Living at home during college wasn't my first choice. But I couldn't stomach the idea of taking out thousands of dollars in loans each semester, just for the privilege of residing on campus.
I'd chosen Concordia University in St. Paul for its diversity, small student body and quality professors. While I had carefully chosen which college to attend, I wasn't all that interested in living in the freshman dorm, waking up beside adrenaline-fueled 18-year-olds. After all, I started college when I was 21.
Renting an apartment with friends? I couldn't afford it, since my class schedule didn't allow for working more than 20 hours per week.
There were many plus sides to living at home with my parents. I didn't have to put up with campus gossip or drama. I'd hear about drunken ER visits or the Wi-Fi that was always breaking down and feel relieved to have been miles away. Nodding my head in sympathy, I listened as classmates moaned about the cafeteria food or how the coffee shop was never open on weekends. I shuddered at some of their stories of dorm life. Exhausting 3 a.m. fire drills, the smell of pot forever wafting through the hallways, the heat that didn't come on until late October.
Meanwhile, I'd be baking pies in my family's double oven. Or picking the last of the raspberries from our garden. On hot autumn days, I'd tan in the backyard of our Roseville home, glad to be away from the loud city. And I spent many a chilly Minnesota night cuddling with my cats. Or lighting candles and reading late into the evening. Saturday mornings meant waking up alone in my room, glad no one was there to see me stumble out of bed, hurrying for the coffeepot. It felt like the best of both worlds — learning all day before studying in my cozy room during evenings and weekends.
Of course, I didn't feel so lucky when I woke up to snow and had to shovel myself out of the driveway, driving 12 miles at a snail's pace and arriving late, halfway into my first class. My gas bills were no joke. And I didn't enjoy trying to start my 1995 Honda in the bitter cold of a January morning.
As class assignments piled up, I found myself lugging bags of books and papers, my laptop and lunch. There was a permanent ache in my right shoulder from where my book bag dug into the soft muscle. Some weeks, I spent more time rushing between classes or cranking out papers under the library's fluorescent lights, coming home only to flop into bed.
Then again, something about my commuter struggles felt right. I expected the tiring days. I expected the sleep deprivation. I was ready for the professors who felt like holidays were the best time for assigning extra projects. I didn't want my education handed to me; I wanted to work for it. I wanted to struggle through a hard class, celebrating the end of a long week with a glass of wine and an early bedtime. Getting a low grade on a paper motivated me to write better, think harder, ask more questions. I was willing to leave the house while it was still dark out and return long after dinnertime.
