I am graduating in one week. As you can imagine, it’s been something of a stressful time-scrambling to combat an acute case of senioritis, getting my school work done, trying to find a job, all the while attempting to figure out “what I want to be when I grow up.” Now, add a haircut gone awry, a stolen USB key and road construction, and you have a description of my past week.
Being the worry-wart that I am, I’ve always had this secret fear that just as I was about to graduate, someone was going to say “Oops. Soooory. Yeah, um, there’s this really obscure class that you were supposed to take. Now you can’t graduate.” Determined to not let this happen, I harassed my poor advisor, and routinely logged onto DSIS to make sure that my class credits were still there. After applying for graduation, this fear reached new heights, and I began stalking my mailbox for a response, either “Yes! You’re graduating!” or the much feared “Yeahhh, um. About graduation…” letter. Neither arrived.
“Have you gotten anything yet?” I demanded from my also-graduating friend Lori.
“No, but I’m sure you’ll be fine. Calm down.” She and my friend Diane exchanged worried glances over me as I rocked back and forth, humming “Pomp and Circumstance.”
Poor Stephanie in the Media Studies Department had to kindly explain to me that no news was good news, as the Registrar’s Office would only be contacting students who weren’t able to graduate, and I would have heard something by now. Yet, I still had a nagging feeling that something was going to happen/go wrong/crumble at the very last moment, and prevent me from graduating. And then, it started.
“It” all began when I went to get my hair cut, as I wanted my locks in tip-top shape for my impending job interviews, and oh-so-importantly, graduation photos. I settled into the chair, and explained that I’d like to lose a little length, to look a bit more “professional.” My hair guy and I pointed to a spot on my gown-thingy, and I thought we were on the same page. And then, he started cutting. And cutting. And cutting. My stomach dropped as I looked in the mirror. I left when he was finished, and was in absolute shock. My once long hair barely brushed my shoulders. What’s worse, my new ‘do made me look younger. Much, much younger. I already look young, and as I am about to enter the job-market, it counts against me. Now, I look twelve. Sobbing, I ran into my apartment, threw myself on the bed, and yanked the comforter over my too-short hair. My fianc? Matt came in the room, and addressed my wailing, blanketed form.
“Honey, it looks fine. Come out.”
“No!” I howled. “It’s horrible.” After an hour of Matt’s comforting and reassurance, I made my way to the bathroom, flipped the ends out a bit, and pinned one side up-very Audrey Tatou. Deeming my new cut “French Cutesy,” I promptly emailed my hair’s new designation to all of my friends, and left it at that.
Although slightly shaken, I resolved to survive my last week of classes. And then, it happened. There I was, sitting in my one Gorham class, searching my bag for some much needed Rosebud lip salve. My fingers slid over the empty pocket where my USB key (a little memory stick that holds the equivalent of, like, 10 floppy disks, and has all of my school work on it) is normally housed. It wasn’t there. I tore apart my bag, only to find… well, nothing. I had been in the library just 20 minutes before, printing a paper. I must have left it in the computer. Darting out of my class, I ran-in heels, mind you-across campus to the library. Skidding to a stop in front of the computer I had used, I almost passed out. It wasn’t there. I ran to the front desk, explaining the situation. It hadn’t been turned in. They pointed me to the reference desk, and the very kind man sitting behind it helped me search around the computers, although I explained that it couldn’t have just fallen out; someone would have had to remove it. Not wanting to be “that girl,” I fought back tears and a simultaneous nervous breakdown as I addressed my fellow students hunched over their computers.
“Did anyone happen to notice someone removing a USB key from this computer?” They all looked up and shrugged in that I-feel-sorry-for-you-but-thank-god-it’s-not-me way. Everything was on that key: All of my columns, resumes, and, most importantly, most horrifyingly, all of my work. My huge, semester-long senior project that was due the next day. All on that key, all gone. I left my information with the very sweet man at the reference desk, and went to do the same at the front desk.
“Yeah, that’s too bad,” the guy said. “Those things are in pretty high demand.” I just stared at him blankly. As I was on my way to file a police report, I lost it. Sinking to the ground, with a vending machine as my only witness, I absolutely lost it. Sobbing into the phone, I explained to Lori what had happened. What I couldn’t understand, I blubbered, was how someone could do this to another student. Around finals, no less. I didn’t care about the key. Keep the key. But how could someone have so little awareness, so little compassion, that they could steal all of my work? Whoever they are, I am in utter disbelief of their lack of conscience, decency, and incredible selfishness. At first I wanted them to suffer. Painfully. Now, I just feel supremely sorry for them. To be that cruel, that self centered- I can only imagine that being them is very unpleasant indeed. Luckily, my professors were all amazingly understanding (you, Dr. Lasky, are an angel), and by pulling an all-nighter, I was able to re-do everything.
Okay, I thought this morning, on my way to my very last class: This is it. I just have to hand in this film scene and I’m done. Finished. Finito (you get the idea). There I was, on my way to Gorham, minding my own business, when I spotted cones. Orange cones. And waving men. All blocking the road I needed to access. No. This can’t be happening. Gorham is like a freakin’ island, and there are only a few ways to get there. Now I’d have to backtrack, go all the way through South Portland, and try another way. Taking a deep breath, I congratulated myself on leaving early, and sped off. It took me another 20 minutes, but I made it.
I picked up my cap and gown this afternoon, and as the man handed me my honor cords he said, “Congratulations. You must have worked very hard.” Yes, I realized, I had. And in that moment it hit me that I was at the end of a very long, very involved voyage. But I had made it. Clutching my gown, I relaxed.
“Oh, by the way,” he said as I turned to leave. “A girl called today and said her cap is too big for her. Because all we have are extra larges. So…yours might be a little big.” I sighed. Of course. There I’ll be on graduation day, too-big cap sliding off of my too-short hair. But, I’ll also be finishing a journey. And most importantly, I’ll be doing it in fabulous shoes. Because come hell, high-water, or untimely construction, I’ll always have my shoes.