This past weekend I took a brief trip to the Twin Cities to look for housing for next year. It's bittersweet, but as they say, I am moving on to the next chapter in my life. Specifically, I'm moving to a state that apparently has a few more lakes than our dear ol' Wisconsin. But, I'm calling shenanigans on the ""Land of 10,000 Lakes"" slogan; I was there for four days and the only water I saw was the puddle I clumsily stepped in on my way to a business conference. Ewww—business conference. Those adult sounding words have never been in my vocabulary, and now, shit, they are going to be part of my reality.
Well, on the plane ride back to Madison I completely ignored my heartfelt, pre-trip intentions of getting reading done for finals. But the travel time was so short it seemed pretty futile to make the effort to dig through my backpack and pull out my books. That would require too much physical exertion. Seriously, getting situated on a plane is a sport. Plus, I was squished between a nine-year-old picking his nose and another kid eating McDonalds and attempting to squirt ketchup onto each of his fries individually. With that kind of combo going on, who could possibly concentrate and get any work done? Not I.
So, instead of being productive, I turned my iPod on shuffle. The first song that came on was Ben Folds' ""Bastard."" Actually, no, that's a lie; the first song that came on was Sisqo's ""Thong Song."" Five seconds of that and I was done. Anyway, there are lyrics in ""Bastard"" that go, ""They get nostalgic about the last 10 years / before the last 10 years have passed."" Back in high school I would say to myself, ""Mr. Folds, that doesn't make sense. How can you possibly be nostalgic about something that hasn't even passed? Mr. Folds, please explain.""
And then, in the midst of the one kid's boogers streaking the plane's window and with the aroma of a fatty Big Mac in the air, it all began to make sense. Even though I haven't left Madison and still have a week of school left, I already miss Madison. I find myself lying in bed reminiscing about the ""good old days"" when, in fact, I am actually still living the good days. If my life were a movie and I were an old man (that would be weird), my current state of nostalgia would look something like me wearing tube socks with moccasins, sitting in a rocking chair on my front porch, smoking a cigar at dusk and peering out at a cornfield thinking about the days of yore. Does that make sense? Am I rambling? Is anyone even listening to me?
To be frank with you guys, I don't know where I'm going with this. Maybe that's because I've always been bad with goodbyes. One of my more embarrassing goodbye failures happened last year when I turned in my final exam for a class. I never know how to say goodbye to professors/TAs: ""Hey teach, thanks for a great year! Have a nice… life?"" Well I thought this particular professor was exceptionally cool, and I thought we were pretty tight, so when it came time to say goodbye I didn't really know what to do. In the spur of the moment I panicked and put out my fist to give knucks. He was apparently not on board. He just shook his head no, said, ""Have a nice summer,"" and went back to grading the exams. Ouch.
Okay whatever, I'm bad with goodbyes, but I'm pretty awesome at giving thanks. Just a few days ago when I was doing homework with my roommate, I sneezed and said thank you. Then she started laughing. Turns out the bitch didn't even say bless you. So sometimes I say thanks when people don't even deserve it. Annnnnd, I don't know if I just shared that tidbit to showcase my point of being good at saying thanks, or if I shared that just to announce that my roommate is a brat. Anyway, at an early age my mother instilled in me that a sincere thank you could go a long way. So here it is, chumps…
Thank you to everyone who has put up with my profuse references to ""Billy Madison."" I think I have finally gotten it out of my system. I have a feeling when I'm teaching elementary kids next year, they will have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about if, after a student got an answer correct, I turned around from the blackboard and said, ""I think Crazy Carl is right.""
Thank you for putting up with my constant anecdotes about food. I'm sorry if I ever made you say to yourself, ""I get it, Kathleen—you like to eat. Now shut up.""
Thank you Daily Cardinal for giving me waaaaaay too much page space. Thank you to two young gents by the names of Kyle and Kevin for encouraging me to write for the paper. And thank you to my editor, Victoria, for helping me streamline and edit all the ideas that sounded ""good"" in my head but sounded like crap on paper.
Thank you to my parents and brothers for, well, everything. This one could take awhile, so instead I'll just thank you guys in person when I see you next.
For fellow graduating seniors: If you ever find yourself yearning for those college days, just go with it. Show up to a tailgate uninvited, act like all the students there are your buddies, be sure to wear your Badger gear, chug a beer or two and start singing ""On Wisconsin."" Because as Conan O'Brien, a human much smarter, wittier, taller and thinner than I, once said, ""When all else fails, you always have delusion.""
Thanks, Madison, it's been a real joy.
No, Kathleen actually does like her roommate. But that was pretty rude of her not to say, ""Bless you,"" don't you think? Please share any of your early onset nostalgia stories at kqbrosnan@wisc.edu.
