I finished my last week of instruction as an undergraduate yesterday, and it was strangely anticlimactic.
I took a quiz and a test this week in my Chinese class, and stayed late on campus for the first and last time ever to finish a group project. My honors thesis class met for the last time, and I think we spent 20 minutes of our classtime finalizing the date of our class potluck.
My final session of office hours was also strangely relaxed. I think we chatted about non-academic topics more than anything else?
I had my final [official] day of service as a writing tutor at the Student Learning Center on Monday, which was anticlimatic in its own strange way because later that day, I ended up signing up for more shifts through dead week.
On Monday, Berkeley had been hit with an unexpected, city-wide power outage. My laundry had been in the dryer, so after belatedly resucuing it and haphazardly throwing it across my room, I took off for class —
— only to run back to my apartment after walking halfway to campus because I nearly forgot my last Chinese writing assignment at home. (There’s a first to forgetting your homework as well, apparently.)
I went to San Francisco on Monday to attend a food conference, and caught up with my freshman year roommate on Wednesday. I ran around like my normal, busy self all week, and now, here I am.
It feels like any other weekend this semester, aside from the fact that I have no classes next week. (Read: No classes does not mean an empty schedule. I am running all over Berkeley next week — still.)
In sum: I’m not sure what I was expecting of my final week of instruction, but it definitly given my generally emotional nature during any conclusion in my life, I’m more than a little surprised that this week wasn’t more for me.
That, in itself, is very worrisome. Because now I know with certainty that there’s a part of me anticipating the slow, hot trudge of the summer months as I wait for Berkeley to begin yet another semester on campus. And when the fully-weighted realization of graduation finally hits…
It’s not going to be pretty.