Closed for lonelycollegegirl
I followed the steps down into the basement. I'd never been in this portion of McDonald building before despite having taken two classes here already. But then I'd never needed to speak to a graduate student in the math department before, either.
My first semester had gone well. I'd managed a 3.7 GPA, which seemed quite respectable for my first. This spring semester, however, I had started on laying the groundwork for my eventual major and realized I needed extra help if I wanted to keep pace. I looked to focus on economics, but the advanced sections of that required more than passing familiarity with calculus. My small town high school version of the subject had only covered about the first half of what this semester's Calculus 301 class did, so I didn't dare trust that I could muddle through the rest.
I tried the office hours of my professor, but he sensed that I needed more one-on-one instruction than he had time for He suggested I contact one of his graduate students about doing some weekly tutoring sessions. Hence I was now in search of the grad student offices for my first meeting.
I really needed the academic side of things to go well. I was still struggling a bit with the rest of college life. The fall semester I'd been able to rely on football as a crutch. All the practices and games gave me plenty to do besides study. But in the off-season, there wasn't much besides working out at the gym.
Socially, I was finding it harder to find a niche. While not known for being a "party school", the University had a lot of them. I'd attended a few, but didn't have much fun.* Most seemed to revolve around copious amounts of alcohol, loud music, and sex.
I didn't, as some presupposed, have some moral objections to such things. Might have been easier if I did; at least I could have hung out with the decent-sized contingent of Christian conservatives on campus. I tried attending a couple of their events, but I didn't fit in there, either. I believe, but my family always taught me that piety is a personal matter, not something you shove down the throats of everyone you meet.
No, my issue was the lack of restraint. I'd been taught all my life the importance of control and discipline.* As a child, this was mostly about obedience. But as I'd matured, my parents had transitioned these lessons into being guidelines for adulthood. A good man was one with discipline. He was not a man without temptation, but rather one who recognized his weaknesses and guarded against them.
So I didn't mind the drinking per se. But these parties weren't about having a couple beers,but rather a couple dozen.* Drunkenness meant giving up your self-control, which didn't appeal to me. I got a nice enough buzz from drinking a couple beers, so I didn't see the point in drinking myself to the point where you lost all self-control and became a stumbling drunk who vomited on someone's couch before passing out and pissing your pants.
Even having just a couple beers sucked, because these parties always had the cheapest swill you could find. "Life is too short for cheap beer," Dad always says.
The sex part was another such hitch with me. When I'd gotten the talk on the birds and the bees, it was also accompanied by a lecture on not letting lust get the better of me.* "Being young is no excuse for being foolish, sweetheart," Mom said. "Don't think that feeling magically disappears one day. Do you think just because I'm married with four kids that I wouldn't get weak in the knees if that Brad Pitt came calling?* Of course I would. Same as your father taking a second look when some pretty young thing in a short skirt walks by. These feelings are natural. They're a part of you. So that means you have learn to control them. So why wait till you're 25 to learn self-restraint?"
I'd taken those words to heart. I refused to let myself be driven by hormones. Fortunately, there wasn't too much sex in my high school. Most kids lacked for isolated horizontal surfaces to do the deed, so heavy foreplay was the extent of most of my friends.
At the University, however, that certainly wasn't the case. The only thing you needed to get a private bedroom was to kick out your roommate. Consequently, these parties tended to be little more than meat markets. I certainly felt like little more than a slab of beef when I walked through.
Not that I wasn't tempted. Declining the advances of a cute, tipsy co-ed as brushed up against me and invited me back to her place was difficult, particularly when it felt like I had a hot iron rod stuffed down my pants. But I didn't want to just hook up with whatever drunk, horny chick I could find.
Unfortunately, I wasn't having much success in the sober world. Having not dated anything that moved in high school, I tended to be awkward in my attempts to flirt with college girls. I was getting better, but my efforts to ease into it were slow-going.
Therefore, I really needed this tutor thing to work. I needed at least one part of my life to actually work.
