You can't eat anywhere because the Davis Center is packed and there are no tables left at The Marché. You try to walk to your next class but the sidewalk is blocked by someone walking backwards, screaming at the swarm of nervous moms and anxious dads following them. And somewhere in between them is an embarrassed 17-year-old prying for the light at the end of the tunnel.

It's Admitted Student's Day.

For some reason, coincidentally, Admitted Student's day is ALWAYS absolutely beautiful. That's funny because for the last six months I have seen neither the sun nor the ground, my Uggs have been soaked (and stolen!), every pair of jeans I have worn has salt stains, my lips chapped, jaws clenched and face frozen from the chilling wind. But it's all OK. Why? Because them tricksters deciding when Admitted Students' Day happens are all somewhere in Waterman making suckers of the incoming class. We all fell for it.

They have no idea what they're in for.