Can you believe it? Senior year is no longer around the corner. It's here, knocking on my door. . . and I'm but a few steps away from turning the knob and letting the madness commence. I'm excited. I'm nervous. I'm elated. I'm terrified.
I cannot wait to see my three amazing, talented, beautiful (inside and out) roommates. I desperately miss Roomie, my amazeballs-talented-stunning-ridiculous-humorous roommate from last year.
I'm excited to move in to our big condo, generously spaced for four people to live in. It will be so nice to have three other people sharing the burden of internet, groceries, dishes, keeping the floors swept and the trash emptied. Other hands to lock the door at night. Voices in the living room and footsteps in the morning, a comforting rustle to and from the kettle and the coffee maker as sleep lingers around my eyes. Gentle reminders that we're safe and at home and with this strange little family we've built. I long for our little two person condo, which seemed so massive for two at the beginning but quickly filled with all the trappings of a home - not a college apartment. All of our friends loved gathering in it's cozy confines, on it's soft velvety green couch, at the high table with the sunflower placemats: they said it felt like a home more than anywhere else on campus, instead of like temporary school residences. And thats what it was. We tried to keep treats in the bowl on the end of the counter, tea in the pantry for when friends stopped by. Music played constantly and our assortment of paintings and other artwork covered the space, each item lovingly crafted either by Roomie's hands or by our talented friends.
I'm anxious to begin dancing again, everyday, and at the highest possible level. I miss my "uniform," the skin tight leotards and the well worn tights. I long for the stretch and the shaking and the ache in my muscles, for the trail of sweat that outlines my spine and tells me I've worked mu guts out. I am eager for the ritual of the ballet class, one hand on the barre, the sounds of the pianists fingers working the keys, the intimidating but reassuring gaze of the ballet mistress. I am anxious to push myself through an advanced level Horton Technique modern class, to test what my body can do, how strong in can be. I worry that I'm still not recovered enough. I fear the damage to my body, a tired, battered thing, laced with scars and tattered by neglect. I wonder how much damage the cruel men in my life have done, how broken I will reveal myself to be under the duress of the highest level classes in a competitive and grueling environment. I find myself hoping I can live up to the standards of my beautiful, talented, athletic classmates, so many of whom are fierce dynamos and elegant technicians, they're bodies supple and responsive.
I am anxious to leave this place behind - this lovely and serene home state of mine, with less people than there is wildlife. It is a lovely place to visit, and if you're the type, it is an idilic place to live. But it's wooded charms and rural graces are lost on me, wasted on a child who wants only to be free of the nest. I long for the more populous town - still considered small by most standards - where I live and am educated. I ache in my bones for a train stop a mere feet from my apartment that will take me to one of the world's major cities for $6.75 and a half hour ride. I am excited to step back into a world where jokes about dancers and classes and movements, half of which must be in French to even identify the topic being jested, will be appreciated. Where singing in the halls isn't unusual, it's expected. I'm not quirky or unique there, at least not for the reasons my family back home thinks of me. I look forward to Mass in the large, old, granite church with it's stained glass windows and lovingly worn wooden benches. I feel tears pooling in my eyes at the thought of kissing Boyfriend goodbye, once again. This will be the fourth goodbye which promises 9 months of only intermittent contact. I dread not knowing the next time I can fall asleep with my head in his lap and the tv on or reach over and squeeze his hand without thinking about it. I cringe at the thought that summer's sweetness has faded: rehearsals with new found friends, a job that mandates singing nursery songs and playing with a rainbow colored trampoline, kissing my love at dusk, stolen moments at a family lobster bake while his abundance of cousins cause a ruckus.
There is one more hour - one last magic hour - left before any time for thought or doubt has ended and all that is left is getting in the car and riding away. Not into the sunset, I think, though this moment does mark a certain ending era. Rather, it is into the sunrise I must ride - and who knows what waits beyond in that new sun dappled horizon?
