Funeral for a J’s Planner

About a week ago I was standing in the Barnes and Noble, intently staring at a display of planners, mumbling to myself about calendars and appointments and sizes and colors. I had to find the perfect planner to satisfy my need for order and preparedness, a decision no J takes lightly. This went on for a solid 20 minutes at least, until boyfriend became mildly concerned and asked if I wanted to take a lap around the store to think about it. Anyway, my new planner is shiny purple (I’m naming it “Barney”) and has big monthly calendars, lots of space for notes, and most importantly, almost none of the unnecessary information some planners include now (time zones, area codes and country codes, the meaning of different flowers, historical trivia, landmark court cases, lengthy excerpts from The Remembrance of Things Past, etc.). No, actually, the most important thing about this planner is that it runs from July 2012 to December 2013, which is the month I graduate and bravely greet the real world from my cardboard box. I mean, the month I find gainful employment. In any case, this is the planner that will finish out my academic career.

Last night I emptied my old planner of its Sudoku puzzles and Post-Its, and just for nostalgia’s sake, flipped through it one last time, shuddering at the highlighting that I resorted to using during Advanced Prac—green for class, pink for work, blue for personal stuff, and yellow for clients, case notes and supervision. (I once left my planner open on my desk when I was meeting with a prospective student, and her eyes flashed raw panic.)

Dispensing with the planner, there are a lot of titles I could have chosen for this post, such as “The Year I Finally Started Hating School,” and “The Year of Anxiety,” and perhaps “The Year I Became Really Obsessed with Finding Free Food.” Or to sum them all up, “The Year I Started Grad School.”

I vividly remember certain second years telling us during orientation last year that counseling their first clients was the high point of their year, and that Diagnosis was their favorite class. I also remember asking several of my classmates this past spring if they knew who had paid the second years to lie to us; or if they were telling the truth, how long it would be before our nerves calmed enough to look back on the year with fondness instead of needing a drink.

I submitted my last assignment on 30 April, and it turns out two months has been enough time for me to recover and think more kindly about the past year. There was some great stuff, like the trip to Atlanta last Labor Day Weekend in which Schell and I spent the better part of a Braves game checking out Martín Prado. I got to watch my beloved Demon Deacons lose their Bowl game in Nashville in December. The February day that I got the first internship I interviewed for was pretty great. In March I finally yielded to maturity, showed some restraint and only threw myself two birthday parties. I’m a little proud of the day I matter-of-factly told my clinical entrepreneurship professors that if somebody would pay me to be a humor writer, I’d forget about counseling in a second. And of course, there were the five Fridays in February and March that our admissions office interviewed and chose the next round of Master’s students, who are about to experience all this.

So yes, it was the year of sometimes hating school and being really anxious and planning my day around the free commuter deli. But it was also the year I learned I can be a good counselor, the year I bonded with some amazing friends, the year I started dating a pretty cool guy, the year I learned to depend on God more than anything. And let’s not forget it was the year I finally crossed “Van Halen concert” off my bucket list. So as my beat-up little black planner passes the torch to the Barney planner, I hope the next year is as full of surprises and laughter as this one was.

I guess what I’m saying is, I get it, and I forgive you, former second years.

J