Here I sit propped up in bed next to a softly snoring husband and looking back on a week that nearly spun my head 360 degrees. Tomorrow is Valentine's Day, and I have a wonderful day ahead of me. We are going to a dog show here in Greenville (where we will get to see lots of Komondorok) and then home to a wonderful dinner cooked by my oh-so-thoughtful husband. He even came home with roses and Godiva chocolate tonight. Even so, all I can think about is the mass of homework that looms over me like some sort of sentient cloud. I shouldn't feel as overwhelmed as I do.
I'm left to wonder - what changed? I've had far busier semesters than this. Usually total meltdown doesn't rear its ugly head until a month or two in. Perhaps it's just a case of "senioritis." I certainly wouldn't be the first senior to be struck with a case of the I-don't-care's. It just isn't that simple, though. My insatiable desire to achieve and excel remains undiminished. I just feel like I'm fighting through a fog in order to accomplish anything.
I look at my classmates, and I see them stressed and harried as they try to arrange their future (jobs, grad school, etc) all with the economic crisis tempering and tainting their every decision. It makes me grateful that I'm not 21 and starting out. What a time to be entering the "real world." I can't imagine how frightening that must be.
I don't think my mental mush has anything to do with the current economic situation, but it may have something to do with life after college. For the past four years, I've been defined by my student status. It's certainly a role I've relished. I've never fit in with other women/wives my own age. Of course, that's nothing new. My whole life has been one long succession of not fitting in. At Converse, I am surrounded by people who are basically like me. It is nice not to be the freak, and school has given me that. So does that leave me with only two choices after school? Sell out and become one of the mob, or return to my outsider status. Selling out doesn't really seem like a viable option since I wouldn't even know where to begin. My attempts to blend always end with my being outed as the weirdo eventually.
That leaves the solitary weirdo option. Admittedly not the popular choice, at least it is familiar, like a soft, old sweatshirt - far from stylish, but oddly comforting. Besides, I'm certain that being understood is highly overrated. Women are supposed to have an air of mystery, right? Anyway, I'm grateful for a husband who seems to embrace the whole brooding-nerd-chick persona which I have perfected after years of raised eyebrows and glassy-eyed stares.
Somehow this entry has ended up sounding far darker than I intended. Apparently in my case, stress induces self-indulgent navel gazing. Soon I'll be writing really bad poems and listening to whatever emo band is permeating the airways this week, and black really isn't my color...
If I don't go to bed soon, I'll be a walking zombie tomorrow, so I'd better sign off. I promise my next entry will be full of stories, wit, sarcasm, and photos in glorious technicolor.
Your Writing Place
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