Hello again. First a big apology for not writing in so long. It would be a massive understatement to say that things with me have been a little hectic. But excuses are for losers, so here goes.
"Senioritis:" Webster's Dictionary defines "senioritis" as the sensation that everyone and everything encountered by a senior is out to either a) destroy him/her; b) force him/her to fit into a box; c) take away all the innocence and carefree attitudes that he or she has heretofore enjoyed; or d) all of the above.
Do you have senioritis? Do you walk around campus saying, "Geez, this is the last time I'm ever gonna slip and break my ass on the ice at Dartmouth?" Or do you find yourself thinking, "My gosh, this is the last time I'm going to cheat in a CS class at Dartmouth!" If so, you could have senioritis.
The symptoms are usually brought on by extended periods of sitting indoors pretending to study and instead looking out the window. Another common cause for onset is the sight of freshmen. Doesn't matter what they're doing. If you see a freshman, and by the time you're mature enough to develop senioritis all you see is freshmen, you are at risk.
Now, I have a confession to make. I have senioritis. I know, I know, it's contagious, and I'm sure a lot of people are wondering if they should have themselves looked at if they've been in contact with me. All I can say is, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt anyone.
The first time I realized I had senioritis was recently while I was sorting silverware in the dishroom at the dining hall. By the way, thanks a lot to whoever decides habitually to maim and mutilate the forks. You have made my job so much more fulfilling. Anyway, I was sorting the forks when the crotchety old dude who works in there with us asked me if I was graduating this year. I thought about it and said yes. I am indeed going to graduate this year barring some cataclysmoniously terrifilamical occurrence. What was odd about it though was that every year, at least 10 times a year, somebody from the dining hall asks me if I'm graduating. And every year I tell them no. It got to be kind of a joke with me, because the workers there could never remember what year I was. But this time he asked me, and I had to say yes.
The whole world is out to get me! I'm such a failure. Everybody else has a job and I'm sitting here sorting silverware so that all the job-having, suit-wearing, portfolio-toting, nerd-o's don't run out of soup spoons. Sorry, relapse.
Luckily, I've managed to surround myself with similar senioritis victims. One thing about senioritis is that it's like leprosy. You have to stick to your colony or you risk infecting somebody else. Dozens of people half-heartedly poring over job books and creating resums and cover letters that suck, spending more time talking about where to go for spring break than thinking about the future.
Splitting time between Murphy's, the basements of campus, and the classrooms, you can tell them by their look. Happy, but not too happy. Clean, but not too clean. Awake, but not too awake. You instantly relate to them. You feel as though they too could run off to Bali or Madagascar at the drop of a hat simply to get away from everything. You commiserate with them. They become part of the colony. Anyone with a job becomes the enemy. Anyone working in New York is the devil. Anyone really trying to get a job in New York who can't is a stooge.
But ever so slowly, the senioritis is wearing off of some people. They try to hide it at first by acting like they still have it. This gives them credibility with both the lepers and the healthy. But then one day you pass them in the hall and they're wearing a suit. Has someone died? No, sadly no one is dead. Nobody has succumbed to a deadly disease or fallen off a cliff or been incinerated in a burning car. Alas, this person has a job interview. Their portfolio tucked ever so snugly under the left arm, leaving the right free for handshakes, firm, but not overpowering.
And as the senioritis fully exits the body of this lucky sir or madam, it redoubles itself inside of you. You say to yourself, "Screw them. I can still go to Madagascar if I want." Then you realize that when you graduate your health care will run out. Madagascan hospitals are known even less for their generosity than their excellence in medicine. And what about those damn loans? How can you live with no money? You can't! You feel the box slowly closing around you. You feel the devil calling you from Manhattan. He's saying, "The Yankees are the best! Go Rangers! Taxi! Hey, I'm walking here!" And like Ulysses lashed to the flagpole, you can hardly restrain yourself. Except Ulysses' rowers didn't have senioritis. And the next thing you know, you're walking into a room saying to yourself, "remember to smile tell the one about the 12 inch pianist firm but not overpowering," and hoping your pinstripe suit accentuates your height and makes you look thinner.
Wish me luck on my interview today.
