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.
I applied for graduation Tuesday night. With my debit card in my hand and a deep breath, I entered and checked and rechecked all the information. Is my name Guia Del Prado? Yes. Do I have a major in English with an emphasis on writing? Yes. Is my minor in Journalism? Yes. After keying in the billing information, I submitted my application.
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.