"One day I decided to not grow any older"-Grace Paley
I hate to admit it, but I kept coming back to Madonna. Her simple solution to my latest issues seems simply shiny and new, glowing bright like a disco ball relative to the thick cynicism that weighs so regularly and heavily upon our shoulders. Every day now for the last two weeks or so, with classes, exams, papers all complete and the rest of life yet to begin, I've been spending my time looking for answers to that throbbingly obvious question: what now?
Actually, to be totally honest I've been spending my time eating ice cream, drinking beer, watching TV, reading books for pleasure, barbecuing large portions of meat, taking long walks, and when I have the time, you know, just chilling. Nice.
But underneath it all, I promise my seemingly smooth and relaxed brow is actually quite furrowed. For the question remains: how am I supposed to act with all of this free time?
What can I do to properly prepare mentally and spiritually, to welcome myself into this different world, one without fight songs or syllabi or meal plans? And that's when mother Madonna came to me speaking words of wisdom: "Holiday Celebrate, If we took a holiday, Took some time to celebrate, Just one day out of life, It would be, it would be so nice."
Isn't that what I had been doing all along, what with the ice cream and the reading and The Cosby Show marathons? No, no, no, that might be considered relaxing or taking it easy or bumming around, but it certainly wasn't an active physical celebration of our accomplishments.
This impending big day, this commencement, the ceremonial acknowledgement of beginnings and endings deserved something more from me. I could no longer stand passively. I could no longer let commencement approach me. I could no longer sit in my bathrobe watching reruns of Dukes of Hazard mid-morning on a Monday.
But what should I do to create my own holiday of sorts, my own active celebration that 'would be so nice?' The options swirled but I couldn't settle. Throw a party? Write a song? Run a marathon? Go to Disney World. Do a dance? Run naked across campus? Each had their drawbacks, they each required too much of something in particular that I'd rather avoid: cleaning up, creativity, running, monorails, agility, drunken stupidity.
I moped around the apartment, party hat on my head, and noisemaker between my lips, ready to celebrate, ready for the impulse to hit me. What would be the ideal mode of celebration? The truth was out there, I either had to keep searching or rid that Madonna tune from my head. Both seemed daunting tasks.
A calendar hangs in my kitchen. It was a gift from Dunkin' Donuts upon the reopening of their Boston Avenue store. Each month offers the testimony of another average American telling the tale of their "Best Day Ever." Ultimately, no matter what the story, a wedding, a birthday, a baseball game, the final sentence never fails to recall the integral role that doughnuts played in making the day as perfect as it was.
February: ten-year old John proclaims, "My best day ever was when Beth kissed me. Or did I kiss her? I'm not telling. We may never kiss again but we'll be eating donuts forever."
Doughnuts it seemed held the source of happiness. And to think all this time I've been chomping down on those chocolate glazed delights with nary a second thought. So that was it, I worked my way down the hill to Dunkin' ready to celebrate, yearning for that jelly filled key with which to open the door to true celebration. Eagerly, I took a big bite and soon the deep-fried goodness found my tummy. I looked around, where were the fireworks? The dancing ladies? The trumpets? Where was the celebration?
Of course, you have to be wondering, what was I thinking? A donut's a donut. I returned home, dejected. Commencement was supposed to be such a big deal, and yet this "Senior Week" I was still desperately searching for a way to celebrate. I returned to the television, my source of solace over the years in times of need, confusion and boredom.
Flipping rapidly through the channels, I happened upon a sweater-clad fogey, who suddenly brought a sea of memories rushing back. Mr. Rogers sang to me, "It's such a good feeling to know you're alive. It's such a happy feeling: You're growing inside." He smiled that old awkward smile, and soon I was feeling that "happy feeling" about which he crooned.
Years ago, after school had finished I would sit down and watch that aged dude playing in his neighborhood. Now, here I was, enjoying the most final of after school experiences, and there he was: "You can always help to make each day a special day by just your being yourself." That was it. That was the affirmation I was looking for. Who cares if it was pointed at a six year old? I may now have a college degree but it doesn't mean I should forget the lessons from my friends at PBS children's programming.
So I set off for another walk, book in hand, with a wide smile, ready to celebrate the only way I knew how. Ready to be myself, ready to enjoy my freedom simply by being. And ready, as Fred Rogers would say, to "make a snappy new day. "
