Seven Dumb Things I Did and Didn't Do Freshman Year of College

My niece has begun her freshman year of college, so every few days I scan her Facebook page for recent news. Finally the first photograph is posted. She's standing arm in arm with six new girlfriends, excited, happy, hopeful. It's titled, with supersized conviction, “WE ARE...”

That was me, I think to myself. And then, before I know it, I'm Monday morning quarterbacking my own freshman year 32 years ago.

Hindsight is like that. It thumps you on the head after you've messed up and can't do anything about it—except, of course, to try to not repeat the same mistakes and, if possible, to pass it on. Like a road, experience begs to be shared.

And so, what follows below is for all college freshmen. They'll know whether they can apply it to their lives, now that they're traveling the same road I did.

After all, WE ARE...each on our own individual journeys, with our own lessons to learn.

1. I gave a part of myself away for a friend. She was already in a sorority, so I pledged hers instead of the one I wanted. I was afraid if I didn't our relationship would suffer. And it might have, but a true friend wants me to do what's best for me.

Fortunately, it was and is a great sorority. My favorite actress is even a sister, as is an amazing U.S. First Lady. But still I wonder what might have been had I followed my heart, not fear.

2. I didn't have the courage to be honest. I agreed to a date with a guy I didn't want to go out with and then phoned him to cancel it. Worse, because our conversation was growing long, I began unscrewing the mouthpiece on the receiver to create interference on the line. Then I hung up, hoping he'd assume I had telephone issues, instead of a wussy personality. No surprise, he never called back.

3. I ate to ease boredom or tension, even when I wasn't hungry—or skipped meals altogether--ignoring my body's innate rhythm. Eventually it became a habit, and by the time I graduated I'd forgotten how to eat naturally and healthfully. It was years before I finally learned to trust and follow my instinct again.

4. For fun I tried smoking, but got hooked. I quit 10 years later when I got asthma. I was luckier than my father; he died of emphysema.

5. I didn't keep in touch with my old friends and eventually lost contact completely. Thanks to Facebook, I've begun renewing some of those friendships. But I've missed out on sharing so many weddings, births and more, which I wish I hadn't.

6. I parroted other people's ideas instead of forming my own. I even skipped classes, as well as the assigned books, and memorized Cliff Notes. If it hadn't been for a professor early in my sophomore year, I might have continued on that path. But she didn't want her students to repeat by rote what others thought; she wanted to know what we thought. She cared about our opinions, what we actually believed, and it changed me forever. It taught me the importance and value of questioning and challenging, forming my own ideas. Of staying teachable--even by those I don't particularly like--but also of making my own conclusions.  Ultimately, adopting another person's concepts without question reflects a lack of self-respect.

7. I judged a stranger's character by his (future) profession--and didn't choose a public place to meet for a first date. He came to my dorm after dark; we walked to a quiet spot on campus, sat down on the grass and began talking. One thing led to another and we were kissing. Before I knew it, I was sprawled out flat with him on top of me. No guy had ever moved that quickly before; I knew something was wrong. I told him I wasn't comfortable, and told him again, but he wouldn't listen. Finally I threatened to scream if he didn't get off me--which he did, thank God, and I never saw him again. But here's a scary thought: He was a medical student, studying to be an Ob/Gyn. Or so he said.

Lies I Tell

Sometimes, writing a personal essay can be like trying to make a pecan pie and ending up with fried chicken. I don't get what I want, but what I need.

I called a friend yesterday, intending to do some research on self-reliance. We both come from a long line of independent-minded southerners, and I wanted to get her take on things. But in the middle of the conversation, I caught her in a lie that she had been telling for years without realizing. Although it wasn't that important in the larger scheme of things, it struck a cord in me. And after I hung up the phone, I found myself pointing a disapproving finger at her.

Why would she tell herself and others such a lie for so long? How could she be in such denial? I spent a while fuming and ruminating and wasting perfectly good writing time, until it eventually dawned on me that if I was this aggravated with somebody else's lie-telling, I probably needed to look at myself.

I didn't particularly like the idea, but I knew I had to consider the possibility that maybe I was spotting in her what I had not come to terms with in myself. Had I ever told myself lies I was unaware of? After some resistance, a thought eventually came crawling to the surface of my conscience. It was a lie I'd been telling about another friend of mine.

And it was then I knew that this particular essay was not going to be about self-reliance anymore.

I had never honestly admitted that this old friend and I were not really compatible. In all of the years I had known her, I had enjoyed hearing her stories about the people she knew, the parties she attended and the trips she took. At heart, I am a homebody. My days are spent in front of a computer and my idea of a party is a few close friends around a dinner table. It was fun living vicariously through her and her exciting life.

