It was 1 a.m. Footsteps reverberated up and down the halls, laughter seeped through the thin walls and my reconstituted mashed potato dinner was weighing heavily on my tummy.

I was spending a long weekend at Texas A&M University for a student workshop, and I’d forgotten all about life in a dorm.

When I left home for college, I thought I’d hit the big time. Although there was cracked linoleum on the floor and cinder-block walls, I embraced that cramped room like it was the Taj Mahal.

So when it was time for my eldest son to attend college, I insisted he live in a dorm because I wanted him to experience university life in all its glory.

After four nights on a college campus, I came to realize I was sadly mistaken in making my sons endure the dorm experience.

For example, bathrooms. Sharing shower facilities with 50 strangers was a lot of fun when I was 18 years old. Trotting down to the showers carrying a bottle of VO-5 shampoo and soap on a rope was an adventure.

Now, I’ve come to enjoy my quiet bathtub soak time. There’s no one warbling “Rocky Mountain High” in the shower next to me, and I don’t have to worry about athlete’s foot.

College Food. For two years, I mostly existed on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Ramen noodles and tuna fish because they were the cheapest eats around.

Occasionally I’d splurge on a cafeteria breakfast of reconstituted eggs, a few slices of bacon and buttered toast. I thought I was at a Renaissance feast.

Now, butter is a thing of the past. Likewise with full-fat cream cheese. We health-conscious baby boomers have meekly accepted we can only have imitation eggs, spray margarine and turkey bacon.

Walking. When I was a young girl, trekking across campus was a piece of cake. I simply slipped on my 20-pound backpack and practically jogged to my classes.

Now, a walk across campus felt like lumbering across the Sahara Desert wearing lead shoes. As agile Aggies whizzed by me on their sleek bikes, I was making deals with the heavens above if I could instantly transport my hot, tired body into an air-conditioned sedan.

Noise. Growing up in a house of nine, I was accustomed to commotion. In my youthful John Denver days, living in a noisy dormitory where girls were playing music so loud it seeped through the walls was no big deal.

Now hearing music at 2 a.m. isn’t a time for me to rhapsodize about the mountains and eagles. It’s a time to bang on the wall and crankily tell them to turn it off.

Beds. I never remembered tossing and turning on the mattress on the top bunk back in 1973. My roommate and I lounged there for hours, playing cards, talking about boys and eating chocolates and chips until the wee hours of the morning.

Now I need my therapeutic pillow, a heating pad and a full eight hours of sleep or I’m worthless the next day.

The dorm life. It’s not the wonderful escape I remembered from my past, so the first thing I’m going to do when I get back to my quiet, air-conditioned life is apologize to my sons for making them live on campus instead of allowing them to live in a comfortable, quiet apartment.

The second is fix them a meal of real scrambled eggs, hot, bold coffee and fresh New York bagels with real butter and cream cheese.

Now that’s the life.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.