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The morning of the first day of my last semester of high school, I spent about twenty minutes dry heaving into my sink. TMI? Too bad, it’s my column; get off my lawn, you damn beatnik. I don’t know if the dry heaving was triggered by physical illness, stress about school or overwhelming existential dread caused by rapid changes in my life, but I do know that this morning felt like a pretty fitting beginning of the end of my secondary education. 

It reminded me of the fear and uncertainty I felt on the morning of my first day of seventh grade. I clearly remember looking in the mirror that morning and thinking, “Take me back to sixth grade.” I felt unhappy about how my life was changing, repulsed at the concept of middle school and (mostly unjustly) furious about the frickin’ uniform. Specifically, the fact that I could see the outline of my camisole through my tucked-in polo. But did I freak out? Did I hide in a hoodie all day? No! I got through that first day then made my mom buy me some nude A-cup bras. (Side note: do seventh graders still get the lecture about not wearing colorful sports bras under polos ‘cause they show your “lady bits”? Or did someone point out that saying that is weird, and always has been? Just curious.) 

After that aforementioned dry heaving, I brushed my teeth, pulled on my uniform, and ate some oatmeal. Some days you just have to get through. If I hadn’t gotten through those rough moments, I wouldn’t have spent hours listening to my wonderful teachers, chatting in the performing arts hallway while blocking foot traffic access to the gym and loudly discussing an ASM speech. Some days, all I can think about is walking out the front gates and not stopping ‘till I hit the Pacific (I really want to make an Edna Pontellier joke here, but that feels a little too uncouth), but I think that’s just high school. Anyway, I’m going to go listen to Taylor Swift and mourn the end of my childhood. Have a great semester, y’all. π

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