By Annie Sheslow

Sure, the reinforced hot drink cups in Peirce are sturdier than the walls of my home-sweet-home North Campus Apartment 11C. And yes, to plug something in, I have to summon the strength of Thor to get the stubborn outlets to accept the prongs. However, the shoddy construction is not what worries me about the future of the NCAs.

My mom once quipped that I should savor the NCA experience because it is the nicest house I’ll have for a while. I then realized that NCAs are training wheels for adulthood. The NCA lifestyle teaches us not to leave broccoli in the fridge until it releases a terrifying gassy smell. Maybe we learn to vacuum when the carpet has amassed enough Middle Path rocks to make alumni outraged at the idea of paving it. But the fact that we get toilet paper delivered weekly is enough to dispel any illusions of independent apartment living.

In our quest to play house, I worry we have become the worst version of adults, shut up in our air-conditioned suburban paradises. South Quad on a sunny April day will be ripe with bad country music, khakied butts in Adirondack chairs and some vicious games of corn hole. By contrast, the few isolated clumps of chatting friends spread out around my NCA loop on the last warm Saturday seemed cliquey and pathetic. Though it’s probably the three-weeks-left sentimental senior stupor talking, I hope that in the long run, the NCAs don’t rupture the sense of community that was the purpose of requiring on-campus housing in the first place.