The V. Hard Life of a College Senior...
It is hard for a young woman to find her place because in her four-years of college she is expected to occupy every conceivable one. We are told to carve our own niche, but at the same time we are hit from every side on what that niche should look like, and its damn near impossible to figure out what you want over all the noise. Be smart, but no one likes a know-it-all; love your body, but unless you can see your sternum through your skin, you’re fat. Build a successful career, but keep an eye out for a husband who will make all your decisions for you. Do what you love, but if you dare major in art history I’ll kill you for wasting my money. The college student is given four years to play-sure we study, we cram, we work, we learn (some more than others)-but essentially we are free to do fuck-all. At the end of those four years of binge-drinking, instant messaging, all-night memorizing, random hook-uping, and late-night nonsense talking, we are expected to emerge with a degree in one hand and a Plan for ourselves in the other, poised and ready to answer The Question: So, what are you going to do with your life?
Do we really stop growing after college? Is there some sort of celestial egg timer that dings as soon as you place that ridiculous mortarboard on your head? I personally seem to continue growing (albeit horizontally) daily. College shelters us from real life for four years, then spits us out of the dorms and expects us to be complete. There is so much pressure to chose a major, a graduate school, a medical school, a law school, to land your dream job before Commencement, to plan your whole life out at the tender age of twenty-one. I’ve got news for you America. Twenty-one is a bad age. At twenty-one our sole concern is to play catch-up to young Canadians and Europeans—indeed, young people the world over—by legally ordering alcohol at the bar. I am too busy basking in that “Yes, World. I CAN order wine with dinner” glow to look into my Great Beyond...
-mb, circa 2005, complaining about the world, back when I had ample time to do it. In a written sort of way.
Do we really stop growing after college? Is there some sort of celestial egg timer that dings as soon as you place that ridiculous mortarboard on your head? I personally seem to continue growing (albeit horizontally) daily. College shelters us from real life for four years, then spits us out of the dorms and expects us to be complete. There is so much pressure to chose a major, a graduate school, a medical school, a law school, to land your dream job before Commencement, to plan your whole life out at the tender age of twenty-one. I’ve got news for you America. Twenty-one is a bad age. At twenty-one our sole concern is to play catch-up to young Canadians and Europeans—indeed, young people the world over—by legally ordering alcohol at the bar. I am too busy basking in that “Yes, World. I CAN order wine with dinner” glow to look into my Great Beyond...
-mb, circa 2005, complaining about the world, back when I had ample time to do it. In a written sort of way.
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