Column:

Mid-college crisis

By Polina Yamshchikov

Published Aug. 24, 2007

I have no idea what I want to do with my life.

I know everyone says that, but I am not exaggerating. In the past week, I have seriously considered, and rearranged my schedule to accommodate, second majors from photojournalism to linguistics to ecology to biochemistry to history to magazine journalism to broadcast journalism. I have no idea what I want to do.

I want too much, I think. I want to write honestly, unequivocally and, with time, even elegantly. I want to truly help people. I want to work in a field that is specialized, with good pay and where I will meet interesting and exhilarating peers.

I want to love, but not too soon, too quickly or too painfully. I want to do things that drastically change the way people think. I'd also like to learn how clocks work.

Two days ago, while flirting with the dark edges of unconsciousness during an 8 a.m. chemistry lab and repeating the phrase "I hate this" in a firm monotone to myself, it occurred to me quite suddenly that resisting the urge to drive a pen through each of my eyes was a poor way to spend the rest of my years as an undergraduate. I came home and dropped that class like a bad lover.

Often, a self-decidedly wise, older person will hear me vehemently shrieking (and waving my arms about in a little dance I like to call "flustered") about how I haven't the murkiest idea of where I want my life to go, and their faces always crinkle into a smug smile. They always say the same thing with a little chuckle:

"What year are you? Oh, you have plenty of time to decide all that."

Oh, that is just a lie.

Time is a luxury not allotted to anyone, especially in this age, when students pick up second majors and minor after minor like chump change.

I'd like to be able to pick something and go with it, get really good at it and be able to graduate with faith in my subject. But I can't stop flip-flopping. I'm sure I'm not the only one.

Now there is a weight and a hollow, a peculiar lightness and fullness in my heart that I can't quite put my finger on. I've made a decision, for now, but something inside of me, that treacherous whispering traitor, tells me that I'm going to change my mind again come next semester ... and the one after that, and the one after that.

The sense of finality gets me, I think. I am only trying to hold things loosely, so as to not crush some greater possibility. Or maybe it's because I am desperately afraid of growing old and living an ordinary life. I keep thinking of that moment on the edge of the stage at graduation, that first step off of it that holds just as much of the possibility of infinity as it does the probability of failure.

I don't mean to sound so dark. I have a bad habit of making these things so ultimate, but in reality, they are anything but. I am struggling against clichés here, so please don't judge me too harshly. What I mean to say is this: Do not just follow your head, your heart or even your gut. Life, after all, isn't short; it's the longest thing you'll ever do, so make it worth it. Follow your heart, your head and your gut. And listen to your professors.