After eleven years, today starts the beginning of my ultimate week. Next week there are finals (of which I have none) and the weekend immediately after is graduation. My mother is even coming up from the hoary hinterlands of Norte Carolina.
Mary and I, in our respective capacities as president and vice president of our campus’s Sigma Tau Delta society, inducted the four new members of 2014-15. All of them are seniors. Better late then never, one supposes. The head of our humanities program dropped off our honor cords. I’d hoped to have bunches of different sets of cords so as to both brag of my minor accomplishments and to mock the idea of pageantry (along with sticking it to the man of policy creation who declares no non-PSU regalia allowed) but I think I’ll only have the one set. I forgot to order the old people one and I don’t yet know if or what sort of honors I’ll get or if any sort of commemorative knickknacks come with them if I do. I suppose I could drape my various colors of kung fu belts around my shoulders, the red level is pretty close in appearance to my STD cords.
With the end so immediately imminent, I would like it if my final two days were a gentle descent into relaxation, but that tumorous mass of papers I made mention of previously hasn’t shrunk by much. I did the unthinkable over the weekend and mostly relaxed. As such, I’ve still got around thirty-six pages of papers to write, but I really can’t seem to bring myself to worry about them. Perhaps it’s the alprazolam talking, but with the end so near I have a genuinely positive outlook.
It’s probably the alprazolam.
I’ve got writing contests and journals to which to submit, and introduction to three-section staff on saturday, weights to lift, plants to pot, and a return to personal prerogative to attain. Drug incited or not, my happiness at the shift in scheduled duties from externally directed to personally chosen is genuine.
Here’s to life after college.