College is like a middle school boy/girl party.

When you’re a freshman, you’re one of the “cool kids.” You’re slow dancing in the center to "Boys Like Girls," getting your first kiss. Everyone’s watching, everyone knows who you are. You’re new and mysterious, with a stamina for going out that makes upperclassmen feel like grandparents. Expecting to feel invisible, you quickly realize you’re the center of attention. Showered with compliments, friend requests, and an overwhelming increase in Instagram likes, your self-esteem grows day by day.

Sophomore year, you’re still pretty cool. You’re obsessed with the freshmen, especially the new pledge class. At first they come in looking up to you, and you believe you have so much mature insight to offer these naïve little ones. You’ve had your time in the sun, so you let them take up the center of the boy/girl dance (bar, that is). Before you realize it, your little protégés are running circles around you. You become sidelined, second string, replaced by the newer model.

Junior year. The year where the constant “Are you going out tonight?” gets replaced with “What’s your major?”, and the only place you’re kicked out of at 2 a.m. closing time is the library. Now, you’re not even invited to the boy/girl party; you just see it via social media. After being sidelined sophomore year, you’re now pushed even further back. You’re watching, sitting in the high-rise stands in the middle school gym.

Your friend group jokes constantly about how old you are, how tired you are, how stressed out you are, how hungry you are (this humor is only understood by your friends; however, younger people look at you like you’re crazy).

Midway through fall semester of junior year, it hits you. You’ve become one of the elderly. The nights you skipped venturing downtown for the sake of school along with you sanity all added up. You find you have more in common with your grandmother at this point than your past self.

But hey, at least you have something to show for it. Sort of.

Your grades are decent and you should get at least one of the 20 or so summer internships you applied to. Right?

The saddest part is that you don’t regret turning into an 80-year-old. Going out is fun, but not way too much work and not enough sleep.

You try to be ambitious and carefree again. You and your roommates decide to have a party.

It’s Friday night, you’ve bought tons of wine, and it's time to get in the shower and start getting ready. For once your phone is blowing up with people asking what time they need to come and if chasers will be provided.

You and your roommate look at each other at the same time. Without a word, you both turn off the lights and your phones, watch "Django: Unchained," down a bottle of red wine each, and fall asleep by 10:30.

Welcome to old age—to be honest, I’m loving it.