“Finals” is a misnomer. Grammatically speaking, just so you know, this is correct—I’m talking about the word, not the experience and all those various tests (plural)—which is a lot like PMS…only worse and equally opportunistic. Finals are hardly ever “final”. For example, my (set of) finals marks the MIDDLE (or at least what is SUPPOSED to be the middle) of my degree pursuit—under the best possible circumstances and with no change of direction. But as a woman, is that not supposed to be my purgative? No, wait, maybe it is my perineum…no, that’s not right either. My brain hurts from too much tightly focused thinking on the wrong specifics for a test I did not need to worry about passing…that is, if I did the math right. It’s for accounting; I better have gotten THAT math right! Argh.
It’s just so funny to be at the end of something, at least that portion or section, and feel less sure of where it’s supposed to take you than when you began. What’s that all about? You could lose yourself to that. It feels like madness, like impending doom. Like chutes and ladders. Like every game you hated but were obligated to play because of your kid-ness. And, you said to yourself, “When I grow up I’ll…” or better, “When I grow up I’ll never have to...” Now that you’re grown you say, “If only…” and you wish yourself back—back in school sitting behind the same snotty blonde with better things to do than smile or even listen to the teacher and who openly hates you just because it passes the time…even though, maybe especially because, you’re old enough to be her mother—you know, the one who gave up a career to have a family, to rock a beautiful blonde and pink bundle in her arms, to sing her songs and to make her homemade cookies and sew dresses for her Christmas presents in the middle of the night for your own personal Santa to bring. But, only Old Navy will do now, only store bought goodies will do now, only struggling along side of each other for the same things are what we do now. What are we doing, again?