If you’re looking for wisdom from a UMW senior, just stop reading right now.
By no means am I qualified to offer advice about anything other than overcoming a Thursday-night concussion in time for Friday’s trip to UVA. Or possibly, how to avoid suicide after two consecutive all-nighters.
I don’t intend to talk about sex every week, and I’m certainly not trying to get political. But, I do hope to amuse you and, more importantly, myself.
This summer, I had the opportunity to live in Houston and work at an art gallery. The experiences I had were amazing, I befriended some great people, blah, blah, blah. To be really cliché, it made me realize that I have no clue about what I want to do with the rest of my life.
I’m talking existential crises levels of uncertainty.
For as long as I’ve been cognizant of the facts that I will have a future and that my parents won’t be funding my lavish lifestyle forever, I’ve wanted to marry a rich (preferably not that old) guy, pop out a kid or two, and join the PTA or whatever it is housewives do once they’ve bought everything at Nordstrom.
I was going to hire a good nanny, buy a Mercedes, take up tennis, and maybe flip a table and pull out someone’s weave when the Real Housewives of Fredericksburg begins filming.
What can I say? I’m lazy, hedonistic, and, obviously, a sucker for true love.
Over the summer, I met a ton of potential future husbands. They were all nice enough and rich enough (can you ever really be rich enough?), but they were also mad boring.
I pride myself on my ability to feign interest in anything, but you try listening to these people drone on about their favorite World Series or about how Obama has been such a monumental disappointment all summer.
Cool. Dad, I’ll be in the bathroom shot-gunning the beers I have in my purse, but when I get back, please, please, please tell me more about your recent trip to the cardiologist. Ugh.
Every time my friends texted me about their adventures at home, I found myself wishing I was bumming around with them in Fredericksburg (I know, right?). By the time I was packing to come home, no amount of free drinks, food or security for my future would have been enough to keep me interested in those old bros.
All I really wanted out of the summer was to find a man with whom I could spend the rest of his life and instead I got a clue.
Obviously, I can’t abandon my dreams due to a few set-backs. However, for the moment, I’m resigned to the realization that I would rather be sitting around my apartment with my crazy, fun, poor friends than, well, doing anything with these dull and stuffy rich guys.
If we can excuse how trite they are for a moment, I’m willing to acknowledge that The Beatles may have been onto something with that line in She’s Leaving Home. “Fun is the one thing that money can’t buy,” floated through my brain nearly every time I had to force a smile and try to remain conscious at yet another uptight cocktail party. Sure, money buys food, alcohol, and, well, virtually everything else you need to facilitate fun, but when it comes down to it, maybe it’s who you’re with, not what you’re doing that actually matters.