Just try eating ten packets of these babies in under a minute with no water. It's easier to eat human hair.
On the first of January, I woke up with that same oh-my-God-I’m-choking-because-cracker-paste-is-blocking-my-airway sensation—something I hadn’t experienced in years—and it wasn’t the result of a light-hearted and stupid saltine-eating contest; rather, it was the first day of 2011. There was an irrational but rather large part of me that thought 2011 would never come. That it would exist only on facebook as part of my network information (‘Cecile Babcock, University of St Andrews ’11’). That really, I had just started university, so it must be closer to 2007 than 2011. That 2011 was just a year from 2012, ie the London Olympics, the next American presidential election, and the Mayans’ predicted end of days. But no, I opened my eyes to a cold and soggy day in St Andrews (our sunny Middle Eastern family holiday had since ended) to find the entire world telling me it was 1 January 2011. I stifled the urge to yell FUCK! as I rolled out of bed and mentally prepared myself for the coming year.
Providing I don’t screw up catastrophically in the coming semester, 22 June 2011 marks my own personal end of St Andrews days, also known as graduation. By that point I am expected to turn into a ‘real person’ with a job, a tastefully furnished flat, and a general idea of what I am doing with my life. I have a tentative grasp of the last one—which means I know the general industry in which I’d like to work and that I’d like to make a tonne of money, though the geography of my life is still very much up in the air—leaving me with .5 out of 3 so far.
I’m not one of those people who is going to mourn the ‘student lifestyle’ whereby I only have four hours of class a week, can sleep in until noon and can get a pass from the rest of society for an indolent and slovenly lifestyle. For one, I’ve never been the sort to sleep until noon, which, during a Scottish winter, means you miss most of the daylight. But I also get antsy without a full schedule and find a Monday to Friday nine to five job very satisfying. Plus I love earning money; it’s like working out and getting endorphins that go straight into your bank account. It also must be said that yes, I am looking forward to leaving St Andrews for London, ie a place with more than three streets. I’m thrilled to be able to celebrate Chinese New Year, go to proper clubs, and shop somewhere other than New Look and Jack Wills. There is no doubt that I’ll miss St Andys, but the time has come to say, city life? Yes please.
So it’s not that I want to stay a student forever and ever or that I wish to spend the rest of my life ensconced in a small Scottish seaside town. Nor is it that I think I’ll fail or end up with some really heinous degree. I’m just a) a bit worried about landing a decent job in the midst of a global recession and b) not that great with change. There. I said it. I’m awful at change. I can’t even throw out a pair of old heels without a lot of mental preparation and deep breathing. My tendency towards borderline irrational nostalgia doesn’t help things, either.
It's been fun, St Andrews...you good-looking town, you
It’s a weird time for all us in the winter of our St Andrews years. People have been graduating from university for millennia, and barring death or perpetual failure to hand in essays, the end is imminent. I could toss around the usual slew of clichéd adjectives—scared! excited! nervous! confused!—but I’ll stick with that not-altogether-dangerous choking sensation. I suppose the best way to deal with it is to quit eating saltines and drink a bit of water. Or a frappuccino or a Golden Cadillac, as the case may be.
