When I was about 6 years old, I had a very annoying habit. My parents would come to pick me up from playing at a friend’s house, and, no matter how long I had been there, I would throw a fit – a loud, embarrassing, bratty tantrum.
This habit also came out just before bedtime when I always wanted to stay up for five more minutes.
My parents were probably concerned that, despite their best efforts, they were raising a future telemarketer or some other evil human.
I just don’t want a good thing to end, and when it does, my inner brat resists with all of her might. And sometimes I feel that inner brat trying to take over as I near graduation.
Because college has been a good thing – a fantastic thing. Accepting that it’s going to end is difficult.
It’s like my parents are picking me up from a really fun, really long play date with all of my favorite 6-year-old friends.
It’s hard not to be dramatic when you’re graduating.
No one could possibly understand that your life is about to change so fully, so radically, that everything you know is changing and playtime is over because you’re now going to have the responsibilities of a full-time adult, and you’re probably going to fail at it anyway and be unemployed living at your parents’ house until you finally get a job at Whataburger.
And you want graduation just to wait five more minutes. It should wait, because how are you supposed to live normally without these friends you love so much? Or find a respectable job in a town with reasonably priced rent? Just five more minutes, please.
But then, just like the threat of being grounded persuaded me to go to bed or to leave my friend’s house, senioritis kicks in.
Senioritis is your brain telling you it’s OK to graduate. In fact, it’s so OK that you’re graduating that you should act like you’ve graduated already and just stop doing all school work.
Without senioritis, graduating could be significantly more traumatic. Because the alternative to graduating? Not graduating. Deeper debt. Not making the full transition into responsible adult life. The alternative is worse.
So hopefully when this good thing ends, I will be able to accept it without any ounce of brattiness and without throwing any tantrums like the graceful 22-year-old I am.
