#i wanted to post this somewhere...but facebook was def not an option lol

[annachronismmm]

2016:

A year of transition, of change. When I started writing this, I wanted it to be a melding of world events and my life, but it turned out to mostly be my life. Whoops. Anway, here’s my take on the craziness of last year: 

2016. A sentence that begins with quotation marks savoring of both endings and beginnings. The last year of chlorine, of perpetual exhaustion. A year of anxiety and apprehensions, applications and lessened application in the pool. A year of decimals--disappointing decimals, that is, slightly more than there were last year. Of yellow ribbons instead of white. Of love for the girls on your team--and those annoying boys, too. Of that mattering much more than the times.

A year of breakfast, of starting something silly with your friends because it’s second-semester senior year and what the heck. A year of dancing. Of learning to let go of leading and letting the up-and-comers take charge.

Again, a year of uncertainty. Of loading admissions portals with your eyes squeezed shut, terrified to see the results. Of celebrating good news and bemoaning the bad. Of finding new friends in strange places--in potatoes, of all things. Of knowing exactly what you want and spending spring break working to make it happen.

But then: a year of the guidance counselor materializing above you as you sit in the hallway with Maddie, Jeffrey, and Frankie. Of the valedictorian standing behind her. Of an invisible choke hold around your neck as you realize what’s happening and you know you should be exhilarated but you just aren’t. Of lilies, clutched in your arms, that break your heart but not because they’re beautiful. Of going home and crying in the bathtub because you feel like a piece of shit for wanting to throw away something that so many people you know would be incredibly grateful to have. Of revisiting a school you’d entirely written off so long ago, of realizing yes, you could love this place, too.

Still, though, a year of picking the sensible option, because that’s what you always do--your heart is forever muzzled, your mind with its hands firmly grasped on the leash.

A year of realizing that you can’t make a hero out of a person, because they’re bound to let you down, bound to be just as flawed as everyone else. Of proving him wrong, of adrenaline-rushed match play because that spot is ours, goddammit, we’re boss ass bitches who are fucking CLOSERS and we’ll be damned if politics are going to get in the way of that. Of deuce, of sheepish laughter. Of sunburns. Of dinner on the river bank. Of calls from the hotel front desk and pretending like we don’t know what’s going on, that people haven’t been banging on our door for the past hour even though we’re just inside hanging out.  

A year of a swanky dinner and ball gowns. Of speeding along in a jolting red sports car with a king, a prince, and your best friend with you. Of driving to the roller rink, contentedness emanating throughout you, with “Scar Tissue” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers illuminating the dark roads packed in by corn.

A year of finally not caring about a class. Of frauleins, frown lines, of saying plEASE in the most nasally voice you can summon. A year of Le Petit Prince, of right wingin’, bitter clingin’ proud clingers. A year of “Copperhead Road,” of Microsoft Paint.

And, finally, a year of endings, of goodbyes. Of lasts. Of it all feeling surreal for the next three weeks. Of knowing the next time you walk through those doors, you won’t have your backpack and it will all feel different, changed, permanently.

A year of ducking out early, of school being out of session for UDHS but still in session at FSU. Of, a week earlier, overconfidence at sectionals and paying dearly for it. Of petty parents and unrelenting shame as you trudge off the court. Of, today, craving redemption with every atom in your body and attempting to contain the nerves that come with that. Of an ace on match point. Of 6-3, 6-3. Of a win at regionals. Of the bus breaking down in the parking lot, but that being surprisingly okay because oh my god, it was the last day of school with these people forever and we just won regionals, too. Of sprawling out on the sun-drenched, dusty red courts with our water jugs in hand, again watching the up-and-comers rally half-lazily, half-seriously because they know their time will come, too. Of Ivanhoe’s with your best friends, sitting at a booth awkwardly because it all just ended and no one knows where to tiptoe first in this vast, exciting unknown.

A year of semi-state. Of being ridiculously, completely the underdogs. Of entertaining hope but entering the court with the suspicion that today, you’re playing for personal honor instead of team victory. Of personal victory and team defeat--again, another ending, another fig falling off the tree, spoiled.

A year of mortarboards and gowns. Of walking out of the auditorium at the front of the line, past all those parents who have shown you kindness over the years. Of emerging outside into the setting sun, laughing and hugging. Of pictures. Of Dairy Queen with your grandparents. Of post-graduation s’mores with friends, the reality of it all still not reality. Of never-ending parties and crockpots of pulled pork.

A year of t-shirts--lots and lots of t-shirts. Of ink and squeegees and screens. Of conveyor belts and boxes.

