It’s so weird being a senior. I mean, I know I’m a senior, but it hasn’t fully sunk in yet. People keep telling me “You’re graduating this year? That’s so exciting!” and I’m like “Actually it’s terrifying, because I have no idea what I’m doing.” My roommate and I have determined that the s-word (senior) is officially banned from our apartment because we are in denial about the fact that it actually applies to us.
This month has been ridiculous and I only have myself to blame.
As a senior, you would really think I’d have this whole college thing down, but after the lazy lack of real responsibility during summer, the return to COI always smacks me upside the head. There’s always so much to do and so many people to see and sometimes it feels like there aren’t enough hours in the day to get back into the swing of things.
In the Student Union building, if you take a right after the door, go up the staircase and down the hallway, you’ll find a little room that doesn’t exist. I like to hang out there on Wednesdays because homework goes a lot smoother if you are doing it in the middle of nowhere.
There is no greater joy than the first day of a fresh semester. Busy bee students flock around with add-drop forms and binders that have yet to meet any sort of maddening notes. The fresh slate has come from the calm of summer and, therein, the chaotic tide of education erodes it into a monument of lessons learned and ideas to come. We pile these slates throughout our journey in the world of The College of Idaho, with four, sometimes more, towering as a reminder of what has been done and, in some cases, what will be done next.
When I first walked outside last Sunday morning, the last thing I wanted to do was get wet. There was a distinct chill in the air early in the morning, as well as a slight breeze. But I was determined to still go river rafting – there was no way I was going to miss it my senior year. The day had warmed up slightly by the time I met the other OP Staff at the bus to check everyone in.
My roommate keeps a life-size cardboard cutout of Ronald Reagan in our living room and every morning I wake up with the knowledge that, no matter what I do, I am still going to forget about him. Then, some unknown time later, I will be violently reminded of his presence and have a minor severe heart attack when I see his disapproving, wrinkly face and think that it’s the ghost of Christmas past.
Plastic utensils are often valued most after the acquisition of a dear food. In my case, the worst nightmare came true: I have no way to cleanly consume a piece of Smores pie from Shari’s. It is sitting here right now, a symbol to my lack of proper planning. I have the highlighters, I even remembered wet wipes and Q-tips. The last item on my list of priorities, seemingly, was the ability to nourish my body with sustenance. Needless to say, saltines have been a close friend over the past few days. If only I could smear them with peanut butter.
The week of last things is halfway up. On Monday, there was the last round of finals. On Tuesday, there was the last frantic checking of final grades on Web Advisor. Today I started my last move-home efforts. Tonight is also the last Goose Wednesday, but I’m going to pass on that one in favor of writing one last long blog post. I’ve turned in my library books, picked up my cap and gown, and helped Stefan throw a lot of his unwanted belongings off the balcony. I’ve got three days left at C of I before I walk across the Boone steps.