I usually have no problem shirking the Mirror theme any given week, but ignoring the "Real Talk" theme made me anxious. I didn't want to be the only idiot with nothing to say. Although I usually yearn to provide the comic relief, my fear of irrelevance among all the "real talk" articles just made me want to exorcise the smiley face from my header's clock tower. So I tossed aside all initial ideas for this week's column, ranging from "Gleeber" (Bieber-themed Glee this week like having birthday sex at Disney World) to the overlooked plight of the cowl neck, because they're clearly silly and superfluous.
Instead, I racked my brain for a way to make my column a SIGNIFICANT CONTRIBUTION to this week's Mirror, but nothing "pretty intense" or "legit" (as my assignment read) came to mind. I found myself panicking, old anxieties returning back to the times I'd suppress enthusiasm because I'd been taught to equate melancholia with intellect. I feared that if I wrote about anything frivolous, about anything fun, I'd be seen as, for lack of a smarter word, stupid.
But why must frivolity be an intellectual taboo? Why must I be "serious" to be taken seriously?
This resurgence of insecurity stems from a larger issue. It's not about my constant need to justify my love of pop culture (clearly got over that a long time ago) or a defensive criticism of the "real talk" provided by my peers. (They're wonderful and look extra pretty on their soapboxes.) It has to do with priorities.
It wasn't until this year that I've fully recognized how important the unimportant is. With graduation looming and the threat of "real life" bearing down upon me like an oppressive fog, I find myself in an end-of-life-as-we-know-it crisis. Schoolwork, once imperative, seems inconsequential and extracurriculars, once absorbing, feel transitory. The career search is just overwhelming. Even my relationships suddenly have an expiration date I hear a proverbial clock ticking during my post-12s lunch that I can't seem to snooze.
THIS. IS. ALL. SO. DEPRESSING.
Let's just all shut the fuck up and laugh. (I'm asking this of myself more than anyone.) If we take life too seriously right now, we'll all find ourselves competing to complete the Dartmouth Seven of places-you've-cried-on-campus. (Once in the Hop sandwich line. Beat that. You won't.)
We begin senior year promising to make it the best yet, but suddenly we find ourselves lost in the mire of "the end." We forsake the present in our rush to define the future. Of course, I know many of you don't need to reshuffle your values many have already been focusing on the year at Dartmouth rather than the ever-ominous, last-year-at-Dartmouth. (And, of course, I know there are those of you who focus on the last-year-at-Dartmouth because you cannot wait to get the hell out of Hanover.)
But to those of you who, like me, have found yourselves a little lost at sea recently (oh dear God, let there be at least one of you), I beseech you: Just have fun. No, I'm not asking you to black out from now until June. I'm just reminding you to enjoy yourself, appreciate your friends and maintain a sense of humor about the inevitable. I know that seems like trite and intangible advice, but I've found it to be the most useful survival tactic in my arsenal. (Though my arsenal is not the most stacked of arsenals. Weak arms.)
It's not as easy as it sounds. Even writing this now, I know I will occasionally still let stress overcome me, and that I will still dream of inflicting violent deaths when people ask me what I'm doing next year. But ideally, I'll be able to keep my priorities in check and remember that sometimes what really matters are the things that seem to not matter at all.
So for now, I'm going to bedazzle my job rejection letters (if I ever find the will to apply to one), paint my soapbox with smiley-faced emoticons and write frivolous columns about what would happen if Khloe & Kourtney Took Lebanon.
Because, real talk: FUN IS THE BEST. I'm serious about this.
