Undergraduate college life is thirsty work. To stay hydrated, I had a system. I stored bulk packages of Poland Spring water bottles under my bed. Each morning, I drank one with breakfast, threw another one or two in my bag, and downed another before bed each night. As soon as I finished a bottle, I'd toss it in the trash.

I went to Barnard College in New York City. Most everyone drinks bottled water in New York. This is not because our tap water is subpar-in fact, the city has some of the best water in the country. Local wisdom maintains that the water is the key to New York's amazing bagels and pizza crust.

Bottled water abounds for other reasons: Brand affiliation serves as a status symbol, people perceive it as safer, and stores do not tend to sell water cheaply in reusable canteens.

Not averse to tap water or attached to status symbols, I drank bottled water out of habit. But I was not in the habit of considering the act's environmental consequences.

I graduated last May, and during my four years at college I adeptly deconstructed all the flaws and ills of society-even though, cosseted in an academic bubble, I had not lived in it yet.

This is not true of every college student I knew. Some shunned insularity from the start, plunging into improving the world. One friend, a passionate musician, gave free violin lessons to low-income children. A women's rights advocate acted as an escort weekly outside an abortion clinic. I had long, fascinating discussions with her about women's reproductive rights, and I often expressed admiration for all her work.

But the passion for me remained theoretical-there was always another chunk of schoolwork in the way of plunging into activism. My mental calisthenics strengthened my brain. But as a student, I rarely used the newfound strength to shoulder external loads.

So toward the end of the semester, when a close friend pointed out the wastefulness of my water-bottle habits, all my education left me unprepared to support my real-life behavior, since I never really had thought about it.

She made the observation late one evening after a movie night, as I dropped yet another empty bottle in my trash can. The recycling bins for the building's entire floor sat in the hallway directly opposite my door, she noted. And New York tap water is safe. What gives?

"I like this water," I replied unconvincingly. I went to sleep-away camp in Maine as a child in the town next to Poland, and their water flowed from our wells. But brand loyalty aside, I continued, "What difference does it make? We'll be dead before it all really hits the fan."

She wisely said goodnight and escaped to her room. As I put away my movies, I looked over at the partially empty package of water bottles. I did not want to believe my own words. We'll all be dead before our environment matters? From global warming to the depletion of Earth's natural resources, recent media attention has made it clear that our environment's demise seems as inevitable as death in a Shakespearean tragedy. This is not what I want.

I thought about the four brilliant children I babysat for regularly throughout college. My world will be theirs in an instant, and my take on junking the planet discounted not only their right to live in a world that is clean and safe but also my desire that they retain the option. They deserve to grow up and attend college in a world with clean air and plentiful resources. It occurred to me that personal growth, my college focus, shares a border with selfishness, and that I might have crossed it if I could dismiss environmental destruction with a shrug. On the eve of earning my own college degree, it was time to think outside myself.

The night of the bottled-water intervention, I had not thought all this through. I just knew I'd made a mistake.

I called my friend. I told her that I was wrong and needed to amend my position. College taught us that it is necessary for women to defy traditional gender roles and claim our rightful share of space in the world, I said. I express that right by using as many water bottles as I please.

"Wrong again," my friend said with a sigh. "You do deserve to claim space, but not at the expense of the environment." We spoke for a few more minutes, the conversation ranging from the need for greener behavior to the uncertainty we felt about how life as we knew it would end after graduation.

Bachelor's in hand, I still feel things are uncertain-except for the surety that I still have a lot to learn. The world outside Barnard's gates lacks essay deadlines and caffeine-fueled all-nighters, but it has more angles, corners, and hazards, and my friends and I need to negotiate our places within it.

But I'm learning. And while I do, I stay hydrated using my favorite thermos. It reads: Barnard College. There's hope for us yet.

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