The Death of Young Adulthood

It is an odd feeling returning to a an important place after you have left it behind.  Central had defined my life for the last six years.  This place holds my young adulthood.  It holds my friends, my sister, my hobbies, and my education.

This morning I woke up in my sister’s apartment (she has one more semester here,) and walked the familiar sidewalk to one of our two off-campus coffee shops.  While I walked, I looked around and lamented my young adulthood.  True, I am still in that phase of my life that would be considered “young adult.”  However, right now it is wasting away in suburbia.  My life there is early mornings, work attire, my mom and dad, three cats, and a house full of “we’ll-need-that-one-day” items piled high behind four respectable walls.

I crave my friends.  My old routines.  Improv.  Clubs.  My coffee house job.  My boyfriend being right next door.

I know that I am in a new phase of life.  And, honestly, I am getting better at it.  I am quick to forget that I hated my life not four months ago during student teaching.  Now, I am doing okay.  I have rapport at my work.  I love my job.  My students are learning.  I have a paid-for roof over my head.

That said, it is nice to wallow in some nostalgia.  To be honest, I look around at campus and see people who more closely resemble my high school students than my college friends.   At the moment, I have dusted one of my English Lit books off and am preparing a lesson plan based off of one of my favorite short stories from classes-of-college-past.  I am in the application phase of my education.  And, like my college self, and am spending my time writing a blog post rather than getting my work done.  At least the procrastinator part of my college-aged self still survives!

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