I’m only 5 years out of college, but it seems like a lifetime ago that I was hanging out down in Aggieland in my t-shirts and flip flops, enjoying leisurely afternoons at Coffee Station and unconsciously getting tons of exercise from trekking miles across campus from class to class.

Last night was as far from the college life I could get; I was hanging out in Waco because I was attending a book club meeting at 7:30, and so I went to Common Grounds to grade some papers while I waited.  So there I was, so mature with my name badge and whistle still around my neck, watching college rituals unfold before me as if I had never left.

Now, granted, Baylor is no A&M, and so these were merely shadows of the realities I remember, but the scene was familiar enough.  On the couch near me, the McPDA’s were deluding themselves with the idea that they could actually study while wrapped around each other.  They would stop frequently to nuzzle one another or engage in some sort of insignificant, flirtatious argument, and then he would return to his math problems (One-handed juggling of pencil, paper, and graphing calculator use was actually a new sight for me), and she would get back to her PolySci reading.

On my other side, a girl was alternatively talking on her cell phone and engaging in small talk with the people who walked past.  She never once even glanced at the organic chemistry papers she had so artfully arranged before her on the table.

All over the coffee shop, conversation buzzed.  I could hear passionate debates about theology, slightly flirtatious “studying,” and lots of social networking.  Lots of people camped out on the dirty, sagging furniture were sleeping, in mockery of the empty coffee cups still in their hands.

My favorite quintessential collegian was a very lean “emo” kind of guy who walked past toward the end of my stay.
He greeted the guy in the chair nearest me:  “Hey, man.”

My neighbor responded, “Hey, what’s up?”

Emo rolled his eyes.  “I’m so tired, man.  All stressed out…I’ve got so much homework to do.”  At that, my neighbor nodded knowingly and hummed in sympathy.  Emo moved on to the front of the store.

About thirty minutes later, I happened to notice the same guy as I was walking toward the door.  He was stretched out on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table, iPod buds in his ears.  He was just sitting there, staring into space, nodding faintly along with his music, with no books or papers in sight.  Ah, yes, the busy and stressed life of poor Emo.

And, yet, here I am, still at the coffee shop, still watching, still narrating, and, yes, judging in my own head as I sit quietly pretending to work.  I guess more things have stayed the same than I even realized.