Dear recent graduate,
I imagine you’re a boy, probably an attractive music major with sandy hair and a smattering of freckles. It’s possible we would have dated — but since we never actually met, we are not able to consider that option. In my mind, our fateful encounter would have proceeded as follows.
It’s a balmy Thursday night, and we independently come to the same conclusion: this particular evening is ripe for streaking. Hence, as fate would have it, our paths cross for the first time — albeit a bit unconventionally.
I’ll spare you the description of our polite yet undoubtedly awkward first greeting. (But really, do cordialities even have a place in such a situation?) We strip down and take off running. For a while, I’m able to blissfully operate under the naïve assumption that my tenth grade cross-country stint adequately prepared me for this physically taxing undertaking. Alas, as it turns out, it didn’t.
When my severe cupcake problem and “I’ll go to the gym later” mentality catch up with me, you sympathetically slow your pace to match mine. I’m thankful. I’m even more thankful the darkness is obscuring my flushed cheeks, which are products of either running or sharing about being pathetically out of shape. The nature of their onset is to be determined.
Our night culminates as all Thursdays should: with dumplings.
Such reverie, as I’ve implied, never actually unfolded. And now, in the aftermath of Final Exercises, it looks like we have missed each other altogether. To say I’m upset is an understatement. Recent graduate, you were probably cool and might have an arsenal of endearing dad jokes I’ll never get to hear.
Though I still have two years left as an undergraduate and I don’t know many rising fourth-years intimately, the end of this year was far more melancholy than that of last, and I recently figured out why.
More than anything, I’m upset about missing out on might-have-been relationships and friends with whom I could have been closer.
A few weeks ago, I was sitting on the third floor of Alderman, still comfortably in the denial phase of impending final exams. I remember looking up from some intensive investigative research — navigating 120 weeks deep in a sorority sister’s Instagram — to recognize a handful of fourth-years scattered about the room. I was probably staring, but most of them only threw me a perfunctory glance before returning to their work. At best, these people were my acquaintances.
Some shared discussion sections with me — maybe we fostered tacit camaraderie through knowing glances during a particularly absurd TA tirade. Others are fellow fraternity function aficionados — maybe we engaged in a lengthy conversation about a mutual appreciation for Hawaiian shirts. Despite my connections with these people, we rarely become friends.
I could write another column about how frustrating it is to have substantive conversations Saturday night only to ignore those new friends in the library Sunday morning. You didn’t all forget my name, let alone my face — but I digress.
I can’t help but wonder if that evening in Alderman was the last time I’d see some of those fourth-years. What terrifies me about graduation is how many people, will slip into the past tense without me noticing.
Part of me believes I will be closely linked with my peers forever. Eventually all my cordial relationships at U.Va. will turn into genuine friendships, right? The fourth-year a capella member I just met? He’s supposed to teach me to finally play that guitar I bought on impulse at a church auction. The girl in my Comm class who likes flannel shirts as much as I do? We will absolutely be wing-women by fourth year.
In reality, however, our time at the University is ephemeral, and these relationships will likely never materialize. Thus, my personal dismay stems from never befriending all of the charming, genuinely fun people who graduated this weekend.
So where does that leave us, hypothetical graduate with whom I never streaked? I hope someday I can make up for lost time and that we run into each other at a random Chinese restaurant or coffee shop. I’ll be the lanky blonde with an embarrassing chopstick ineptitude or the one holding up the Starbucks line trying to come up with a more sophisticated drink order than hot chocolate. I’ll happily buy your venti-vanillaccino-frappiatto-extra-whip and reminisce about days in Hooville.
Until we streak again.
Tori’s column runs biweekly Fridays. She can be reached at v.travers@cavalierdaily.com
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