I graduated from college three years ago today. And, if you’re reading this, there’s a good chance you did too.
In preparation for the occasion, I spent far too much money on a new BCBG dress and made reservations at a slew of fancy Philadelphia restaurants. My best friend voluntarily gave up a few days of senior week at her Connecticut school to watch me receive my (fake) diploma; my brother unvoluntarily gave up the last few days of his semester in Nicaragua, per my parents’ orders.
The final week of my undergraduate years was a blur of booze and fast food, adrenaline and anticipation, drama and giddiness and fear and nostalgia. The whole last semester was like that, really.
The funniest part is, I don’t really have much to say about it now. As someone who’s introspective and over-analytical enough that she insisted on devoting an entire blog to the all-important topic of HER LIFE, this is a strange feeling.
But I just don’t really think I have much to add to the conversation. It felt like yesterday, it felt like forever ago; I was scared, I was happy – it’s nothing you haven’t heard before, right? And, at the moment, I’m having a hard time even getting myself to care about that hazy soup of emotions from three years past – which is especially alarming when juxtaposed with just how strongly I seemed to feel everything – from fear over not having a job to joy at tasting Greek Lady’s pita chips at 3 a.m. post-Smoke’s – during the spring of 2007.
Today, watching the drunken seniors in their matching shirts stumbling down Walnut for the 40-block bar crawl that at one point seemed to epitomize the brilliance and horror of graduation, all I really had to say was…meh. Whatever. I laughed for a second to myself as I watched some girl continually misstate the name of the Center City bar she wanted her companions to escort her to, and then left it all behind, jogging across the street to catch the tail end of a yellow light. I was rushing to meet a friend at Reading Terminal, where we planned to gather supplies for the dinner we would cook in my apartment, the one with no elevator and no doorman but a big desk in a sunny spot where I get to write my stories, all day long.
I’d like to think it’s what my 22-year-old self had in the back of her mind when she walked down to Franklin Field that painfully early, perfectly sunny May morning.
*Note: Most, if not all, of these photos are not by me; probably some combination of T, our resident photographer, and Allie R.S., the girl who got us all hooked on high school musical just as we were leaving college.