My friends and family are currently on the verge of killing me. After returning from a summer spent in Italy, I don’t think more than three hours goes by each day without a “Mehhhhhhh Italy!” or “In Italy they do this …” or “Let me pause ‘Harry Potter’ for five minutes while I find that picture of me in London where Ron Weasley once stood.” It’s reeling out of control — I know this — but I just cannot stop. I can’t get over it. I can’t move on. I’m in an Italy homesick rut. And the root of it all is the idea of moving on.
Moving on is a funny thing, whether it’s from high school, college, a friendship, a heartbreak, an embarrassing moment or a life-changing experience — the list could continue endlessly. Some people are pretty solid when it comes to moving past things … others not so much.
Let’s talk Harding — the land of fifth-, sixth- and seventh-year seniors. The home of graduates and former students who are — for some curious reason — still seen biweekly in the student center. The place where club member from who-knows-when still shows up for all-club devo. It’s the hub of graduates who can’t move on.
This comes alive the strongest during club week. Yes, I know that clubs can be wonderful and such a blessing in students’ lives. But let me repeat that one word: students. It’s bad enough when you’re the sole graduate student showing up for everything, but when you’re the only one left in your pledge class? It’s OK to have club pride and love the experience, but there’s a time to just be thankful for your experience and let it go. Let’s be honest — that time was probably at least six months ago, but better late than never.
This same mantra applies to so many different things. If the “love of your life” ends the relationship, don’t stalk him or her for months and glare at every person that he or she is talking to. When you realize it’s time for you and your roommate to cut the cord and go your separate ways, get over the fact that she may have been the messiest person alive and forget it. And if your skirt happens to rip from the slit in the back all the way up to the zipper when you’re leaving work? Accept the fact that you may have scarred a few people who saw you in the parking lot, laugh about it and move on.
Another thing I struggle with moving past: the Bugles incident. I was probably 5 or 6 and my older sister and I were eating Bugles, the pointy corn chip snack food kids used to eat. Well, I was wearing mine on all my fingers, pretending I was a witch when one of them fell on my sister’s plate. She then proceeded to eat it and claim I “told her she could eat it.” Lies — utter lies. As you see, I’m still a tiny bit bitter. So whenever this incident is talked about, it comes alive and we argue as if our lives depended on. Let me remind you, I was 5. You think we could have just moved on from it, but nope. When someone eats my Bugles, there’s no going back.
In a short 15 days I will be a college graduate. For the first time in six years, I won’t be working for Student Publications. I won’t be in Searcy (or anywhere in the South for that matter). I won’t be in a social club. I won’t be living with my closest friends. I will be school-free after 17 years of school. It’s time to move on.
I’m not saying I’ll be good at it, but I can promise you I’ll try. I mean in Italy they … never mind. I’m letting it go.
