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Wait. This can’t be my last column. I’m not prepared. I was supposed to be warned about this weeks ahead of time. I wanted to go out with a bang, like Trey on The OC. Given time I could have written a “Best of Adam White’s Column” column. I could have staged my own death. But now I’m struggling to meet a deadline and I have lots to say, but not really.
If graduation is a finish line, then I have been limping unsteadily toward it. Literally limping. My Achilles tendon has decided to swell to the size of a bratwurst and now it’s taking over my ankle. It says it won’t stop until it has my entire left foot in its possession. This must be a metaphor for something, but I’m not sure what.
I don’t know what to do with myself. There’s not much time left, so every decision I make is a big one. How important is it that I play golf? Would it be better to spend my afternoon watching television with friends? Right now I’m thinking that I should get a haircut. I’ve become increasingly aware that I look like an idiot. Maybe Leah will give me a haircut. I’ll blitz her.
But if Leah were to give me a haircut, it would be my LAST college haircut, and so much pressure rides on every last college moment. Already today I’ve printed the last draft of my college thesis, attended my last class, handed in my last paper, and now I’m writing my last column for The Dartmouth. My last pong game is approaching. Soon I’ll be surrounded by people who leave the handles on their ping-pong paddles.
I’m running out of time to spend with friends who think it’s a good idea to submerge themselves in a garbage can full of ice with their shirts off and then chug a beer. Soon I’ll be around individuals who don’t know what a dunkaroo is. Soon I’ll be in a place where it’s not acceptable to show up to a social event in boxers and pink flip-flops.
So how am I supposed to spend my time now that it’s in such short supply? I’ve been cramming. Days have started with work on my thesis or my Charles Dickens paper, and sometimes in the afternoon I play softball or try to figure out how to use the hill mode on the new stationary bikes in the new fitness center. It seems unfair to change things on me during my senior spring. Sure, the new bikes are better, but I had to spend time learning how to use them, and time is precious. Also, the foot straps were too tight. Somebody should fix that.
But maybe my last few weeks of college should be for new stuff, not the repetition of old stuff. After four years at Dartmouth, some things have become stale. Keystones no longer taste like champagne. My COLLEGE t-shirt doesn’t seem so college. And apparently some STDs, even the fun ones, don’t go away.
There are things I still have to try for the first time. Like I just recently went on my first college scavenger hunt. It was last week. I went on a quest across campus in search of the ‘05 class party and the winners all won iPods. My team would have won but one of my teammates rolled his ankle and lost a sprint to a barefooted woman. See, I’m not the only one limping toward the finish line. I didn’t win an iPod, but I did win a severe Achilles tendon injury.
If I had an iPod right now, I might be listening to “Glory Days” by Bruce Springstein, an anthem about people who drink heavily in order to recapture their finer moments. Or I could play “Keep on Loving You” by REO Speedwagon, which is about alums who give back to their school and get their pictures mounted in Collis. Or maybe I would listen to “Hollaback Girl” by Gwen Stefani, a song about keeping in touch with friends after college and pretending to be black. But alas, I don’t have an iPod.
I never expected to write a column in college, but I’ve enjoyed doing it. Special thanks to Mark Sweeney, my freshman roommate. He was the editor of the Mirror (back when the DM knew what it meant to be a MAN) and he asked me to write a column on the best sports movie of all time. I chose Caddyshack. The first line I ever published in the D was, “Many people would probably have a difficult time coming up with the single greatest sports movie of all time, but that is because they are ignorant and have poor taste.” For some reason nobody told me to stop writing, and I’m thankful to all of you who have kept your mouths shut for four years.
Now I’ve arrived at my last college paragraph and I’m not sure if I’ve spent this column wisely. I could try again. I could do this next year, send in my columns from elsewhere. I don’t have to leave, you know. No. It’s time to move on. Oh my god, this is my last sentence ever. No, this is. Okay, I’m done. For real.
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