MAYCOTTE: College, like fine wine, gets better with age

So there we were on the wine tour, two-and-a-half cases of wine in, when I decided that it might be a good idea to wrestle Jerry, our resident heavyweight two-time All-American wrestler.

Why?

I’m not entirely certain. I guess I figured it would be a pleasant Tuesday afternoon activity. I didn’t want to actually fight. It’s not like he kicked sand in my face. It’s just, you know, guys like to wrestle. Because we’re guys. It’s a scientific fact.

So I gave my wine glass to someone – or maybe I just dropped it on the ground, I don’t really know (most of senior year was quite blurry).

I approached Jerry and, with as much testosterone as I could muster, said, “Let’s go.”

Before I knew it, I was on my back with a bleeding lip, a skinned elbow, a bruised ego and, most importantly, no idea how I got there.

Life Lesson No. 3,476: Never wrestle an All-American wrestler.

Two weeks after WrestleGate, I got pretty much that exact same feeling of not knowing what the heck just happened, when I graduated from Cornell.

See, up until about four months ago, I was a spry, happy-go-lucky undergrad. I was in college. I was carefree. I was in a state of perpetual inebriation. I never had a class before 11 a.m. I never had a class on Friday. Homework was optional. Hell, classes were optional. My weekends were longer than my weeks. There was never such a thing as a bad idea. Woo! College!

Then came an otherwise unremarkable day in late May.

Commencement is weird. You are (or should be) in the throes of what feels like a terminal hangover; thousands of people surround you, and you’re running from place to place in a black robe like some nightmarish Pamplona. Then some guy in a red cape and a funny hat with a feather gives you a piece of paper, you move the tangle of strings on the top of your head so that it pokes you in the left eye instead of the right, and poof! Mazel Tov! You are no longer an undergrad!

Woo! College is over, and it’s either on to work or more school.

So I forewent gainful employment and chose Woo! Lawyer School!

Much to my horror, this somehow makes me a grad student; actually, it makes me more than that. According to my student visa, I am now a doctoral student. Doctoral Student. Wow.

If you ask me, this is a lot of pressure. To wit: When I was looking at apartments, the leasing agent was very proud that the kitchen had a self-cleaning oven. I tried to muster enough enthusiasm about this amenity to match hers, but mostly I was flummoxed. I mean, I can barely make myself a quesadilla. I don’t even know how to turn the oven on. And now I’m a doctoral student? Awesome.

This was underscored by her next statement, when she told me that they didn’t lease to undergrads. It was a great apartment, and, not wanting to lose it, I came this close to pitching a hissy. And then I remembered, “Hey! I’m not an undergrad anymore!” Nevertheless, having recently been one, I was downright insulted.

Undergrads are people, too! They are exactly like the rest of us — just younger, thinner and with waaay less tolerance for alcohol. Sure, they think Jager bombs are always the right call, and that whoever pukes the most wins and that credit cards are free money. In the end, though, all they are is 10 years, five years or one year younger. Hell, I was one not quite four months ago. And apartment buildings won’t rent to undergrads?

Inconceivable! Why, if I was an actual lawyer instead of being only 1/36 of the way through my training, I bet I could find something quasi-illegal there. Or make something illegal up. But I’m not a lawyer . . . yet.

And that’s what got me thinking: Maybe it’s time to move on. Was it really a good thing that your housemate’s room always smelled of stir-fry and Mountain Dew? Beirut was fun, but I’m only kind of going to miss a kitchen floor so sticky that you literally stepped out of your loafers. Beer and pizza diets are, frankly, a bad idea. And getting up past noon is not really acceptable behavior. Especially when you have permanent marker on your face.

Oh, well. I guess I’m a grown-up now, and that means that I have to be classy. It’s time to start making some changes, so let’s start with the basics.

From now on, the bins in my kitchen will not harbor only beer cans. Henceforth, they shall harbor wine coolers, wine boxes and, if we can afford it, actual wine bottles.

You know what? Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

Carlos Maycotte,a first-year student in the School of Law, is a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press. He can be reached at carlosmaycotte@gmail.com.