The day has finally arrived, and I'd be lying if I didn't admit that this summer has gone by way too fast.
I've decided that all my fears about social life at college are irrational, and although every one who has already left assures me that I have nothing to worry about, it doesn't mean that those doubts are any less potent. I have to accept the fact that I'm a jittery bundle of nerves, and there's nothing that will make the transition any easier save actually going through it.
Thusly, I've turned my thoughts away from the yet-to-come to the past. Today has been one loopy nostalgic rollercoaster. Everything I do becomes "This is the last time I will _______ ." I've gotten to know my house pretty well since 6th grade, and especially after this summer I've found that daily routine tends to carve certain pre-determined paths in my treks around the house. There are little rituals, like descending the stairs: the grabbing of the bannister knob, tipping my weight westward and swinging around to land three steps down ahead of schedule. The "noise of life," little increments of the world I've constructed here are the things I may miss the most when I go away. I can't seem to shake this feeling, either, that I'm seeing everying in layers: every landmark, grocery store, school parking lot, neighborhood tree that I pass has a dozen different layers of memories and emotions tied to it, some clear and unclear in their importance, but surely visible in one glance. I guess it's a cubist kind of reminscience.
And a very sad one. Like I said, it could be Guy Fawkes Day before college started and I still wouldn't be emotionally ready. "It's time" is my current mantra, my own employed Grim Reaper with a dusty pocket-watch that has "Sept. 20" inscribed at midnight.
Too much time at home has made me far too attached. I blame biology. Spring of Junior Year, man, I would've been outta here in a heartbeat, no questions asked. Mother Nature was pushing me out the door with a broomstick. But having to wait another year, cooped up, I fear that my biological clock reset, in the same fashion that the ambitions of farmboys and small-town folk, real Sherwood Anderson-types, simply peter out when the decision is made that they'll end their life where they started it. I've forgotten the thrill and the excitement of striking out on my own, and my bed feels way too warm and comfy.
It's funny, my trips to UGA and WashU didn't really re-energize me for college. I mean, even though I was visiting familiar faces, the places I found them in were foreign and strange. But when I've met familiar faces this last month in familiar locales-- playing pool with Thomas, Cinnabon with Clarke, Sara, and Laura-- I remember the importance of friends, and how easily they can put me in a good mood, and why I can't wait to make my new surroundings home and turn strangers into familiars.
Did that make sense? Screw it. I have to sleep in my bed for one last night.
I've decided that all my fears about social life at college are irrational, and although every one who has already left assures me that I have nothing to worry about, it doesn't mean that those doubts are any less potent. I have to accept the fact that I'm a jittery bundle of nerves, and there's nothing that will make the transition any easier save actually going through it.
Thusly, I've turned my thoughts away from the yet-to-come to the past. Today has been one loopy nostalgic rollercoaster. Everything I do becomes "This is the last time I will _______ ." I've gotten to know my house pretty well since 6th grade, and especially after this summer I've found that daily routine tends to carve certain pre-determined paths in my treks around the house. There are little rituals, like descending the stairs: the grabbing of the bannister knob, tipping my weight westward and swinging around to land three steps down ahead of schedule. The "noise of life," little increments of the world I've constructed here are the things I may miss the most when I go away. I can't seem to shake this feeling, either, that I'm seeing everying in layers: every landmark, grocery store, school parking lot, neighborhood tree that I pass has a dozen different layers of memories and emotions tied to it, some clear and unclear in their importance, but surely visible in one glance. I guess it's a cubist kind of reminscience.
And a very sad one. Like I said, it could be Guy Fawkes Day before college started and I still wouldn't be emotionally ready. "It's time" is my current mantra, my own employed Grim Reaper with a dusty pocket-watch that has "Sept. 20" inscribed at midnight.
Too much time at home has made me far too attached. I blame biology. Spring of Junior Year, man, I would've been outta here in a heartbeat, no questions asked. Mother Nature was pushing me out the door with a broomstick. But having to wait another year, cooped up, I fear that my biological clock reset, in the same fashion that the ambitions of farmboys and small-town folk, real Sherwood Anderson-types, simply peter out when the decision is made that they'll end their life where they started it. I've forgotten the thrill and the excitement of striking out on my own, and my bed feels way too warm and comfy.
It's funny, my trips to UGA and WashU didn't really re-energize me for college. I mean, even though I was visiting familiar faces, the places I found them in were foreign and strange. But when I've met familiar faces this last month in familiar locales-- playing pool with Thomas, Cinnabon with Clarke, Sara, and Laura-- I remember the importance of friends, and how easily they can put me in a good mood, and why I can't wait to make my new surroundings home and turn strangers into familiars.
Did that make sense? Screw it. I have to sleep in my bed for one last night.
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