I followed the steps down into the basement. I'd never been in this portion of McDonald building before despite having taken two classes here already. But then I'd never needed to speak to a graduate student in the math department before, either.
My first semester had gone well. I'd managed a 3.7 GPA, which seemed quite respectable for my first. This spring semester, however, I had started on laying the groundwork for my eventual major and realized I needed extra help if I wanted to keep pace. I looked to focus on economics, but the advanced sections of that required more than passing familiarity with calculus. My small town high school version of the subject had only covered about the first half of what this semester's Calculus 301 class did, so I didn't dare trust that I could muddle through the rest.
I tried the office hours of my professor, but he sensed that I needed more one-on-one instruction than he had time for He suggested I contact one of his graduate students about doing some weekly tutoring sessions. Hence I was now in search of the grad student offices for my first meeting.
I really needed the academic side of things to go well. I was still struggling a bit with the rest of college life. The fall semester I'd been able to rely on football as a crutch. All the practices and games gave me plenty to do besides study. But in the off-season, there wasn't much besides working out at the gym.
Socially, I was finding it harder to find a niche. While not known for being a "party school", the University had a lot of them. I'd attended a few, but didn't have much fun.* Most seemed to revolve around copious amounts of alcohol, loud music, and sex.
I didn't, as some presupposed, have some moral objections to such things. Might have been easier if I did; at least I could have hung out with the decent-sized contingent of Christian conservatives on campus. I tried attending a couple of their events, but I didn't fit in there, either. I believe, but my family always taught me that piety is a personal matter, not something you shove down the throats of everyone you meet.
No, my issue was the lack of restraint. I'd been taught all my life the importance of control and discipline.* As a child, this was mostly about obedience. But as I'd matured, my parents had transitioned these lessons into being guidelines for adulthood. A good man was one with discipline. He was not a man without temptation, but rather one who recognized his weaknesses and guarded against them.
So I didn't mind the drinking per se. But these parties weren't about having a couple beers,but rather a couple dozen.* Drunkenness meant giving up your self-control, which didn't appeal to me. I got a nice enough buzz from drinking a couple beers, so I didn't see the point in drinking myself to the point where you lost all self-control and became a stumbling drunk who vomited on someone's couch before passing out and pissing your pants.
Even having just a couple beers sucked, because these parties always had the cheapest swill you could find. "Life is too short for cheap beer," Dad always says.
The sex part was another such hitch with me. When I'd gotten the talk on the birds and the bees, it was also accompanied by a lecture on not letting lust get the better of me.* "Being young is no excuse for being foolish, sweetheart," Mom said. "Don't think that feeling magically disappears one day. Do you think just because I'm married with four kids that I wouldn't get weak in the knees if that Brad Pitt came calling?* Of course I would. Same as your father taking a second look when some pretty young thing in a short skirt walks by. These feelings are natural. They're a part of you. So that means you have learn to control them. So why wait till you're 25 to learn self-restraint?"
I'd taken those words to heart. I refused to let myself be driven by hormones. Fortunately, there wasn't too much sex in my high school. Most kids lacked for isolated horizontal surfaces to do the deed, so heavy foreplay was the extent of most of my friends.
At the University, however, that certainly wasn't the case. The only thing you needed to get a private bedroom was to kick out your roommate. Consequently, these parties tended to be little more than meat markets. I certainly felt like little more than a slab of beef when I walked through.
Not that I wasn't tempted. Declining the advances of a cute, tipsy co-ed as brushed up against me and invited me back to her place was difficult, particularly when it felt like I had a hot iron rod stuffed down my pants. But I didn't want to just hook up with whatever drunk, horny chick I could find.
Unfortunately, I wasn't having much success in the sober world. Having not dated anything that moved in high school, I tended to be awkward in my attempts to flirt with college girls. I was getting better, but my efforts to ease into it were slow-going.
Therefore, I really needed this tutor thing to work. I needed at least one part of my life to actually work.
