I’m a panicker. I panic. And as the semester comes to an end, there is no shortage of my inability to control it. Professionally, I manage to keep it together in the face of potential disasters, solely because I know my future career relies on that ability. But emotional distress turns me into one of those crazy people who need to be slapped in the face by someone yelling, “PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER!”
While most are hopefully not quite as nuts as I am, this type of disorderly terror is not uncommon for this time of year. There are massive finals to study for, summer internships to be organized and rooms and apartments that need to be transformed from a home into a stack of cardboard boxes. But the biggest transition falls into the laps of the newest class of graduating seniors. They now find themselves shoved out of college and into the real world where a blur of new responsibility awaits them—whether they are ready for it or not.
As a junior preparing to enter my senior year, the thought of “those poor bastards,” can only rest in my head for a fleeting moment before I realize that my time is not too far off. Some say, “You still have a year, a year is a long time.” When I was seven maybe, yes; a year felt like an eternity. But now I think back to what I was doing exactly a year ago from now and it feels like it could have happened a month ago. Before I know it, I’ll be the one ordering my cap and gown, making the walk to the forum with my friends and family and trying to figure out which goodbyes I can’t leave without.
And again, here I am with the panic, thinking about all of the things I need to fit into the next year. Sure, there are the usual responsibilities that have to be taken care of, the endless amount of loose ends that need to be tied. I have to fill out all those applications, plan my final summer and make certain that I am, in fact, graduating on time.
But then there are the other things to be done, the things on the to-do list that the school doesn’t hand you the instant your standing switches over to “senior.”
I’m the biggest wimp in the world, but I know I have to find a way to get inside one of the minarets in Plant Hall. Will I cry? Possibly. Run out screaming the second a floorboard creaks? Probably. But in a year’s time, I will be an alumna of UT and I’ll be damned if I walk across that stage without having been inside the structure that our school and our city is known for.
I’m also determined to get drunk enough to put on my environmental beer goggles and jump into the Hillsborough River as it winds around McKay and Riverside. During the day, “Sure, I’d jump in there,” is the farthest option from my mind when I think about all the things that could be done with that river. Especially as a biology major that took a mini field trip down there to look at the microbes (trust me, you don’t want to know). Turning it bright green on St. Patty’s day is probably the best thing that has ever happened to that water. But my sudden realization of where I stand on my timeline has left me with a slightly reckless “why the hell not” attitude.
I still need to wander over to the amphitheater in Curtis Hixon Park and watch the sunrise over our campus. I have to attend an event (even if it means sneaking in) at the Rathskeller that serves alcohol so I can pretend to go back in time for just a second to when it was a working bar. I must drive to Clearwater Beach in the middle of the night with my best girlfriends so we can strip down to our skivvies and run giggling into the Florida water for what could be the last time. I need to throw down my books and finally kiss the guy that I’ve been dying to kiss since I was a freshman. The list keeps getting longer and my time keeps getting shorter.
So even though this year I’ll be attending graduation as an observer and not a matriculate, emotions are bound to be overflowing. There will be people I’ll be happy to see leave, but more importantly many that I’ll struggle to say goodbye to. The event is a reminder of the mortality of our college selves and that we can’t stay here forever, that we all have to grow up and enter the real world with the rest of the big kids.
I’m constantly surrounded by adults that muse over their college days as the “best years of their lives” and it reminds me that though academic success is important, I shouldn’t forget that this is really the only time I’ll get to still be a little wild before it’s no longer acceptable. While the fact that I have one year left hits me hard, I’ll be sure to make it count so I can remember what will surely feel like a short-lived moment eternally. I better get started on that list.