Goodbye, Loyola. I am off to Paris to begin a glamorous new life … eventually, anyway. Between that time and graduation, however, I will be back under my parents’ roof, which I am totally and utterly okay with. Not having to pay rent will not suck.
Plus, it’s cool to have a curfew at the age of 22, right?
Some people might wonder if it bothers me that I don’t have a job yet. Does the fact that I don’t even have any leads make me wonder if I’ve wasted four years of my life in the wrong major? They might ask whether I worry that the world will never see that I could be so much more than just the college newspaper columnist with a bad picture and a lame catchphrase.
I really haven’t thought about these things, to be honest. Sure I may have had a few sleepless nights where I’ve considered that a career in gaming and bartending might be a safer, more lucrative path, but who hasn’t?
Only recently did I find a little extra time during which to pause and seriously think about my future plans.
Last week my roommate and I waited five hours at the hospital until the doctor finally saw her and diagnosed her acute nausea as food poisoning.
Never mind that I could have diagnosed this condition at home in less than a minute, although my medical expertise is limited to knowing what aisle at Walgreens contains the acetaminophen. And never mind that the term “Emergency Room” is severely misleading and indicates that people who go in there to be treated will be attended to immediately. (As if, I don’t know, there was some sort of emergency.)
All the waiting is really a good thing, because it gives the sick a chance to fully realize the depths of their pain and the amazing and loyal people who wait for them a chance to catch up on three weeks’ worth of crossword puzzles.
Even though sitting in a hospital waiting room is surprisingly low on the list of things I enjoy doing into the wee hours of the morning, I didn’t let that time go to waste.
Again, I had a chance to work on some crossword puzzles, catch up on season four of the “X-Files” and do a lot of thinking. A lot of thinking. A lot. And really, when and where else was I going to make time to taste and experience all the fine cuisine that hospital vending machines have to offer? When? I even got to read the front page of the previous day’s The Times-Picayune twice. (Twice!)
Around hour three, however, the incredible fun came to an abrupt halt. I had been staring into space for about 45 minutes when it suddenly occurred to me that this was about to be my life for the next few months: one long and uncertain stay in the hospital waiting room that is my parents’ house, with limited resources to keep me busy.
As much as I enjoy marathon games of tic-tac-toe – and I do – I suspect it isn’t the most productive use of my time, nor might it be the most efficient means to finding a job.
It’s strange to think that I won’t have school to go back to in the fall. It’s not that I’m afraid to leave the safe confines of a college campus.
After all, no amount of studying will give me the friends for whom enduring four hours in a claustrophobic room are worth and who I am confident would do the same for me. Nor will it ever prepare any of us for the bad sushi that will sometimes come our way. The uncertainty of not knowing what is next is what truly terrifies me.
I pondered this thought for another hour.
Finally, at 2:30 in the morning, my roommate and I, exhausted and malnourished, went home – she with a prescription for what I suspect is nothing more than Mylanta, and I with the resolve to just stop freaking out. I don’t begrudge those who already have jobs or any sort of post-college plans (for the most part).
I take comfort in knowing that I’m not alone in my doubts, that there’s always Moler Beauty College (although I’m calling that “Plan B”), and that I have at least another few years before my parents kick me out (and that’s where Parisian sugar daddy comes in). Au revoir, mes amis.
Mary Lorenz can be reached at [email protected].
