Someone recently told me that this summer was basically the last summer I had.  He told me a few weeks ago, already towards the end of the summer, so I was already feeling resentful about this statement. “You’re only sixteen,” he admonished, superior in that way that only college students with cell phone backgrounds of refrigerators full of beer can be. “Next year is going to be all about your big essay that no one gives a shit about if you don’t do well on your SATs, then after you’re trying to find an internship or something that will look good and give you “real life experience,” and then  you’re in real life and wondering what happened. Well actually, this summer is kinda bullshit too, because you’re test prepping and everything.” It didn’t help that all of the adults within a 10 foot radius were asking about my college plans either.  So began my mid-high school crisis.  I started wondering…my synapses flitting through every cliche imaginable (why must our culture keep running toward some elusive “next step”? why does it matter, as long as we are happy? why must we work so hard to achieve what will only give our children the same anxiety we have right now?) and then mentally berating myself for those (I’ve seen all the “Race to Nowhere” type movies, I’ve had all the worried-parent talks, I have actually had a good summer amongst the SAT prep) and eventually leaving me with somewhat of a blank slate.  What does it mean to realize you’re almost done? I don’t know yet. I remember a picture-holder plaque my mom put up in my room when I went into First Grade; it held 12 slots (each with a little doodle corresponding to the grade…I think 11th grade is a violin for some reason), and each year since then, I have put my awkward school photos in the slot. I have two more to go, and soon I will only have one. One year, one photo, (really) one more summer. Can I let go? I don’t know yet. I guess I will just have to keep building bucket lists, jotting down plots of stories that will never be written (at least, not with my current Junior year schedule), and scattering dandelion puffs into a million parachutes of seeds. I will just keep wishing on them, and vow never to watch Toy Story 3 again. 

Aug 25 -

Someone recently told me that this summer was basically the last summer I had. 

He told me a few weeks ago, already towards the end of the summer, so I was already feeling resentful about this statement.

“You’re only sixteen,” he admonished, superior in that way that only college students with cell phone backgrounds of refrigerators full of beer can be. “Next year is going to be all about your big essay that no one gives a shit about if you don’t do well on your SATs, then after you’re trying to find an internship or something that will look good and give you “real life experience,” and then  you’re in real life and wondering what happened. Well actually, this summer is kinda bullshit too, because you’re test prepping and everything.” It didn’t help that all of the adults within a 10 foot radius were asking about my college plans either. 

So began my mid-high school crisis. 

I started wondering…my synapses flitting through every cliche imaginable (why must our culture keep running toward some elusive “next step”? why does it matter, as long as we are happy? why must we work so hard to achieve what will only give our children the same anxiety we have right now?) and then mentally berating myself for those (I’ve seen all the “Race to Nowhere” type movies, I’ve had all the worried-parent talks, I have actually had a good summer amongst the SAT prep) and eventually leaving me with somewhat of a blank slate. 

What does it mean to realize you’re almost done? I don’t know yet.

I remember a picture-holder plaque my mom put up in my room when I went into First Grade; it held 12 slots (each with a little doodle corresponding to the grade…I think 11th grade is a violin for some reason), and each year since then, I have put my awkward school photos in the slot. I have two more to go, and soon I will only have one. One year, one photo, (really) one more summer. Can I let go? I don’t know yet.

I guess I will just have to keep building bucket lists, jotting down plots of stories that will never be written (at least, not with my current Junior year schedule), and scattering dandelion puffs into a million parachutes of seeds. I will just keep wishing on them, and vow never to watch Toy Story 3 again. 

(via soursparkle)

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