A year, still, of tennis. Of deuce, endlessly. Of small redemptions, revenge served. Of penguins. Of letting your partner’s ego run rampant because it’s funny and honestly kind of entertaining--then, of seeing him defer to the alpha tennis male. Then, beating said alpha tennis male and his partner. Of being a dark horse and #norespect.

A year of new cities. Of streets and avenues, crowds of people who don’t give a shit about you and honestly, that’s wonderful. Of mind-blowing cookies and the musical you’ve been dying to see. Of renowned paintings and sculptures, of a lush green square plopped in between the skyscrapers. Of wandering the High Line on Bastille Day with an old friend. Of returning home with a hunger for more.

A year of summer bonfires with friends old and friends really quite recent. Of kayaking down the river, letting the current pull you, of laughing when the others get stuck on a sandbank. Of county road car adventures. Of blue raspberry creamy slushes and that disgusting candy cotton Mountain Dew concoction you refused to try.

A year of an excruciatingly long July because you can’t wait to JUST GET THE HECK OUT OF HERE ALREADY. Of scouring Pinterest for dorm decorating ideas. Of packing, and, finally, more goodbyes. Of not knowing how to say goodbye to the best friend you’ve had since fourth grade. Of not crying until you’re on the interstate and not really knowing why, because this is what you’ve been looking forward to for years. Of the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the way into campus. Of you, your roommate, and your mom carrying your stuff into the dorm.  Of initial awkwardness--with everyone. Of having to walk away before your mom even gets in the car to drive away because she’s your best friend and you know you’re about to lose it.

A year of sweltering heat that first week, yet trekking all over the campus you don’t yet know in spite of it. Of adventures with people who will turn up again later. Of wandering through the art museum with people you’re pretty sure are going to be your friends.

A year of finding your people--the ones who love books and learning and early mornings just as much as you do. Of early Saturday morning runs through campus, when it’s empty and covered in a layer of dew. Of sitting in your friend’s dorm room in your pajamas as half the floor troops down the hallway for a night out. Of being perfectly, incandescently happy right where you are. Of sitting in the quad on a blanket with your friends, gossiping about boys. Of weekend afternoons spent at the library.

A year of enlightenment, of lots and lots of reading. Of timid knocks on professors’ doors for office hours. Of falling in love with the subjects you didn’t expect. Of call-out meetings. Of weekly deadlines and parliamentary procedure.

A year of late nights studying, but not always. Of staying up until 6 with a boy who, in the end, can’t ever say what he feels. Of kissing him, of disappointment in that. Of silence. Of realizing that you really didn’t care that much about him, either.

A year of nonsensical videos, of 9 P.M. runs to the cafeteria with your friends for donuts and hot chocolate. A year of exploring a new town. Of downtown festivals and restaurants and farmer’s markets.

A year of color runs. Of swim club. Of coming to the realization that working out is still a necessity, even when you’re walking five miles a day.

A year of SNL, of David S. Pumpkins, of Kate McKinnon’s Hillary Clinton. A year of disappointment and realization on a national scale. Of waking up on November 10th to the results you never expected. Of numbness, of shock. Of rude relatives on Facebook. Of sorrow.

A year of more cities--cities of the windy variety, that is. Of long hours in committee, of new friends. Of finally being home. Of it feeling like it’s been a day since you last saw some of your high school friends and running out of things to talk about once you’ve gossiped about your former classmates with the others. Of starting to appreciate your hometown, of loving it for its flaws, road entirely made of fast food chains and potholes and all.

A year of deciding to trust the boy who, if you’re being honest with yourself, you’ve been intrigued by for a good chunk of the semester. Of illusory hope. Of realizing that he’s either completely full of shit or great at telling one helluva fish story. (Probably both.) Of naively, stupidly looking for answers when you’ve been reminded that real-life isn’t like a book--no denouement, no closure, no loose ends wrapped up in a nice little bow. Of making peace with this.

A year of your first collegiate finals week, a week slower than any other the whole semester. Of packing, again. Of going home, however temporary it may be. Of living halfway out of your suitcase and your old dresser. Of all the adults in your life and the same questions, over and over.

A year of long road trips. Of the puppy bothering you the entire time. Of cousins and and aunts and uncles and grandparents. Of deciding that your grandmother has finally, really, truly lost it. Of tubing at night, looking not down the hill but up, feeling the ice dust through the air as you slide down the chute at a breakneck pace. Of unconventional New Year’s Eve shenanigans, because when have you and Krissy ever been conventional? Of gingerbread and hot glue guns and fireworks.

And, finally, the ending punctuation; a year of deciding, of choosing, to leave the things and people that belong in 2016 in the past, your eyes focused only straight ahead, on January 1st.