So. My last first day of undergrad is done.
I’m a senior.
When the heck did that happen?
I closed my eyes sitting at my desk in 415 Oglethorpe House and opened them here. In August of 2016.
This feeling is surreal.
Maybe it’s because I still look like I’m a freshman in high school (some woman asked me when my prom was back in May), not a senior in college.
Maybe it’s because I don’t want to believe that this time next year the people I have come to care for here will be strewn all over (maybe even all over the country).
Maybe it’s because I don’t feel like I’ve checked enough boxes or had enough experience to be able to warrant myself as a senior.
Maybe it’s because even though I’m one of the oldest people on campus (student wise), the freshmen (especially on the football team) look like they’re three years older than me.
Maybe it’s because I’m scared I’m growing up too fast.
Maybe it’s all of those reasons and then some, or it could be none of them at all.
I guess I’m just in awe of how fast it truly went (I mean, why couldn’t high school have gone this fast? I was ready to graduate the day I started high school).
These past three years have been nothing short of amazing and unlike anything I could have expected.
I can say with the utmost confidence that this year will bring the same if not more (even though every time my Mom said “senior” this morning I wanted to vomit).
And maybe I won’t call myself a senior.
My friends have tossed around the terms “second year junior” and “third year sophomore.”