Don't fear the specter by J. Ridewood

A specter is haunting my life - the specter of growing up. For the last few years, he has appeared to torment me and add inconvenience to my daily routine. He assumes control of my body and forces me into nasty habits and new responsibilities. After one of his visits, I started making my bed in the morning, an activity I formerly viewed as so purposeless that I could not comprehend why any reasonable, moderately busy human being would perform the chore regularly.
But now I like the way my bed looks made up, with the sheets tucked into the sides forming an alluring pocket for nestling purposes. All lame adults probably think the same thing before they climb into bed at night and resume thinking about bills or whatever other concerns they have.
(I also blame the specter for my sudden use of dental floss, the back pain that emerges after I play tennis and the boredom I now have playing video games.)
But while the specter's visits have been intermittent, my graduation in May has been an incessant reminder to grow up and settle into adulthood. This has not been a change I've welcomed. I wouldn't trade the subtle reassurance that comes from feeling like a child for all the sugar farms in Cuba. Acting mature and thinking long-term are things I usually do my best to avoid.
Graduating has almost been like driving into a brick wall at a high speed - only instead of losing a limb or two, I've lost my childhood. Forgetting the tragedy I've suffered, I wake up in the middle of the night confused that my childhood isn't with me. Once I remember I've graduated, I curse the gods for forsaking me and wonder what I could have done to prevent the accident.
Around my graduation, adults of all ages gave me bad advice when they should have been consoling me. "Plastics," I was told on numerous occasions, as if hadn't seen "The Graduate" 15 times.
I much preferred the "Graduate"-esque advice my friend's father, a geology professor, gave me. "Satellites," he said, making me feel like a science fiction version of Benjamin Braddock. But the only thing I've been able to do with his vague advice is spend the last three months wondering if I should start building my own satellite or get satellite television. Neither option seems very fruitful.
The worst advice I received was from someone in my family who compared joining the workforce to a marathon. I've struggled with this analogy. Pheidippides, who, according to legend, ran over 20 miles in one day to announce the Greek's victory over the Persians, died shortly after completing this inaugural marathon. So, using my family member's logic, is getting your first "real" job the beginning of a breakneck march toward death?
But my family member does have a point: Your first nine-to-five job marks your final ascension into adulthood, a marathon that may or may not end in death. Luckily (or strictly from a financial standpoint, unluckily), I've delayed my final ascension by being unable to find a job that makes use of my degree. I've sent out dozens of copies of my resume, secured a few interviews, shaken hands with many people I will never see again and smile until my jaw hurts. No dice. Still unemployed.
Adulthood is a much longer, significantly more difficult process than childhood, and I failed to understand that until recently. Going to college isn't a triumph - it is a fait accompli for many Gen Y'ers. I never doubted for a day in my life that I would go to college. I spent high school filling my time with countless college application-approved activities under the false pretense of getting into "the college of my first choice." My achievements were not always made for their own sake.
But these expectations have done nothing but create more expectations and kill my childhood wonder. As an adult, you have to start at the bottom and move your way up through hard work and luck. Then, when your hair has grayed and you can feign the appearance of someone who has wisdom to offer, you give cliched advice to your younger relatives that references movies from your youth. I can see myself now, asking my grandchildren or nephews if I have ever told them about how life is strikingly similar to a box of chocolates, forgetting in my old age that "Forrest Gump" is a schmaltzy, sentimental piece of crap.
I recently pinpointed the exact moment my childhood died. Early one morning, walking east down 21st Street near the Six Pack, I was returning library books before I was to take an LSAT practice test at Dobie. I had a headache from a lack of caffeine. The only things on my mind were my bank account and job prospects. A cherub-faced freshman in cargo shorts strolled past me with a dopey grin on his face. I envied him yet found myself unable to relate to his exhilaration. Then I noticed one of those signs that alerts drivers of their speed. No cars were on the road, so as I neared the sign, it flashed "0 MPH" in bright, neon-yellow lettering.
It's time to move on. I've become the specter that haunted me for so many years.