But after a while, I began to come away from our get-togethers with an empty sort of feeling. I longed for a deeper, more intimate friendship, yet ours seemed to hover forever at the surface. When I would share personal things about myself, I noticed she would not reciprocate, and sometimes it made me feel as if there was something wrong with me--as if I was wearing only my underwear in public.

But what had really gnawed at me--and I had chosen to ignore--was that I had become the only one who initiated our getting together anymore. If I didn't call her, I didn't hear from her.

Until this moment I had denied the significance of this--and it's logical meaning: That maybe my friend had also noticed we had very little in common. It was as if we had both silently agreed to ignore and not mention how different we were.

When I would not hear from her for six months or more, I would tell myself, She's just busy. Or traveling. Or sick. I wasn't ready to face the possibility that maybe our friendship had run its course.

Now that I was facing it, I couldn't exactly say she was doing something hurtful. She had every right not to call me if she didn't want to. And besides, by my always calling her, I had enabled her to not have to do the initiating.

She also had every right not to share her intimate feelings. She was just being true to herself--as I was being true to myself. That's the best that any of us can do for one another.

Luckily I am blessed with other friends with whom I am probably more compatible. With them I don't feel like my underwear is showing, because theirs is showing, too. So I don't have to tell lies to myself to enable me to keep their friendships.

If I do hear from my old friend, I'll be glad to see her again. But if I don't, I'll know it means we're moving on.

To new friends and new lessons. And that's good, too.

QUESTION: Are you telling lies to yourself and, if so, what are they and why?

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Confessions of a Chameleon

"I have tickets to the symphony. Would you like to go?" she asked me after our first lunch together.

We were standing on the sidewalk outside of a tearoom and I couldn't think of what to say, because I really didn't want to go. I like symphony music, but not watching it performed. So I lied and said, "I'd love to."

"This is great," she said, "because my husband doesn't like to go and neither do many of my girlfriends, and I always get tickets for the season--and now I have a friend who can go with me."

"Oh…great," I said, thinking, What on earth have I done?

What I had done is precisely what I had promised myself I would not do anymore: change my own colors to match those of others.

Somewhere in my mid 40s, I had finally mustered the courage to start showing the real me. Now I did things like going to lunch with a girlfriend without a stitch of makeup on and fessing up to my secret wishes and fears and shortcomings.

If you knew me before, you would understand what a feat this has been, because presenting a smudge-free image was fundamental to me.

And lately, things had been going well enough that being the genuine me seemed almost easy.

But it's funny how anything is easy when there is nothing to lose and no pain involved. Toss a shiny new person into the picture--and suddenly a new friendship was at risk--and I reached for a pretense like an addict for a fix.

It isn't her real name, but I'll call her Katherine, and I had recently met her at a benefit luncheon. She was friendly, elegant and cultured, but what had really impressed me was how thoughtful and empathetic she seemed. Yet still I was afraid to be truthful with her.

A week or so later, as I sat through the performance, I hoped that in the future she would find someone else to go to the symphony with her, and that we could stick to lunches and dinners together.

But as is often the case when life attempts to teach me a lesson--and that lesson keeps repeating until I learn it--Katherine called a month later and again asked me to the symphony.

And again I said yes.

That night, I couldn't stop thinking about what I had done. I was nearly 50 and yet I still didn't have the fiber to tell the truth about myself. But if I didn't let go of this need to leap behind a mask every time I got scared, I would never be fully happy, because I would never be fully me.

I knew I had to tell Katherine the truth, and maybe in person would have been better, but all I could manage was the telephone. So I scribbled down a list of everything I wanted to say. Before our friendship went any further, I needed to be totally frank.

I needed her to know that, as culturally uncouth as it maybe was, I didn't like going to the symphony, ballet, theater, opera or art gallery openings. It wasn't that I had anything against these things; I just wasn't interested in attending them.

So I held my breath, dialed her number and when she answered the phone I told her.

And then Katherine did what I didn't expect: She laughed. She said she was glad I told her the truth, because a friend of hers who loved the symphony had come into town, but Katherine wasn't able to invite her because I had already agreed to go. Now Katherine could take her friend, so everyone would be happy.

About a year or so after that, when Katherine and I were at lunch one day, she said she wanted to order cake for dessert, but only if I would eat half. And although I didn't want any cake--not even a bite--and I started to tell her that, I didn't after all. I was too afraid again.

I confessed this to her recently. It was almost more difficult than it was before, and more humbling, knowing that I am still so afraid to be myself with her. But at least I told her, and that's progress.

I suppose being me will take some time.

QUESTION: Are you fully honest with your friends about who you are and what you do and do not enjoy?

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