I graduated in a class of 160 from an all girls private Catholic high school, and went on to a University of 24,000+ smartasses. Needless to say my transition didn’t quite mirror the pictures of Pottery Barn teens moving into their dorms; but I have only myself, and my wholehearted belief that everyone waited until marriage to have sex, to blame for that.
In high school I complained when a class was an hour instead of forty-five minutes, when I was threatened with a JUG (justice under God aka detention) for rolling my skirt, and when pasta bar was out of my favorite bow tie. We drank our parents’ vodka out of water bottles and changed our AIM screen names atleast twice. (SimplyK311yx3, the x3 was a broken heart) If I was awake you bet I was complaining about something, sitting on my bedroom floor cramming formulas onto the front of a single note card for a final exam, wishing I were somewhere else.
Now I am in that somewhere else, and while that whole complaining thing hasn’t stopped, and I would give anything to be little again. I don’t fit under my desk anymore, I genuinely forgot what grass feels like under and on the sides of my bare feet, and have long since lost the urge to carve my initials and Prince Williams’ into everything. A scribbled letter “F” in front of the “Art” isn’t funny anymore and neither is writing Pen 15 on your friend’s hand.
Lately I have found myself more anxious about the future than my usual control freakness deems normal. I have realized we don’t grow up, we just get better at making more decisions and sometimes, if we’re really lucky, the right ones.
If I have learned one major lesson, one thing to take away from college, it’s that people twice your age who ask your plans for the future are assholes. I graduated high school thinking I would study art and design and history of art for four years, graduate hottest girl ever, then earn my museum certificate somewhere along the east coast, all while being wooed by a boy who still likes to read books. Like actual paperback books, maybe he even had a library card. Talk about incredibly unrealistic.
It’s not the end of the world, whatever it is that keeps you up at night, or holding you knees tight to your chest on the bathroom floor, with stomach knots so deep and intricate you wonder when you became old enough to hurt so much. I am seriously struggling not to sound like a bumper sticker, or one of those pixelated black and white pictures of a couple on the beach where the girl is being picked up and hes wearing a button down shirt that’s completely unbuttoned, so it’s like what’s the point, and then over it is some Nicholas Sparks quote in comic sans a middle school girl made in Microsoft paint wearing a “I’m a Belieber” shirt from Meijer.
I can’t really say much, only being twenty-two and all, and I’m not really sure what my point is, but just, effing, feel everything and stop wishing you were somewhere or someone else.
One final note, if you create spawn don’t freaking give them cell phones in third grade, and don’t wear your high school varsity jacket in college. That’s probably the best advice I will ever give.