footballs on Schoellkopf Field. I still remember clearly the day in 1997 that we went to see the pumpkin atop McGraw Tower. This is why, even though I never went to school here, I feel like Cornell is my home away from home. My parents say that I’m an insider on the outside.

Last year I visited my sister (Kamuran Sokmensuer ’12, also a Hotelie) and got to pretend to be a student. It felt strange blending in when for so long I felt like I stood out. I was now the right age and in the company of a current student. After a few days I started to see the campus in a new way. I felt as if I was a part of the student body and had been for years. Instead of peeking into the classrooms, I was now sitting in them.

Sometimes I wish I’d applied to Cornell—I’m currently studying journalism at the University of the Arts London—but other times I enjoy the fact that in some ways, the Hill is still full of secrets and closed doors. I look forward to the time when my own children and I spend summers on the lake, and I can show them the joys of Cornell.

— Harriet Sokmensuer

It’s amazing what a role embarrassment can play in your life. It can be a frustrating emotion, holding you back from things that you love—or need—to do. My embarrassment is preventing the latter. As a rising senior, I still haven’t taken the Cornell swim test.

It should be easy. Thousands before me have jumped into a pool at Helen Newman or Teagle, swum three laps, and satisfied this traditional graduation requirement during their first few days on campus. Why didn’t I do the same?

It’s not that I think I’ll drown, or that I can’t swim at all; I can keep myself afloat for a decent while, even if it means doing the doggy paddle. No, the real problem is my awareness of my subpar swimming skills—and the shame and embarrassment that come with it. I can’t help but picture myself struggling through the water while the other students glide past me, the test facilitators gradually losing their patience. It’s like running the mile in high school gym class all over again. Despite the serious consequence of being ineligible to graduate, thoughts like these are more than enough motivation to procrastinate.

I’ve had three years to contemplate this dilemma, and I’ve come to the obvious conclusion: I have to take the test this year. More important, though, it’s time for me to get over myself. I may be a mediocre swimmer, but so are lots of people. I have to accept the fact that everyone gets embarrassed and has to do things that make them uncomfortable. When I take the swim test this fall, I’m going to go slowly and get through it one way or another. If I struggle, then that’s just the way it goes.

It’s also helpful to put this whole ordeal into perspective. One way or another, it’ll all be over in a few minutes.

— Jennifer Pierre ’13