Indiana Joel Illustration/The Ubyssey

People go to university for a lot of different reasons.

When I first left to study at UVic, my goal was simple: I wanted to live a student lifestyle.

I had spent a few years lifeguarding part-time while I took random college classes. I was constantly worried about money and never had a real chance to immerse myself in the academic environment. I was busy picking up extra shifts and struggling to get by financially.

Then I saw friends who had completely adopted the student persona—partying every weekend and going to class in pyjama bottoms. Their biggest worries were upcoming deadlines and gruelling midterms, and they either lived off student loans or a regular cash influx from their parents.

It was like being in elementary school all over again. It was like an invitation from the universe to take it easy, to take a few more years to figure out my life. So I took out some student loans, packed up my shit and moved to the Island.

Sure, I was interested in my coursework. And despite all the evidence to the contrary, I thought getting a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree was a worthwhile endeavour. But I would be lying if I didn’t acknowledge that a large part of the reason I sought out a post-secondary education was to buck the looming spectres of responsibility and adulthood.

It was a good four years. I met lifelong friends, I travelled for job placements, I furthered my career and I partied. Hard.

But now that I’m starting my MFA at UBC, things are starting to feel a little different. I’m a little more aware of the extra weight my regular diet of beer and nachos provided me with. All of a sudden, being productive seems better than being lazy. Staying home to watch TV or read a book seems like an alluring option. And I’ve started to value a solid night’s sleep.

I also routinely realize I’ve reached the ancient age of 27 years old, and after I overcome the shock, I start to worry about what I’m going to accomplish with the next few years. I mean, I’m going to be 30 soon! I guess that niggling, uncomfortable feeling is what they call ambition.

I’ve got a girlfriend now too, and I’m finding my motivation to meet new people is dwindling. Whether or not I realized it at the time, most of my social interactions were at least a little bit motivated by the possibility of sex. Take that out of the equation, and what’s the point of paying too much for drinks at the bar? Shit, what’s the point of doing anything?

I hate to admit it, but it’s true: I’m a big fucking cliché.

It’s still good to show my face in public occasionally. And I can consume my fair share of intoxicants. But I’ve made room in my life for days where I don’t leave the house, and stay home to study and work. I’ve started to relish being alone. And I’ve even started jogging, which is a surprisingly meditative form of exercise.

Is this what growing up feels like?

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