For years, Cam Marston wondered how he'd handle the empty nest once his last kids left home. This week, with his youngest twins dropped off at college, he finally gets to find out.

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For several years now I've thought about my last children leaving home and wondering how my wife and I would fare in our next life chapter of empty nesting. I thought I may like a quiet and neat home, or not being waked late at night with kids coming in from a night out with friends, and many many fewer dirty dishes in the sink. When the older kids came home at the end of the school year in May, my wife and I celebrated a full house and a reveled in having all four kid's childhood bedrooms full again. But in the back of my mind, the countdown was on to late August when my wife and I would deliver our youngest to campus. They would be beginning their their first year of college with their older siblings already well on their way with their own college lives. We'd drop the twins and say goodbye, knowing that greeting us when we got home was this legendary, much anticipated empty nest. It was a life-stage destination we'd heard a great deal about. Some friends thought their empty nest was heaven. Others thought it hell. My wife and I would now get the chance to experience the phenomenon for ourselves and make up our own minds.

As I write this it is not yet 7am on empty nest life, weekday morning number one. For more than twenty years, this time of day has meant I will soon begin hearing foot falls upstairs as children begin preparing for school or, and in this past summer, readying for summer jobs. The dog hears their noise and comes to the kitchen to greet them as they come down and give her her morning pets. Today, though, it's silent upstairs. Last night, I shut down the house before bed, turning off all the lights, making sure all the doors were closed and locked. I didn't bother to leave a light on in the kitchen, knowing no child would be coming in after a night out with friends looking for a quick snack before bed.

My wife and I will visit each of the children on campus this fall, meeting their new friends, trying to picture their lives there. For our older children, their rate of change accelerated when they went off to school, and observing their changes has been one of life's great treats. The same will certainly happen to the twins. All four of them will be home for Thanksgiving. Right now, though, they're exactly where they should be. They're squarely in the chapters of life where they spread their wings, test the air and start to fly. And my wife and I are squarely our own new chapter – this quiet and empty nest that they've left behind. It's all just as it should be. Just as expected. I counted down the months, weeks, and days to experience this empty nest, wondering how it would feel and if I would like it. And as I sit here alone in the quiet of the kitchen that, just a week ago, would have been bustling right now, I've found myself wondering how much longer till Thanksgiving.

I'm Cam Marston, just trying to Keep It Real.

This weekend Cam Marston watched 130 girls squeal with joy on Auburn's quad. Here's why his mind went straight to the ones who didn't get the call.

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We sure love cruelty, don't we? As refined and as smart and as elevated as we claim to be, we love us some cruelty. We line up to dish it out and, strangely, we line up to potentially take it.

Saturday afternoon I watched the culmination of Auburn's bid day. My favorite youngest daughter got a bid. I watched as she ran from Neville Arena to the quad where she and her 130 some odd new best friends whom she had never met before squealed. Some squealed in delight; their dream had come true. Some squealed with resignation. They didn't get what they had hoped for, but they had to squeal – it's what the moment required. And as I watched, my mind went to the ones that got no bid at all. Per Auburn historical trends, roughly ten percent had their phone ring and a voice on the other side essentially said, "I'm sorry. No one wants you."

I suspect it's no different at other campuses, especially the SEC schools who take such pride in their Greek life. But think about these young girls, eighteen or nineteen years old, traveling off to college, many from places far away, to offer themselves up to this savage system of ranking, choosing, selecting and rejecting each other. When word got out that my favorite youngest daughter got a bid, my wife's phone buzzed with congratulations. But some shared their stories of rejection that has never healed over thirty years. Some said they get a knot in their stomach this time every year as they relive that call. Some left Auburn and have never returned.

What is it about mankind that makes us crave ranking others? Crave selecting others? And, most brutally, crave excluding others? We want to see where we stand, who we're among, who is above and, most importantly, who is below. We take special interest at who is below. Those not worthy. Those down the list. I'm no different. I wish I were, but I'm no different.

Not long ago a big fitness trend were events called Spartan races. People would pay money to run long distances, climb vertical walls, crawl through freezing mud, do umpteen pushups, climb ropes, and other difficult, painful, and potentially unhappy things. Some finished strong and celebrated at the end, some limped to the finish, and others well... Sorority rush is the same. These girls voluntarily throw themselves into this cruel system. Some make it through gloriously. Their squeals were genuine. Some limp through and accept a ribbon. Others get word that no one wants them. And my heart breaks for them.

Next year, new girls will line up to do it again, just like in countless years past. They'll line up to be judged, determined worthy, picked, or cast aside. And again they year after that. And again the year after that. An insatiable desire to hopefully be picked. Parents and family will cheer the winners. We'll ignore the losers. Thinking about them makes us feel bad. And they'll keep coming. It's brutal and cruel and we just can't get enough of it.

I'm Cam Marston, just trying to Keep It Real.

On this week's Keepin It Real, It's August in Alabama, which means two things: the air conditioner is running non-stop, and somewhere in a house near you, a married couple is fighting over the thermostat. Cam is losing that fight.

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It's the time of year in Alabama where when the temperature tops out at only ninety degrees we feel like it's a crisp fall day. The mercury is so high so often that ninety degrees feels like a cool breeze. And right now, the weather report online says the "feels like" temperature is one hundred twelve, a full twenty degrees higher than the actual temperature due to the humidity. And it will go higher. It's days like this that I wonder why I live here. I beg for clouds and rain.

As awful as it is out there, it's uncomfortable inside, too. Each day I'm on the losing side of a battle over the thermostat. My wife and daughter are wearing sweatshirts. They like it cool, so they drop the temperature to a degree that makes wearing sweatshirts in August comfortable. Me? I complain. "Maybe we can raise the temperature a bit," I say, "and save some money and take off the sweatshirts. It is August, after all." There's no budge. Then my wife assures me I have no idea what she's going through, and she needs it cold and to go find a sweatshirt. I've learned to stay quiet about other's unverifiable discomforts, only to trust that they're awful and that they're real. Life is safer that way. Meanwhile, Alabama Power is rolling around in bathtubs filled with the money we're paying for the air conditioners to operate non-stop. They struggle all day long to keep up.

Which brings me back to the empty nest topic I've been focused on lately. In about a week there will be only two of us in this house that has held six of us for twenty years. There's unused rooms now, and I predict that in a short amount of time my wife and I will have settled in different sections of the house to spend our days. Hers on the frigid side of the house where her air conditioner is set to arctic and mine where I can comfortably work and the air conditioner is set on temperate or normal or sane. We'll visit in the kitchen when we eat, otherwise we'll text and call across the house from our preferred climates. Once fall comes, we'll once again share living quarters as there are both outside and inside temperatures in the fall that we can agree to. And we are both drawn to fires in the fireplace, even if takes leaving doors and windows open to make it cool enough inside to warrant one.

This temperature battle has been replayed in houses and amongst couples forever. It probably started in Eden, though my memory of that story is fuzzy. I think Satan led her to the tree of good and evil and showed her the thermostat. She kept it a secret, knowing as soon as Adam found it things would get bad. And he did. I'm convinced a line cut from Gensis is Adam saying, "Wait. So Eden doesn't have to be this cold?" and Eve snapping back, "Don't you touch that thing. Go put on a sweatshirt."

I'm Cam Marston, just trying to Keep it Real.