My fingerprint-magnetizing phone wedged between my ear and shoulder, $1.25 in hastily gathered coins clanking in my hoodie pocket, 4.1 fluid ounces of murky Wisk brimming in its bottle cap, carefully balanced in my left palm — and one would think I’d be more concerned with my exasperated mother’s step-by-step exposition. Between frantic peeks toward the laundry room entrance, incessantly checking for derisive observers, the thought consumes my freshman psyche: I could really use an Internet connection right now.
The notion that the college experience breeds independence, that elusive fruit of the post-adolescent garden, haunted every wash cycle that Sunday night. But is the campus lifestyle not antithetical to this lusted-after autonomy? Alternately, we cope — and with astounding irony. There’s a prideful self-determination in bypassing that 8 a.m. lecture from beneath a crinkled comforter. Don’t worry, though, you’ll devote that newfound time to extra studying. And how self-sustaining of you to awake from your inebriated slumber at 4 p.m. on Saturday. You’re compensating for those sleepless weekday nights, anyway. Dialing Safe Ride for the excruciating trek from Norris to Hinman? Why not?
Somewhere, your parents are gleefully beaming at the self-sufficient academic they reared while they tear off next quarter’s tuition from the family checkbook. Feel free to passively recall a fictitious library all-nighter during the next phone call. You’ll be collectively applauded, evoking both sympathy and admiration from the benefactors who once confiscated your car keys after a curfew violation. Listen closely for the faint wagging of Baxter’s tail in the household background, too.
The harsh reality of the freshmen adaptation period will settle in eventually. Instead of pursuing genuine self-reliance, we opt for negligent detours and later boast of enduring the interstate all along. My primary accomplice in this typical process is what I yearned for during that 11th-hour laundry spree: Google’s AutoComplete feature. My anxieties would have been swiftly reduced by merely typing “doing laundry” into the search field and witnessing a whole list of suggestions unravel. “Doing laundry by hand.” “Doing laundry in a Laundromat.” “Doing laundry in college.” Bingo, and 1-0 instant gratification on the third dropdown.
But AutoComplete is not only valuable for its search recommendations. It contains an unintended bonus, one that provides social comfort via mechanical reassurance. Because the suggested search results are ranked by user popularity, Google is in effect affirming insecurities. You may not muster enough conversational confidence to have your suitemate assess the blistery sore on your lower lip, but don’t sweat it — the other 6.99 billion people in the world have got your back. Simply type, “how do I know,” into the search bar, and you will conveniently realize a lot of those other folks have some form of herpes, too.
Consider this the demise of authentic independence for self-conscious millennials. AutoComplete is the detached, nonjudgmental friend freshmen envision in their most intimate dreams (that is, for the limited few who achieve Stage 4 sleep during midterms week). And just because this intangible buddy exclusively exists online doesn’t mean he isn’t another excuse for autonomous responsibility. His instantaneous counsel is highly valued and maybe even too closely followed.
After recently searching “washing purples,” expecting AutoComplete to ease my uncertainties with some handy suggestions, I was abruptly disappointed. The Google function produced no such hints, and after blankly staring at the empty webpage space for a few minutes, I decided to act upon that antiquated independent streak. I had to call my mom first, though.