My 19 year old self

I had the rare opportunity to visit my Alma Mater this week, and spent an unsatisfying hour wandering the campus, looking for my 19 year old self. I was hoping to talk some sense into her.

At one point, I thought I might catch a glimpse of her writing an essay at the computer lab on the second floor of the MacKinnon Building, but when I got there, I discovered it's now just a lounge. There are no "computer labs" any more: they've been replaced by wifi hotspots and ethernet cables, since most students are required to have a laptop when they arrive at university.

I didn't get to see her in her first-year dorm room, either, because the door was locked, but I think I caught sight of her shadow as she wandered toward the common area one floor up and two units over. She wondered where her philandering boyfriend had gotten to, and was about to have her heart broken.

If I'd caught up with her, I'd have told her that heartbreak is temporary, the boy with the great hair was going to end up bald and across the country, and good riddance.

I would also have told her to pay closer attention to the letter she received from her Grandmother at the start of that first year. The grandmother had lived through the depression, and sent a reminder of what an awesome opportunity her firstborn granddaughter was getting, a reminder to make the most of it and to study hard.

I remember the drama, the boy-craziness and the faces but not the names of my housemates and classmates, but the classes? Well, I remember which ones I didn't go to. For example, the sole science class required for my liberal arts BA. It was Biology, Friday mornings at 8, all the way on the other side of the campus. I think I made it to class about six times, although I did pass, but not by much. If it was so easy for me to pass, why didn't I take more science?

Here's why: I was more interested in events like a bus trip to Toronto to sit on University Avenue in front of the US embassy, wearing my tie-dye, overalls, socks and sandals with hundreds of other students, shouting at George H.W. Bush, 'Hell, no, we won't go, we won't fight for Texaco!" (He wasn't there, by the way.)

As I walked the campus in the rain Friday, sipping on a high-priced latte, I wondered when the school handed over its food services to the brand names, and also how my life might be different if I'd studied something other than protest, bands and boys.

But I also marvelled at the luck of my life - there are precious few women on this planet who get the chance to squander such an opportunity and still have things work out so well.