And so the countdown begins. In less than one month, I will graduate from my beloved University of Wisconsin-Madison. This reality has lead to a comprehensive slew of emotions, among them being displeasure with life’s general fleetingness. I have found the best way to deal with these circumstances is to live in the moment as best I can and focus on why I have loved UW so much: the people. Please allow me to tell you about one in particular.
There is that one boy. The one boy you grow up with, grow mature(ish) with. The one boy you can always depend on to have your back. He is the boy your parents want you to marry, the boy whose parents want you to marry their son.
For me, this boy is one Nick Kohler, and if it were not for our incompatible sexual orientations, perhaps our parents’ wishes could have come true. Instead, he is just one of the greatest friends a gal can hope to have in her life, and for the past decade we have partaken in our fair share of shenanigans.
Nick moved to my hometown from a neighboring suburb in seventh grade, and the first thing I ever said to him was, “You’re a jerk!” Besides the fact that we were in our creeper of a math teacher’s classroom, the context of this comment escapes me. I do know, however, this would not be the only time I called him a name, and Nick would prove to have numerous retorts up his sleeve. Still, the bulk of our relationship was actually filled with mutual respect and support.
Take for instance a Super Bowl party we both attended as teens. Held in the basement of a friend’s house, there was a male there whose heart apparently went pitter-patter at the site of my baby-blue braces and insufficiently supported triangle boobs. Now, said boy was very nice, but incredibly awkward and not really my 13-year-old self’s type (which is to say he was not Jess from “Gilmore Girls”). When I could not get him quite off my back, Nick swooped in to save the day: He became my “pecking partner.” We went around the party kissing each other on the cheek and announcing our “attraction” to one another. Perhaps it was not the most intricate or mature of ruses, but it worked, and I was endlessly grateful to him for helping me out of that sticky situation.
Nick and I also bonded over the confusion all teens suffer with but few outwardly discuss: The logistics of sex baffled us. On the flight back home from a school trip in Washington, D.C., we pondered how everything could possibly measure up. Using oh-so clever euphemisms, we asked each other, “How long is the ‘hallway?’ Would the ‘stick’ bump into the ‘baby room?’” Luckily, our friend and now pre-med student Sarah was there to throw whatever 14-year-old wisdom she had into our enlightening conversation.
And then there was high school. Along with our circle of friends, the two of us embraced emo culture, spending our weekends at The Academy Is… shows and listening to music for hours in the dark. Obviously, we were a very deep group. While I challenged myself to wear even more black eyeliner, Nick allowed me to do his hair in the style of Pete Wentz (I would have included documentation of this if I did not genuinely believe it would lead to my death).
Come Labor Day of our senior year, Nick and I traveled North to visit the UW-Madison campus. One of those beautiful late-summer days, we ate the first of what would become many lackluster meals at Gordon Commons.
When he chose to be a Badger instead of spending his college career in the steaming pile of feces that is Champaign, Ill., I liked to think I had a little something to do with it (He can contest this point all he wants. I am no stranger to his stubbornness).
Our years spent in Madison were equally colorful. From general Witte debauchery to evenings spent on the terrace to fellas of mine Nick gleefully and thoroughly evaluated, we have had an absolutely tremendous time.
When Nick and I walk across the Kohl Center stage on May 20, it will be the end of an era. No longer will we be able to grab old fashioneds on a moment’s notice, frequent one of Madison’s delicious ethnic restaurants or prove our stupidity at the City’s Monday night trivia. Still, there is no shaking each other at this point. Eventually there will be a new dude in the picture, and when that happens, I know Nick will be there to pass irrational judgment.
Do you want Jacqueline to stop talking about this sentimental bullcrap and get back to discussing boobs and other Madison oddities? Tell her so at jgoreilly@dailycardinal.com.
