I graduate tomorrow.

Graduation practice was held this morning. I couldn’t find specifically where I was supposed to go, so I naturally ended up going to the track field where the ceremony is to be held should the weather cooperate. Chairs were being set up, and despite the fact that I didn’t recognize anyone walking the track or throwing assorted sports balls around, I’m used to not recognizing most of the people in my school’s halls, so I figured they were just some unfamiliar fellow seniors killing time. I walked the track, wondering if I should’ve brought a jacket.

The kids were herded back into the gym shortly afterwards. I sat on the bleachers, waiting for instructions. I and a few others were then reprimanded by one of the gym teachers for sitting on the bleachers when they were supposed to be kept clean.

Confused about why barely anyone was there despite having arrived on time, I went up to one of the teachers—another gym teacher—at the front of the gym and asked her about exactly what was happening. It turns out I had walked into a gym class and completely, perfectly assimilated myself.

What a way to end my high school career: a big, fat doi.

I’m not angry or disappointed; I just find it hilarious.

I did make my way to where I was supposed to be, the humid auxiliary gym right beside where my misguided assumptions had led me, and settled myself in my assigned folding chair. I gazed across the rows as the principal read out the ceremony procedure, and a peculiar feeling welled up inside of me. Despite all the effort I had put in to get to this point, the effort that gifted me the assorted cords and stoles I’ll be wearing, the act of sitting there felt terrifyingly effortless.