GOOD GRIEF: Quarter-life crisis conundrum

Hello, quarter-life crisis. I didn't think you were capable of coming to fruition. I guess I lassoed you in with Santa, the Tooth Fairy and Tupac in Hiding — all fine concepts but unbelievable nonetheless. The first omen should have been the Stall Street Journal. It was weeks prior to the culmination of sophomore year, the halfway point of my undergraduate career, when I found myself in the office staring mindlessly at the headline for an Office of Health Promotions-sponsored talkback on all things concerning a Villanova student.

Now, three months later, I would like to give myself retrospectively an unapologetic right hook, perhaps a Tyson-esque ear chomp. My state is that desperate. Mere days before entering my 20th year, it has become clear that the incessant mental unrest, thoughts of inferiority, difficulty sleeping and susceptibility to tears at not-so upsetting words and phrases have spawned from an overdue QLC diagnosis. 

A note to dear fresh frosh: I am not trying to break your ambitious hearts. College is as fancy and parent-free as you have been dreaming of. You have ample time until there are expectations placed above you, until you find yourself in a Chinese restaurant faced with the question: "What are your intentions for after graduation?" I would advise you first-years to stop reading now. Cherish these days of newness with the inherent naïveté you have been trying so casually to hide. I would hate to feel responsible for instilling any premature anxiety; the collective burden would keep me up longer, and I am the one in the midst of a meltdown, remember?

Dear fellow upperclassmen: Tell me I am not alone, and there is no reason to fret. Tell me it is perfectly fine that I did not have a credit-reaping internship at a highly credible publication or advertising firm this summer. Tell me it is okay that I have not worked it into the first quarter of my life to check in with assorted third world countries and feed the children. Reassure me that it is not me, it's them.  By "them" I mean guys — each difficult, inconsistent, incomprehensible guy. Rub my back and tell me Marty McFly tales of how you have seen the future, and that it is a glowing place where college graduates receive fulfilling employment at bustling organizations without plummeting into the valley of student debt and, oh yes, there are plenty of pastries involved too. I need one of you to pull me aside when I'm taking my leisurely stride to night class and whisper one of these sweet somethings in my ear. 

It is laughable to believe that back in May, I had a grasp on all of this. Months ago, there was enough security to be harvested from declaring a major and a concentration, knowing I would have a summer job and a three-month, unpaid writing gig. It was good enough then, in the glory days marked by the "teen" suffix. Today, in the shadow of doom known as "Happy 20th," I sense how much difference a season makes. 

This is the bad karma I collect for being a nonbeliever, for scoffing at the Stall Street's creed. Yet, if there is anything I put faith in (besides the inexplicable magic of Jayson Werth's facial hair), it is the hope that I am probably (most likely, pray to God and Charlie Manuel) not alone. Despite having passed infinite clusters of cohorts babbling about their summers in (insert European nation) and their "real world experience" accounts, I choose to tickle Freud's fancy and project my woes onto my seemingly settled peers. I see right through those manicured resumés and Colgate grins; you are all as equally terrified as I. 

I will take my crisis one defense mechanism further and displace this frustration onto innocent third and fourth parties. I could not have made it to this stage (soapbox) without help. Thank you professors, for having begun to slyly mash the GRE pill into the meat and potatoes of class discussion. I would like to thank Campus Corner for slipping a candy-colored Career Services brochure in my take-out bag, reminding me that I cannot just have my pizza and eat it too. 

Last but never least, the deepest appreciation goes to the grown-ups, blood-related or otherwise, for their copious curiosity and grave concern in my plans for the undetermined future.