Moving Fackward.

Here I sit on a dreary Sunday morning contemplating everything. This blog, for one, (I usually end up making my blogs private out of a fear of embarrassment,) but mostly just contemplating my choice to move back home upon graduation. I tend to go back and forth between feeling like it was the "smart" choice to feeling like a pansy who refuses to grow up and has an unhealthy level of comfortability with dysfunctional family dynamics.

My first night home, Thursday, I began to have feelings of sheer panic. I stared up at my ceiling fan as it went around, wondering if I'd find myself living in this same room in my 30s. I began reflecting on my final year of college and how in a strange way it felt like a dream, like it didn't really happen. I guess that happens, though, when your reason for finishing school has more to do with others expectations of you and less to do with your own vested interest in higher education. I wanted it to be as dream-like as possible, in many ways. I was kind of on autopilot this last year, going through the motions but not really feeling like I had the pride for my school that many of those around me seemed to have. I didn't go to football games, bought as few books for classes as possible, studied sporadically, and networked infrequently. Now that I lay it out like that, I suppose it wasn't all that different from the rest of my undergraduate career, but it still felt distinctly weirder than previous years.

I think my beef with college is that it's such a pseudo reality, you know? Like, you're around thousands of other people your age (which is supposed to be really exciting or something,) but to me it just points out how odd it is that our society dictates at what ages it's appropriate to do certain things. Of course, on every college campus there's the occasional older person that has made it their goal to finish their bachelor's degree at any cost, but for the most part it's a bunch of people in their late teens and early twenties with a lot of insecurities and at least a twinge of cluelessness about what exactly they are doing there.

In any case, it's good to be finished, but not always good to be an adultolescent who has moved in with her parents--- a move that many I have spoken to have told me they would be sure to never make, no matter how in debt or how dire the situation.