 Help.
I am being catapulted. I hurtle head over heels through time with nothing to slow me and no guarantee of anything but an earth-shattering crash landing. My senior year meteor races along, disregarding my frantic tries to yank on the emergency break. Too late do I attempt to abandon ship and take that two-semester victory lap—I had enough credits to graduate last year. It appears that the only choice is to cling on for dear life and hope everything turns out alright.
 I don’t understand how I ended up here. Just yesterday, I tasted my first Chipati, last week I got lost walking home to Markley and finally I feel like my blisters from rushing 15 houses are beginning to heal. So how did I wake up this morning to my phone’s flashing reminder to register for graduation?
Everyone always said, “Amanda, you better make the most of it, college goes by quickly!” I scoffed, waving away their warnings knowing that I, forever young, would never actually reach that age. I beamed into the future, looking expectantly to everything from pregame season to Christmas break. However now, a feeling of quasi-dread bubbles up inside with the arrival of each football Saturday along with severe nausea at the thought of Halloween and dizziness at an upcoming fall break. With each passing event, the end looms more menacingly. No longer do I possess the safety blanket of three, two or even one more year; we are at the final countdown folks.
After much lamenting about the absurdly speedy passing of three glory-filled years, I realize something; this, all of this undergraduate joy, would be dwindle and die if it went on forever.
Harry Potter’s Great Hall (aka the Law Reading Room) would become as dull as your local library. Skeeps’ tequila Tuesday would show itself for what it truly is—lime and salt accompanied by a half-shot of lighter fluid. Sava’s would taste mediocre as McDonalds and Sadako on par with a cheap China Palace. Michigan’s school colors, maize and blue, would appear bland as taupe and the fight song equivalent to an irritating TV jingle. Our school quirks and charms would devolve into daily banalities with no new fresh eyes to be filled by their wonder.
I hear that senior year clock ticking in my waking and dreaming. The ominous movement of the minute hand leading to the inevitable shrieking ring, forcing me to roll out of my happy Michigan dream into the harsh daylight of reality. But let me tell you, with every tick I savour my sips of a Rick’s MindProbe and each tock reminds me how very beautiful I find the Diag. As a freshman, I did not realize the immensity of the opportunities at this school. As a sophomore, I took Michigan’s tradition and majesty for granted. As a junior, I felt too stressed to indulge in all the diversions Ann Arbor offers.
But as a senior, as a kid careening through her last year at a break-neck pace, I finally appreciate how lucky I am to be here. I know I can’t turn my speeding asteroid around in order to redo college years one through three but at least I can look around on my ride to take in the sights, sounds and emotions for one last time.
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