Back when I was a young and innocent sophomore, I would read The Observer and note that the major topic of most columnists who were seniors was the extraordinary and frightening fact that they were, in fact, seniors.

This simple matter of status occupied the minds of many a columnist. And after week three, it was rather, shall we say, redundant-sounding.

So, I told myself, I would never obsess furiously about my final year in college. If I did, I certainly wouldn't expose the rest of the public to my dithering. But guess what?

I am now a senior. I now understand. And now I will subject the rest of the public to my dithering.

In almost exactly two months, I will step onto the podium in front of LeMans. It will be a very solemn moment. I will step forward in my black cap and gown and accept my blue and gilt diploma. Having watched all my friends experience the same heady moment, I will celebrate with them one last time.

After this auspicious and promising beginning to the rest of my life, I will head off to, head off to ... Oh, wait, I forgot. That's the entire problem here. I don't have any place to head off TO. (And yes, I know it's bad grammar to end a sentence with a preposition. I am, after all, an English major. It's just that I don't really care anymore. Senior apathy is a dangerous malady.)

Since I am an english and philosophy major, I will not be joining the ranks of corporate America, ready for my 80-hour work week and my $40,000 starting salary. For one thing, I would last about 30 seconds in that environment. For another, after seeing the social justice classes on my transcript, they wouldn't hire me even if I got down on my knees and begged. After all, it would run contrary to their principles to hire someone who actually discusses sweatshop conditions for a grade.

Nor will I be joining the ranks of the teachers. This is because either I or my students would be lying dead on the ground within the first five minutes of class. And to be honest, I don't fancy spending the best decades of my life in jail. (Nor do I relish being talked about at my 10th year reunion as "that chick who ended up in the slammer.")

And in fact, I'm not even doing the traditional thing for people who don't yet want to join the harsh world of reality. Namely, graduate school. In fact, I have been so mired in apathy that I not only haven't applied to a single graduate institution; I haven't even taken the GRE or the LSAT. In fact, I don't even know which graduate program I would even want to enter. And let's be honest. Is it really worth it to toil away for eight years teaching bratty freshmen "Introduction to Grammar" and spending massive portions of your 20s in a library cubbyhole researching an obscure linguist so that you can get a piece of paper that says that you're actually qualified to teach the afore-mentioned bratty freshmen unless you're really passionate about it in the first place? No.

Which is pretty much the roundabout way of saying that I have a little over two months before I am pushed into the harsh light of reality, and I have no idea what I'm doing. I have no idea what I want to be doing.

Which pretty much concludes this scared senior's rant and which will hopefully ease her obsession with graduating. And to the underclassmen who think I'm obsessing to the point of boredom — don't worry.

Your time will come.

Nakasha Ahmad is a senior at Saint Mary's. Her column appears every other Monday.

The views expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of the Observer.

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