This afternoon, I got my heart broken. My first heartbreak and it wasn’t even over a boy.
(Or a girl, if that’s where you thought I was going with this. Or my cat.)
I’d been working on some scholarship short answer questions—which pretty much sums up the past month—and the one I finished on, “What is the biggest mistake you’ve made in your life?”, must’ve been some force of nature’s sick idea of ironic foreshadowing, some cosmic joke. At the time, I wrote about not having researched colleges earlier, but now I think I might need to revise that statement.
What happened was, I received an email notification that I’ve been chosen as a finalist for one of the programs I’d applied to months ago. Which, normally, would have been completely perfect news IF NOT FOR THE FACT THAT THE MANDATORY FINALISTS’ WEEKEND IS THE SAME DAY AS OUR CRUISE.
You’d think, considering the amount of time Mom and I have spent talking about it, that one of us would have checked whether something else might be scheduled for spring break. Mom maintains that the program hadn’t given specific dates at the time I’d applied, but now, in hindsight, I should have figured.
Me: How much did you pay for the cruise?
Mom: *replies with some inordinate sum of money*
Me: *swigs Ozarka water like a flask of beer*
I already am loath to make decisions regarding which color highlighter to use in my notes, let alone something of this scale that involves other people. And it’s hard enough deciding what college and/or program to commit to by May 1, let alone by THIS TUESDAY (I have to RSVP) and with a CRUISE ON THE LINE.
(Rereading that last paragraph, on a not-totally-related note, I realized my aversion to making big decisions means I’d be awful at stock investment. Ever since I won that “Mock Stocks” project in sixth grade by hypothetically investing in Crocs Inc.—and making hypothetical millions, might I add—I’d been so sure that’s where my future lay. So I guess I’ll have to rethink that, too.)
Mom: Don’t worry about it. You’ve wasted more of my money.
Me: *swigs more water to drown my self-inflicted sorrows*
Five hours later, after seven Ozarka bottles and innumerable trips to the bathroom, I have not succeeded in drowning my sorrows. I check the statuses of my other program applications, only to find that ANOTHER PROGRAM HAS THE EXACT SAME FINALISTS’ WEEKEND IN MARCH.
But maybe all this worrying is premature. If I keep getting blindsided like this, I won’t even survive until March, and then there would no longer be anything about which to angst, would there? I’m told that’s what happens when you’re dead.