Waxing nostalgic, in a zen kind of way by Keri G. '10

There is a car alarm going off somewhere in my neighborhood. The beeping oh god the beeping it’s driving me insane I am so tired and then it stops, only to start up two seconds later with the beeping oh god the beeping it’s driving me insane I am so tired

This has been going on for about twenty-five minutes.

It seems like the right time to start an update.

My grades are all in, and for the first time since coming off of Pass/No Record, I don’t see any Cs.

Well, I can’t see any Cs.

9.10 might have been a C, but I’ll never know – I took it on Junior-Senior P/D/F, which is exactly what it sounds like. You can take up to two classes on Junior-Senior P/D/F, and they can’t satisfy any Institute or departmental requirements. (9.10 would have been one of my six Course 9 electives had I not switched it to P/D/F, but it’s okay – by the time I graduate, I’ll have taken about nine classes that can satisfy those requirements. Brains are awesome. Tell your children.)

So long, Fall ’08. You’ve served me well and made me broke. Also, falling down multiple flights of stairs probably didn’t help much in the long run.

I’ve always been ridiculously independent, which made for a frequent point of contention between me and my once ultraprotective mother. She and I have always been extremely close, but a huge part of me just could not wait for the day when I would be on my own in some to-be-determined overpriced glorified daycare center.

Oh, college.

Anyway, I was hanging out with some of my friends from high school.

(I have a point, I swear. I will make it.)

No one, least of all me, wants these reunions to be weird – and for the most part, they aren’t; every time we all see each other, it’s like picking up right back where we started, as if the last time we all went out someplace was just two seconds ago. It’s only when I’m driving home or falling asleep that I start feeling strange. Despite the inside jokes we rekindle almost immediately and the camaraderie that still exists throughout many years spent mostly apart, it is very apparent that my friends and I have all changed – a lot – and we share less and less in common every time we meet. Soon our eggs will drop and all will be well.

Independence be damned. I am still not okay with growing up.

I don’t feel like that’s happening, but that’s where they get you. (Tricked me again, life!) According to my mom, you never really feel like you’re growing up, but suddenly people start expecting you to have the answers to difficult questions, to quit making faces in all your pictures, and to know what a Roth IRA is and how to contribute to it. (Note: If you know, don’t tell me. I’m nineteen. I don’t care right now.)

I don’t want to do any of these things, especially with 255 awkward Facebook photos and counting. I always hoped the mythical Future Me would appear overnight, know how not to constantly be too snarky for my own good, and look awesome in a Dashing Hat. I just assumed these were skills everyone learned in some supersecret Charm School-esque class, or that there was some switch that turned on sometime in my mid-twenties. (Aside from my biological clock, which I plan to fully ignore. No eggs dropping for me.)

But everyone knows my mom is always, always right.

So long, Dashing Hat.

That blasted alarm has stopped. I’m going to bed.

(I may or may not have forgotten my point.)