It was a pretty low key Saturday. Everyone was winding down from Halloween, and there wasn't the usual option of seven different mixers being thrown by various groups. My friends and I ended up at the E-vite inspired "Don't Mess With Texas" festivities held at our late night location of choice.
It was the usual crowd--seniors and a few strays from the younger classes; the usual habits of beirut, cards and chatting at the finely crafted bar. 11 p.m. turned to 1 a.m., turned to 3 and there we all were, singing, dancing and enjoying a really chill night. I walked over to my roommate, sitting on the bar amidst cans of Busch light and Solo cups. We looked at the room, at each other, and then she said exactly what we both were thinking, "I'm gonna miss college so much."
Before you flip back to the crossword and assume I'm about to break into a written version of "I Will Remember You" and other prom songs, relax. This is not my WB-inspired, teary eyed "what Duke has meant to me" column. Las time I checked I was writing for The Chronicle, not the Lifetime Movie Network.
What I'm getting at my fellow seniors is the transitionary period that has kicked into motion. It's this slow, continental-like shift of which we have all become recently aware. It's not like we didn't realize this was our last year--we knew that as of May. We've been going through the motions, but over the past few weeks we've hit the in-between. We have started to show signs of readiness for life after college, but still cling desperately to the joys of irresponsibility. Or, as the first-graders that my friend student teaches put it, "You're not a teenager. You're not a mom. So, what are you?"
I spend 15 hours a week at an internship. I get up at seven and go to an office. I wear blazers and do a real job. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I'm in jeans and a t-shirt, sitting through classes. I feel sort of like Jem, leading a double life only without the high profile music career and computerized red earrings. Some days I'm a professional, working in the field I hope to be my full-time career; the rest of the time, I'm sitting in class praying the professor will walk in and announce "No lecture today. Let's play Seven-Up and have nap time instead."
(Note: anyone who did not play Seven-Up, a.k.a. "heads down, thumbs up", I'm sorry but your childhood was incomplete). Once I realized I was at this impasse, I acted out of character and didn't talk about it, opting for denial. But the issue kept coming up like that girl at Bully's who doesn't realize the boy she stalks isn't interested.
Away messages tell me I'm not the only one waking up before 9 a.m. on weekdays. Girls and guys are already showing relationship scars and talking about "fear of committing again." People have signing bonuses and contracts. I have friends who educate elementary school children. Others are calculating whether Christmas break or graduation is when their significant other will propose. Maybe it's just me, but I didn't think this would be life at 21.
The in-between isn't concrete, where one day you're drinking Hi-C Ecto Cooler and the next you're putting together an investment portfolio for your second child. It's more like the elephant in the room that you don't always see. And avoidance via Peter Pan syndrome isn't going to work because the in-between deals with the world around you, not the person inside. What's interesting is watching everyone react to the fact that we sense this change.
Most take it on with a shrug and a sigh. Others get all whiny like the cast of "Saved by the Bell" in their senior year at Bayside. The ironic part is that these kids too will have a second series called Duke: The Grad School Years where a good number of them will go onto the same law/med/masters programs. Sure, the entire cast won't be there, but you'll find some new members for the gang! It won't be the same without Nan though--she's our Mr. Belding.
The other popular reaction is that of the future consultants. For the next two years, these people are a guaranteed 90-hour work week, periodic bleeding ulcers and a sweet salary from U.P.S-Salomon-Morgan-Stearns-Sachs-of America. These economic sweatshop workers are on what one friend called the "drink with a vengeance" plan. I-bankers know they won't get the chance to party till 5 a.m. because sometimes that's how late they'll be at the office. So, they booze their little hearts out now because, I mean, how sad will it be not to puke in the morning anymore? They walk into class at 2 p.m. the next day hung over, traces of phallic Sharpie lines still on their faces, and the desperate "gotta get it in while I still can" look in their eyes. Forget MasterCard, this is priceless.
One week after our last registration--the final morning of screaming "screw you ACES!"--the question remains, where does this leave us? Based on what I've seen of the recent alums, we don't instantly shift out of the in-between come graduation. What lies ahead is a lot of growing up and I'm perfectly content to stagnate for a while. This is the beginning of letting go, and we just got clued in. We'll realize just how many things will be our "lasts" in the next few months, but the thing to do is take it in stride. We have lived the sweet life in college so far, and there's no need to make something this good into bittersweet goodbyes. Save that stuff for Lifetime.
Jen Wlach is a Trinity senior. Her column appears every other Friday.
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