April 2, 2008 Over winter break, my father didn't fail to mention six, seven, maybe eight times that I was quite possibly experiencing the very last month-long break of my life. However, I wasn't bitter or upset, he could pop up outside my door with devious queries about how I was using my precious time, but I didn't panic. My mind was grounded, and my rock was, of course, that spring break was yet to come, so why worry... right?
On the cusp of my break, two weeks ago I bounded down the somewhat creaking and overly sloshy stairs inside Root Hall having completed my final obligation before spring break. The bounce never left my step as I made my way back to my dorm through the snow only to grab my bags full of optimistically small articles of clothing, toss them into the back of a fully gassed Mazda 3, and kiss Hamilton goodbye. So much promise, so much potential! Jack Kerouac would have been proud.
Well, I'm writing to you now on the final Friday of what could potentially be the final spring break of my life and I'll admit my stomach is having more difficulty settling than I had hoped. I'm in Florida because I wasn't about to let my final spring break whimper out of existence without one more sandy beach, one more palm tree, actually a few more, and one more breath of salty Atlantic air. After all, I'll be moving back to the west coast soon and returning to my Pacific roots. I brought textbooks with me out to the hammock only to use them as shade and coasters. Very little work of tangible evidence has gotten done (note my strategic use of passive voice to avoid personal responsibility). In any case, three days from now will reignite a process of attending class, staying late in the library, and waking up early to finish reading. sigh. I was getting burned anyway.