My singing, "I won't saaaaay those words, then taaaake them baaaaaaack", interrupted by my phone. Tom. A co-worker at Nat City (he works at the Mount Pleasant branch nowadays).
"Hi-Hello" I answer.
Tom is good kid (who likes to drunkenly text me little treasures like "a7re yzou aslept?" at 3AM on Wednesday nights). Emphasis on the good, as his Dad is a cop. I doubt Tom has ever had so much as an overdue library book. And, as a bank employee, he chastises me when my account goes into the red. Good kid, that Tom.
(Last summer, I was blonde and Tom was tan.)
Tom will be graduating this spring with a degree in broadcasting from CMU. He wants to be a news anchor. I keep him around so that he can introduce me to Matt Kirkwood, on the local level, and maybe even someday Brian Williams.
I would buy a Brian Williams Calendar, Swooooooon. (You ladies can keep your silver fox, Anderson Cooper.)
Anyway, after the bitching about our jobs, our conversation turns to our impending graduations.
"This is so much worse than high school senioritis." I tell Tom.
He agrees with me, but goes on to say "at least with high school, you knew what was coming next. I hate the anxiety of not knowing my next move."
I disagreed. An hour later, I stand by my disagreement.
The last twenty two years have been planned. The plans have changed, but I always knew my endgame. There is a natural progression, from high school to college, from the first job to the next (and then the next).
For the first time, I don't know where I will be a year from now.
I know where I want to be, but I don't know if it will happen.
Its kind of exciting.