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BY ADAM DALVA

In print | Published March 6, 2008

Spring Break comes as a surprise every time it suddenly appears through the hazy mist of unnecessary midterm exams, end-of-winter infectious Andromeda-Strain like diseases, post- February break-ups, the beginnings of freshman friend group disintegration and the inevitable realization that the pale-skinned red-eyed dirty tightly-bundled stress-acned trembling figure in the McCabe bathroom mirror is indeed you.

The break is usually a welcome respite from the Eeyoric doldrums that encumber us all before Spring arrives, but this year for the senior class, the warm soup of relief came with a smack of sheer and utter terror. I’m also contractually obligated to mention here that the very thought of an Arrested Development movie has me more aflame than Oprah viewing charity or Ben Bradlow combating injustice.

Even beyond those among us who have the insane hubris to be examined by complete strangers and then have our scores announced to an audience of peers, strangers, family, Al Bloom and exes, the realization that post-college (don’t you hate it when people call it real life? Am I just some sort of ghastly, ghostly machine clone who is just going through automated under-grad processes right now?) is fast approaching has us so lost that I can’t even conjure up an appropriately snarky/inside metaphor to encapsulate the experience.

As I mentioned earlier this semester, the much dreaded “Whatwillyoudonextyear” has replaced “hegemonic” and “Foucault,” as the most over-used phrase in this arboretum. While the hated hardworking and lame fortunate among us already have concrete plans in place, the rest are faced with an series of possibilities that have been shrinking in number and scope faster than freshmen at a party whose soundtrack doesn’t include T-Pain or Flo Rida (also, what has happened to rap names these days? Have we reached a point where a letter and a sensation or cutting a state name in half is all it takes to moniker oneself? Could I really rap as S-Hungry or Lou Isiana?).

Once lofty plans have now turned into desperation to find employment, so that many seniors who were considering a fellowship abroad or a lucrative consulting job are now wondering whether deep sea fishing in Alaska is as dangerous as advertised or if barista-ing is the best way to climb the corporate ladder. Even for those who have managed to have found gainful labor, the knowledge that “sleeping in until 8” usually refers to the a.m. in the professional realm necessitates a cultural shift that will be difficult to pull off without direct shots of E to the bloodstream in the morning. There is a distinct fear among the jobbed that the adjustment from college to worker drone may leave those indoctrinated to the culture here feeling more out of place than Justin Shaffer at a tour-guides meeting.

For many, Dom Lowell’s bizarrely unsolicited “100 days left” email was the first knelling of this impending non-Dandin related doom bell. As the unspoken but much worried about countdown drones on the panic is spreading even faster than Margaret Cho fandom here. (Seriously, couldn’t last week’s Phoenix just have been called “We Love You Margaret”? Also, how is it that the Cooper thing and Olde Club have so greatly outperformed the LSE in the last two years? They got Margaret Cho while our committee whose job is to hire awesome performers got the lady whose latest major role is playing what the Internet describes as “The Sassy-Voiced Apple” in the Applebee’s commercials? The Wilco debacle is officially the new curse of the Billy Goat. I should add that I will rescind this ramble and light my hair on fire in celebration if Girl Talk is indeed imminent.) While much of the impromptu examination that falls upon every senior is job-related, there are still more pressing matters to consider post-grad08tion.

The biggest looming question, one that makes my very fingertips quake with trepidation, is an option riskier than telling me that I can write an extra-long column: the return home.

The pros are obvious. Two word phrases that begin with free, fridges that do not smell and look like two weeks old Chinese food, cable television, someone who wakes up before you and tends to cook breakfast, comfort and the ability to steal money with the pre-loaded justification that you stand to inherit it anyway and are just trying to get around the troublesome insurance tax.

The downsides are equally obvious. They range from the need to constantly clear history on the family computer to the cumbersome practice of introducing/hiding paramours to realizing that one can not loudly yell expletives whenever the mood strikes. In my opinion, being home these days initially seems like a visit to the greatest hotel in the world but after a few weeks, you realize that the service is getting a little bit nosy and you have the sneaking suspicion that someone is rifling through your briefcase.

To be honest, I think that going home is crazier than the people who served the Jello Shots at Sharples, (I still can’t believe that happened. Honestly, it was so mind-blowingly blatant that I suspect that Public Safety thought they were getting a contact high from the Mayan archaeological excavation going on at the drink station and left well enough alone (And isn’t it fun to watch zombieish students go through their post-food-gathering routines with their heads down only to run into the bottleneck and realize that there are no glasses there? It’s like watching Lemmings) Between the delicious wobbly insanity and the upcoming mascot competition I feel like I’m in some crazy post-war Otto Dix painting. (Also, now that it is upon us, can we reflect on how bad a choice the Phoenix was for our school mascot? First of all, the real Phoenix is in your hands right now, ok, and don’t forget it. Second, we should have been the Earthquakers; that would have been so awesome that we would probably even have won some athletic competitions after our opponents recognized our sheer greatness and cheerfully surrendered. Thirdly, anyone who would volunteer to be the mascot is either insane or the greatest performance artist since Andy Kaufman (Speaking of cringe worthy things, does anyone else blanch when people compare Senator Obama to Bobby Kennedy? Can’t we pick some other great unifying 20th century figure like MLK or Gandhi or…oh man. ).)) but the alternatives also have issues.

I’ve heard some say they are ready to strike off on their own, which seems overly adventurous, and others make sure to live with friends, which guarantees that post-college will be college, so there really isn’t any obvious answer at this point.

The fact is, as enticing as the freedom to do anything may be, it’s pretty hard to figure out what to do if you can choose from … well, anything.

If the vows of our Senior class can be trusted though, that will all be sorted out 11 days from now, when we get back from break. In other words, let’s keep on praying that DaVinci’s goes back on sale.

Adam is a senior. You can reach him at adalva1@swarthmore.edu.

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