I have a Master’s degree.
The George Washington University — how pretentious, right? — has (almost, nearly) certified my receipt of a Master of Professional Studies in Publishing.
In May, with still a few months to go, man, was I excited??
And then, on the evening of July 23, after coming home from my final class, The Boy and I went out for cheesecake.
Now, in the near month that’s followed, I’m not quite sure what to think. I got a library card, and checked out books I haven’t yet read. I get up in the mornings and come to a job that I (don’t always) dislike. And I get to spend seven nights a week, instead of the five that had been the norm, with my boy.
What am I supposed to do now that I’m really a grown up?
I don’t have an answer. For 20 years, I was a student. A waitress and a student. An editorial assistant and a grad student. An editorial assistant, a freelance copyeditor, a girlfriend, and a grad student. That one title that forged on, and carried me through three primary schools, two middle schools, two high schools and two institutions of higher education is gone. And I miss it.
Today is move-in day at the University from which I received my Bachelor’s degree, and it feels foreign to not be a part of the ‘gear up for Fall’ rituals for the first time since 1992.
Over the next few months, I have no doubt I’ll find my sea legs and learn how to navigate the new challenges that come with the land of “real” grown-ups, and maybe, eventually, I’ll go back to school for that MPA I’ve had my eye on since college.
But for now, I’ll attend to those books, waiting patiently in my Nook, and focus my attention to ritual on our impending tropical vacation.