Today, as random as a lightning bolt in blue skies, it hit me. With fear and anticipation and restlessness, I looked up at my co-worker and said, “I’m graduating in two months.”
He didn’t hear me, or pretended not to (he does this).
The illumination of the fleeting epiphany had already dimmed as I said the words. I turned back to work, otherwise known as sighing hopelessly at $90 shoes on the Urban Outfitters website.
Four months. 16 weeks. 12 credits. Two jobs. It’s all the same to me no matter how you cut it.
So when people ask me if I’m excited, if I see the light at the end of the tunnel, if I can see myself at Commencement trudging through the Quad in clunky high heels to the platform, I’d have to say no.