I can’t put my finger on it yet, but something is amiss. Like I’ve rushed out of the house patting my pockets going “phone/ wallet / keys” and then realised I’m not wearing any pants.
I think it’s got something to do with the fact that (shhh!) I’m not a student anymore.
Seventeen successive years of education tend to lead you to see youself in a certain way. You come to define yourself as a “student”, in more than just the sense of “I go to uni sometimes and occasionally write assignments”. When charity hawkers in shopping malls corner you and request your bank details for a monthly deduction, it’s always “well, how about I give you what’s in my wallet, because I’m a student and there’s usually not much left in my account for you to deduct”. Or kindly grandmothers force leftovers on you after family gatherings, suggesting that your supposedly skeletal frame is a product of the Howard Government’s anti-student agenda. Or you participate in a protest or Reclaim The Streets and are subject to cranky office workers muttering about troublemaking students. In short, you embrace the term “student” as a lifestyle, not as a mere demographic box you tick on the National Census form.
And now? Now seventeen years of continual education have drawn to a close, and I don’t know what to do. Have a holiday, sure. Save some money, fine. Start a career… maybe. Study more? Not right now.
I feel like I’m in this expansive, yet temporally brief, moment where endless possibilities and opportunities abound. How do you stop feeling scared of the unknown and start to grab hold of it with both hands?
I guess I’ll figure it out. First I have to find my pants.