At the start of junior year I was running for my life. The impending doom of graduation hit me like a mid-morning bomb on a bright sunny day. The safety of sophomore year slowly dissipated into the background; the carefree feeling when registering for classes, and easily moving into your dorm because you’ve done it all before. Back then, you knew the ropes. The college experience feels exactly as you imagined: indefinite, and filled with mystery. So much, that most students don’t question how classes taken today can impact tomorrow. Lately, going to university has grown routine and expected, especially if your parents have college degrees. In my sweet sophomore year mindset grew into a paranoid scholar, and I found myself analyzing events that took place in prior years. However, the moment September whipped its head in my direction, I was on trial in the investigation of my life choices.
Switching around my courses felt like a never-ending panic attack. How many classes would I need to fulfill my minor? And would going abroad disrupt all of my hard work? My credits dictated my choices, and I aligned myself with the idea of preparing for adult life now. After spending eighteen years (there was no way in hell I was going to be one of the kids who are the gem of their parents’, and let’s admit it, your parents’ eye because they graduated high school at age sixteen), suffering through weekly exams, coming to terms with taking the SATs, and enjoying/enduring extracurricular activities, (I question anyone who truly find happiness in afterschool chess) had the preparation not come to an end? Or would I spend every stage in my life simply preparing for the next?
I wasn’t the only one suffering under junior year oppression. Many of my friends squirmed when thinking about their future, especially those who were graduating in three years. We we’re young adults trying to become real adults, and getting our footing in such a world brought us to our knees. My first step was to take an academic semester, so I could simultaneously work. I compacted my classes, and found an assistant position that paid so much money I had fansanties about bathing in a pile of unlimited metrocards (clean ones, don’t even get me started on the disparaging state of turnstiles). But, the second I aligned my schedule to slide perfectly into adulthood, I noticed that my dreams had gone with it.
As a struggling actor in New York City a money job is imperative, and I needed a position that would pay for food, rent, and my matcha addiction. In my one year plan (five year plans are stressful) I would earn a lot of money and pad my resume like a 1920’s starlet headed to the lavatory to freshen up her face, but also sacrifice learning my craft. I screwed my thoughts on tight, bowed out of the interview process for the job, and signed up for conservatory style acting classes. Could this come back to bite me in the ass? Certainly. But the little fourth grade chess champion inside (yes, I played chess when I was younger and was a baller at it) told me to stick with it this time. Who knows, if I had played chess throughout middle school, I could have become a champion by age sixteen and outshined my early graduate peers. In this case, time was on my clock, and I skillfully lied in wait to make the next move.