A couple of years ago, (around this time although I do not remember the day nor does it warrant looking up) I, too, graduated college.
That’s right, you fresh crop of Facebook photo albums, I ALSO once carried a smart phone while frantically looking for my parents post-ceremony, lost in a sea of light cardigans and Ann Taylor mom pants. That’s right, you group shots of bright cheeks and “it’s weird that I hooked up with him and he got in this picture anyway!” I was there once. I held the diploma and then stuck it on my wall instead of burning or eating it. I did it as well.
Time, you devil. I look at these Twitter statuses, ye throngs of faithful social media mavens, displaying optimism and fear and all that lies in between—and I feel old. Well, not old in the way Rose was SO old she deemed it perfectly fine to drop a bajillion dollar necklace in the sea. Old in the way that my bread feels old: moldly, but still potentially usable.