For the past three years, my fall weekends followed a rigidly responsible script. Spontaneity had to be penciled into my calendar at least two weeks in advance. Lately, the encroaching reality of senior year has done strange, liberating things to my impulse control. The phrase “You Only Live Once,” once an outdated, ironic meme from 2012, has quietly morphed into my operating manual. Case in point: The third weekend in September.
It started innocently enough as a long-overdue tourist day with friends. For three years, we have stared across the Hudson River, pointing at the quirky, concrete stilts and making the classic, empty promise, “We really need to go there.” Saturday, we finally stopped stalling. We hopped across the river and started our day at the Snoopy in Style pop-up, leaning into nostalgia. From there, we grabbed food at Pier 57, checking out the view, and finally looking back at our own campus skyline from the other side. We wandered over to Little Island, feeling like explorers in a place we had only ever watched from afar, before getting swept into the sensory overload of Chelsea Market and capping off our afternoon at the Starbucks Reserve Roastery. We strolled the High Line, letting the afternoon wind down with some gelato, entirely satisfied with our wholesome, highly photogenic Saturday trip.
By 5 p.m., the responsible senior in my brain cleared her throat. She politely reminded me of the coursework and unread emails waiting on my desk. Then my phone buzzed. It was a text from my boyfriend: His friend, who is currently on tour with Malcolm Todd, offered me tickets… for free… for that night in Philadelphia!
To understand the panic and electric shock that immediately surged through my nerves, you have to know that I have been obsessed with Malcolm Todd and his new album for months. His NY shows were sold out, and I had already resigned myself to living vicariously through blurry videos on TikTok. Now, there were tickets with my name on them, two states away, with doors opening in a matter of hours.
Underclassman me would have hesitated. She would have thought about Sunday morning plans and deadlines, reluctantly saying no. Senior me looked at Claire. I said to her, “This would be crazy.” We debated it for a bit as we continued to walk. We called my childhood bestie and avid concertgoer who goes to school in Philly, Alex, and asked her on the chance that we could get another ticket if she would be able to get them from the box office before nine. She said yes. We got a third ticket. When else in life would we get the opportunity to see Malcolm Todd for free? We simply ditched the responsible script, rushed back to Hoboken, grabbed Claire’s car, and hit the road toward Philadelphia.
The next few hours were a blur, singing lyrics, hunting for last-minute parking, and suddenly standing in the middle of a crowd listening to songs I never thought I’d get to hear live. It was loud, chaotic, and completely unplanned. Driving back late that night, running on Royal Farms dinner and sheer disbelief, I didn’t feel tired; I felt alive in a way a quiet study night could never deliver.
That is the true magic of YOLO. It’s about recognizing that our time in this bubble is running out, and the memories you hold onto after graduation will never be the nights you went to bed on time to get ahead on homework. Sometimes, you just have to say yes to that road trip.
