It's almost summer and the weather is still cold, still gray - is it even spring yet? School's almost out, sure, but summer means more than that - and a lot more than beach balls and sandcastles and feisty gulls. It means we're one step closer to the "real world." The warnings come from college seniors everywhere: Cherish summer, because eventually one will come and it won't be summer at all. You'll have a job, and you'll go to work just like you do in the fall, winter and spring.
And, to be honest, the thought of the real world makes me shake like a scared kitten. For Christ's sake, there are bombs. It's really, really hot out there. Entry-level jobs are scarce, you have to shave and wear a suit, you're a grown-up and there are consequences. To top it off, you can't sleep in your bed at home - the bed you slept in for 20-odd years, the one with the stuffed bear and fluffy pillows - and if you get scared at night you can't just run into mom and dad's room. I guess you can call the police, or maybe you'll just cover your head with one of grandma's quilts and try to stop thinking about Jack Nicholson's head poking through your door, yelling, "Heeeeerrre's Johnny!"
Time flies, too. The way I see it, once you hit 26 you better have a spouse in the bullpen or else it's on to the dweeb-magnet they call online dating. Lonely with a side of sexual frustration, please. And kids? Kids? I am a kid! Maybe I should wait until I have a career under my belt before I start thinking about kids. Did I just say career? Huh, that's funny - I like everything I study, but I don't really want to waste my twenties away at a desk. Bite the bullet? Okay, fine: Do I want to help people or make money or be happy? I can only have one and I better figure it out soon because in no time I'll have a family to support and bills to pay and I'll have to bring my dog to the vet because it ate Auntie Kirk's fudge. How am I supposed to discover myself when my dog's life is on the line?
How in the world are we supposed to know what to do?
Maybe we're not. Maybe there's another option. Maybe the "real world" isn't a puzzle, and there's no way we can ever figure it out. Maybe we're supposed to feel like it's broken because it is and because we're supposed to try to fix it. Maybe the idea of the "real world" seems like a hoax because it is, because we're already in the real world and while we're thinking about internships and jobs and finance and insurance, the "real world" - the real "real world" is up in the treetops; it's sitting on the porch at 3 a.m.; it's waving at you, jumping up and down, but your eyes are glued to a laptop, a smart phone, a TV, and you can't see it. You've got earbuds in and you can't hear it sing. The real world is all around you, but you'll only see it if you want to, if you try to.
So how are we supposed to know what to do? We're not - no one really does. But if you worry about it, you'll miss everything. You'll miss the dance and the song together, and you won't be any the wiser. No doubt, it will seem like a hoax. So in your last day, last year (or two or three) at Tufts, keep your head up and dance. Spin against the earth's rotation. Write stuff down and paint things and talk until you fall asleep. Maybe it's cold and foggy right now, but the forecast calls for sun and flowers and clouds shaped like whatever you want them to be shaped like - open your eyes, or you might walk by the whole thing.
