Guinness and Graduation

Hungover sitting in my 11am Rhetorical Theory class, clearly paying more attention to my pounding head then to ethos, pathos, and logos, I started thinking about the night before. My best friend in his car bomb, incredible hulk, and PBR induced drunkenness looked straight at me, and with both hands grabbed my face. AH! I caught you! You thought he was going to kiss me didn't you? Seriously people? Did you completely forget about my last post already? Just like the paparazzi always jumping to conclusions. Anyway, with his clammy cold hands on my Irish sun burned cheeks he looked straight into my eyes and said, "I'm really going to miss you Re-Bone."

Now I don't know where that goofy nickname came from, that's a very recent development within our friendship, but his words hit a nerve. He was going to miss me. Why did he tell me that? Was it because he thought after graduation we would never see one another again, or was it his Animal House level of drunkenness? It was at that moment when the thought of graduation hit me. I mean really hit me.

As I sat in class thinking this over I began to panic. I imagined my graduation. Bidding tearful goodbyes to people that I may never see again. Leaving this place that I have called my home for the past four years. Leaving my closest friends to do...do...What am I going to do? A frenzy of sheer dread hit the pit of my stomach.

I know what I'm good at here, but could I do it somewhere else? Can I make it as a writer? Is student affairs something I really want to do as a career? It was a very big Elle Woods moment. Minus the wardrobe of pink, the chihuahua, and, okay so it wasn't like that at all. Thousands of similar thoughts filled my throbbing skull. I could feel my heart beat in my head. The room began to spin. I jumped up out of my chair and the next thing I knew I was on my knees in the bathroom with the smell of Guinness filling my lungs.

I sat there on the floor in the ladies room and I felt like a freshman again. With my legs stretched out, one on either side of the toilet trying to figure out whether I threw-up because of one too many car bombs or out of fear. The words I'm never drinking again came to my mind, but lets face it that's never going to happen. I tried to block the idea of the future and the vomit. Then I realized it's okay to be missed. Being missed means that you made a difference. That's when I decided that I wasn't going to be scared anymore. (Of the future not the vomit.) I'm going to do what I want to do and I'm not going to apologize for the path I take.

So I stood up, flushed the toilet, and walked over to the sink. With my hands full of foamy soap I looked up at the mirror. The vision I saw was someone who would be missed, who would be remembered, who made her mark, and would continue to do so wherever she ends up.