You know, this was supposed to be easy. Even as I sit down to write this - for the third time - I guess it's finally starting to hit me that this is it; I'm finally graduating. Like, wow. A big, expressionless wow. (After six years, you'd be expressionless, too.)

Recalling one's memoirs is a rather daunting task - separating the books from the papers, the utter crap from the reliable B.S., classifying memories as good, bad or otherwise. This has gotten to be one of the most difficult articles of all time to write. Quite honestly, how does a person close the door on the past six years?

Perhaps I should analyze how I got to this place, but that would take a much longer word count than I'm permitted. Put simply, three schools, five surgeries, year-long State employment, residing within the hemp curtain (Eugene), and an Associates degree later, school has become old hat, an all-too familiar security blanket. Even when I was working full time, I always felt comfortable with that inevitable class time, and subsequent work, lurking about me. Now, I'm beginning to feel it all slipping away.

Obviously, not everything I've gained from college will depart on June 11. I'll still have what knowledge I managed to retained - at least what wasn't erased by general anesthesia and post-operative meds - and, of course, the memories of the people I've met along the way, most recently, my Media Rhetoric classmates and my CPJ lovelies. For those at the CPJ, there are no words, so don't make me try to say them! In fact, laughter would be more appropriate. (Alright! Whew-hoo!)

I promised myself I wouldn't get all misty-eyed over my impending departure. After all, I have no set plans and will likely be working for my dad's consulting business in the interim or working on my two-year backlog of screenplay notes or re-editing my old German films; regardless, I'll still be stuck in redneck Lewis County (ugh!). On the other hand, that box of Kleenex in the trunk of my car might come in handy after graduation. Stuck in Lewis County is more depressing than stuck in Olympia.

Well, I will definitely leave Evergreen more comfortable in my own skin (and, err, with more loan debt, thank you), though some nagging part of me is still questioning whether I'm actually ready to graduate. (Rolling my eyes at that last remark. Man!) One would think I'd be sick of it, after six years, or maybe one might think I'm afraid of facing the so-called real world since I've been on the inside for so long. (Ha!) I worked the 40-hour work week when I was 19 and still naïve; if I could manage it then and not fall to pieces, then I can most certainly handle it at my twentysomething age. The key to survival in this world is adaptation, and that, like school, is old hat.

That's one hat you can leave on, baby. And it doesn't shrink, stretch or fade. Plus, unlike some members of the opposite sex (poking at both sides here), it doesn't make demands or talk back or get pissy when you say the wrong thing. Best of all, it's invisibility allows the wearer to have an advantage over adversaries, whom are likely unaware of said hat. Oh, and don't forget the lifetime guarantee: guaranteed until the wearer's wit and/or adaptation skills diminish beyond wearing capacity. (See, it's all about the wordplay.)

OK, now it's come - the moment I must now eloquently say goodbye. I guess now's not a good time to admit that I'm no good at goodbyes. So, here goes nothing: (by the way, thanks to Rob, Mitch-U and Hal for enduring another round of incessant editorializing and for redefining Seattle; wow, what a weekend!)

C'est la vie, my lovelies! Best of luck always.

Copyright © 2004, Talia M. Wilson
published in Cooper Point Journal, June 3, 2004

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