When you enter college, people (and by people, I mean your parents' friends) ask you what your major is. When you choose a major, people ask you what you are going to do with it (unless your major is econ., which your parents' friends seem to think ensures you a corner office and a 401K, despite the fact that economics, in all its assumptive ridiculousness, barely relates to any of the glorified corporate jobs offered at Recruiting). If you are a sophomore or a junior, you have some wiggle room: the social-science kids can throw out something about grad school, regular science kids dance around med school, and the English majors think "law school" while answering "teaching!" These answers suffice; parents and friends smile enthusiastically, shake your hand, and move on down the line to the next clueless undergrad.
Things get sticky, however, when you hit senior year. Suddenly, it's company names and timelines and "what kind of benefits will you have?" As a Classics major with a stubborn, irrational aversion to corporations, I had a particularly difficult time with these cross-examinations. "No f*cking clue, asshole" wasn't a socially acceptable answer at family Christmas parties, and so I came up with an alternative response: selling helicopters. About 80% of the parents caught on to the joke, called me a "hoot," and passed me off to the next vultures. Two or three sets of parents froze for a second in confusion; I pushed the awkward silence as long as I could stand, then cracked a "just kidding!" smile and sashayed away. One man, however, immediately asked me, "Military or private sector?" Somehow, from the depths of my sassiness, I managed to respond "private sector" and reference something about Hawaiian helicopter tours. I got the word "Blackhawk" out before I had to run away laughing.
My point, besides the fact that the Blackhawk routine was the greatest moment of my life, is that the "next year" question ranks somewhere up there with a colonic in terms of things college students (or anyone) want to deal with. "Next year," in senior speak, means "the rest of your life." And while this certainly isn't a new concept -- think Ben Braddock and "The Graduate" -- it still sends most of us whimpering into the fetal position.
G-Day anxiety is complex, and I spend too much time watching VH1 to really understand it. But if I had to break it down, I'd say it's one part not wanting to leave college (and VH1), one part existential crisis, and two parts confronting the infinite stretch of weeks and years that will open up before us on June 12 (or June 11, 2007, or June 9, 2008. How does that feel, kids?) Sure, change blows, life is pointless, yada yada, but the real adjustment comes when time is no longer divided in neat three and four year increments. How do you wrap your mind around "here on out?"
As far as I can tell, most people aren't even trying. A recurring theme in my friends' plans are finite numbers. "A year off before med school." "Three years in law school." "Two years at this company, and then I'll see."
My plan is a six-week summer program, which shows you how capable I am of staring adulthood in the face (though you probably guessed as much after the helicopter story). To be honest, I think we're all secretly plotting the quickest way to our next three-month summer vacation: the best -- only -- idea I've had is a shockingly rich spouse, but if you think of any others, feel free to shoot them my way. Everybody needs some time in a sprinkler.
Anyway, despite the Peter Pan act, some of me understands that graduation is not the calamity I've made it out to be. I remember a conversation with a good friend back in the fall, when we could still frolic and joke about next year as though it were Sophomore Summer. I can't remember what crossword clue prompted him, but Friend X declared that whatever he did after college, he wanted to be completely alone. I looked at him incredulously, panic rising up my esophagus at the mere statement. "For four years," he said with extreme paraphrasing and re-wording on my part, "we've been living in this amoebic, insulated world where you never have to do or decide anything on your own. And it's been fun, and I love my friends, but it's time to learn how to wipe my own ass."
So that, my friends, is the answer to what I, or you, or everyone will be doing next year. Wiping our own asses. Cleaner, more lady-like ways to put it might be "finding ourselves" or "charting our own courses," but those are both pretty cheesy and I'm fighting like hell to keep the tears and group hugs out of this feature. At least until the last paragraph, when these pages will actually start to bleed green and I will rattle off a list of every important person that I have known and loved at this blessed institution. I'm looking at you, Ann C. Scott.
Until then, my twist on the "next year" theme is helpful in two ways:
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Graduation -- aside from the five hours in the sun with no pee breaks -- almost sounds exciting.
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You can answer any inquiries into your future with "I do what I want."
Also, the bigger people, broader horizons bit sends people in all sorts of directions doing impressive things that the Alumni Relations people will be thrilled to brag about while asking you for money. (Is this an appropriate time to bring up the Senior Gift v. Parking Tickets debate? Because after $40,000 a year in tuition and unnecessary tickets from the aggressive man with the boot, I, as an imminently poor college graduate, do not really have any spare money to put towards a new bench. So, Senior Gift People, the $200 you want from me is at Parking Services; go get it yourselves.)
But back to globally impressive things: you've got your Peace Corps people, your Teach for America-sters and don't forget your business people, because 100-hour weeks in front of spreadsheets truly is impressive, if in a masochistic sort of way. I read the other day that nine '06s won Fulbright Scholarships; I didn't know any of them, because these people have been locked up in a Rassias cell learning abstruse foreign languages for four years, but I oohed for a moment anyway.
I guess the moral is: graduating from college means you're allowed to do all the things that used to be restricted to grown-ups. The fact that you're suddenly considered a grown-up is just a minor setback. My parents have been calling me an "adult" for years now, and that still hasn't made it true.
In the meantime, we have sixteen days left to whine, panic, watch TV, break things and otherwise indulge in adolescence. To earn the title "reporter" on my resume, I took to the streets and asked some illustrious '06s how they plan to spend their last days.
John Bair "will attend lectures by important people, then get up and leave the lecture in a horribly conspicuous way, run outside and vomit about 15 times into the trees behind Novack. Can't do that in the real world (it's my understanding that the real world doesn't have trees)."
Jordan Enright-Schulz will continue to be too cool for school.
Matt Kelly is going to "try to emulate a bulimic dog," which apparently references some commercial he has been watching on repeat. He would also like me to note that Dartmouth is five years behind regular people, and thus he predicts that "campus celebrity pregnancies" is what's next.
Mikey Rosenzwieg plans to "write articles in the Valley News to increase facetime," and also "not to shower."
Personally, I'll be in Collis eating dumplings. I guess the rest of the world has dumplings, too, but I do what I want, and most days, what I want is dumplings.
What I'm trying to say is: thanks. It's been fun. Here's hoping the rest is.
