Sarah Lawrence College Class of 2010 had their commencement ceremony the other week. I caught some of it on the live feed (mostly Julianna Margulies' address and enough of the conferring of degrees to see a few people I know walk across the stage), but then I turned it off. That's quite a bit how I experienced my own commencement ceremony, to be honest. I sat in the audience, enjoyed hearing the readings and speeches, collected my diploma, had a compulsory glass or two of champagne as everyone milled on the North Lawn, but then I left with my parents. I didn't do goodbyes. I don't do goodbyes.

Maybe it's because I didn't really feel close with my graduating class. Maybe that's a bad thing.

See, I've noticed the proliferation of messages and notes and status updates on FaceBook of my friends declaring their love for each other and mourning the end of those four years and pledging to see one another again just as soon as goddamned possible. Something's probably wrong with me, you know, not having that at SLC, not really wanting it, by the time the end came around.

See, it went like this: My first year was hard, but I made friends with the people I lived with. I stayed friends with them as the second year started, but I lived apart from them and was caught up in overexercising and undereating, which upset a few of them who had their own eating issues and couldn't be around me as a result. So we fell apart. Then I went to Oxford where I fell in love with friends for the first time ever, and by the time I got back to SLC, I was still mourning my loss of Oxford and I only had one term left, so it just "wasn't worth it" to try to make new friends. And then I left.

Maybe I missed out, maybe I AM missing out. I can't help but wonder if this is all going to happen again at UCL, but compressed into one year instead of four, and if I'll deal with it the same, or if I'll just hold on to my Oxford/London friends and not even bother to make new ones ... I don't know if I still can make new ones.

Just a Little Higher

The roof of my garage is more perfect that I can remember. Whether sipping a heavy Cabernet and reading an scholastic analysis of the city of Oxford in literature or drinking Redhook ESB and listening to Ke$ha with newly old friends, it's simply excellent.

The sun hits it completely, covering every inch that isn't hidden by the deep green grape vines that crawl up the side of the structure. The breezes can be rare or lullingly regular, and a cube of ice on the small of your back is shockingly refreshing until you forget about it and it's just another part of the atmosphere.

Alone or with friends, quietly shimmering or glittering with excitement, there's nothing like this space, lifted just 12 feet above the grimy, glittery, false little city.

Yes, I've rediscovered my favorite place in Los Angeles.

Reminiscence

A friend of mine wrote on her FaceBook that she's increasingly ready to be done with Sarah Lawrence (she has two months till she graduates) and it reminded me of how I felt a year and a half ago in my last term at SLC. I laughed to myself as I thought about how it was like being at the end of a long, ready-to-end relationship. I commented thusly on her page, but without warning it went from funny to almost sappy.

It's like the end of a long relationship that has fizzled out. You know that you want out and maybe you're even keeping an eye out for other boys (or grad schools) and everything it does a even little wrong grates on your nerves, but for whatever reasons (his mom just died, you still have months of classes/thesis work left), you can't end it yet. So you sit and let it fester, growing ever more resentful with each new frustration or old habit of chewing noisily.

Of course there will be beautiful moments when you're still in harmony, when he makes you laugh like you used to, when you're drinking red wine on cool spring nights with your friends on the South Lawn or smoke a cigarette under the willow in Slonim Circle. Those moments will make you think, "Hey, it's not so bad. We can make this work. I may not be in love anymore, but if I can just know that we'll have more moments like this, it'll be worth it."

The anxiety, even the beauty, won't last; few things do.

When it's done, when you're gone, you might think wistfully back on those moments, but for the most part you'll be willing and able to let it all go. Even so, Lady Lawrence will always hold a special place in your heart.

Maybe, despite some of the rough times I had at SLC, I still love it. Maybe, despite some of the pain and desecration and heartbreak I experienced with Dan, I can still look back on our relationship with a bit of affection. Maybe.

Inspired by To-day, by Yeterday, and by To-morrow

Quiz on life/Observational humor, inspired by things I witnessed to-day:

"Oh, shit, I didn't take my Tylenol PM on time because I was distracted by my wine-drinking."
[ ] True
[ ] False.

Bonus question: "I self-medicate because, ohmigawd, I had to sit in the waiting room for 45 minutes, despite having set up an appointment ages ago. Medication via doctor takes too much time/effort/money."
[ ] True
[ ] False.

Bonus question #2: "My self-medication is a manifestation of my self-awareness. "
[ ] True
[ ] False
[ ] see latfh.com

Bonus meta-question: "The fact that I am self-aware enough to understand that my self-medication is, in part, a result of my self awareness ... that doesn't count, right?"
[ ] True
[ ] False
[ ] ... I have the number of a really great guy ...

With a Crunchy Outer Shell

I've been having a conversation via messages with a friend and in reference to my rejection from Oxford, I wrote the following. I decided that we're not quite close enough for me to send it to her, but I felt it was unusually honest and I didn't want to lose it.

I'm sure UCL will be a wonderful experience for me. I mourned Oxford for a day or two before coming to my senses, but I think the shock and resignation have faded and I feel the beginnings of bitterness stirring in my blood. Or perhaps that's just who I am these days. I was so stoic and together during most of my sophomore year and my year in Oxford, and I have been so pained since my return to the States, but the residue of these feelings seems to have hardened into bitterness, cynicism, and misanthropy.

Reject (n.)

I tried to prepare myself for it, I tried really hard. I thought of how I would feel and what I would think and what I would put as my FaceBook status (I know, shut up). But still, getting the rejection letter just knocked the wind out of me. I crumpled up, face and body, and started crying.

I just wanted it so badly, and a part of me (perhaps a larger part than I realized, a much larger part than is sensible) really thought I would get into Oxford.

If you need me, I'll be curled up on my bedroom floor, crying, with a bottle of wine clutched to my chest.

For the Future

So! Hey! I got into UCL!

Yes, that's right. Graduate school. In London. Me. Graduate school. It seems I'm still processing that information, no? I'm also waiting to hear back from Oxford, which is undoubtedly my first choice. (Just so you know, UCL would be a one-year taught MA programme in European History, while Oxford would be a two-year research MPhil programme is Modern British and European History. Better. Plus, in Oxford, so DOUBLE BETTER.)

I was very excited when I received the letter from UCL, as might be expected, since I don't think I really believed I would be accepted anywhere. Of course Daddy Dearest manage to take all the joy out of the experience. He and I don't talk -- like, at all -- so I thought it would be a nice gesture for me to share my good news with him. After a half-hearted "Congratulations," his first words were "How much is this going to cost?" and "What are you going to do to get this money?" Yes, these practical questions are important, but do they need to be the first thing he says to me? Can't he just let me enjoy the moment? Besides, I'm not asking my parents for any money on this -- I'm saving up money to spend and taking out loans for tuition and expenses if I don't get any scholarships. But as daddies do, he motherfucking killed the joybuzz.

In any case, if I get into Oxford, I won't let him do that. This might sound petty, but I just won't tell him I got in. There's actually no reason for him to know, since he's not involved in my life, I won't be asking him for money for school, and he'll never visit me. And this way I won't give him the satisfaction of taking away my joy and I won't have to give any of it up.

Whew. That does all sound a bit overly-emotional and childish, but considering our "relationship," I think it's pretty much par for the course. I don't know why I'm all upset about it really.

In any case: GRADUATE SCHOOL. ME.