When things are under control, you’re driving a nice Honda Accord. Maybe it’s not glamorous, but it’s smooth, steady, and the brakes work. But then comes June and suddenly you’re in a bobsled bolting downhill. No steering. No brakes. No control. You are whizzing through time, cheeks flapping in the wind, still desperately trying to smell those damn flowers on the side of the track.
The sky finally turns that exact shade of unbothered blue. Terraces overflow with clinking glasses. And somewhere in the mix, I am trying to write a thesis. ‘Trying’ is generous. I’m oscillating between soaking up precious final moments with friends and soaking in the dread of my unread exam material. It’s the ultimate balancing act: one hand clutches an Aperol Spritz, the other trembles over a half-finished paragraph on isotopic fractionation. The bobsled barrels on, even as you’re screaming into your laptop.
It’s a strange emotional weather pattern: some days breezy, others dense with unspoken goodbyes. Because beyond the thesis deadlines and Pulse notifications, there’s a clock ticking on everything else too. This is the last time we’ll all be this version of ourselves, in this city, like this. Which makes me want to throw up – partly from all the cheesy sentimentality, but mostly from bobsled-induced whiplash.
One hand clutches an Aperol Spritz, the other trembles over a half-finished paragraph on isotopic fractionation
And yet, even as I get mushy over beers on the canal, my phone buzzes with reminders of another world entirely: home. It’s like living in two solar systems at once. Groningen hums with student rituals and my absolute freedom. Though I love home, it brings about those missionary feelings. It requires mental preparation to climb into the skinsuit of my old self (giving skintight jeans a new meaning), to even literally fit into my old wardrobe, and to dust off that accent I haven’t heard from in a while. All whilst making time to visit cousin Jaco’s new baby goat farm.
I’m managing deadlines, emails, grocery runs, goodbye parties, and my one-woman theatrical performance titled ‘Bobsled Betty’. My brain is a browser with 23 tabs open, seven playing music, and at least one burning thesis chapter.
So, if you see me in the park, half-asleep under a tree, surrounded by highlighters, to-do lists, and half-melted snacks – know this: I am celebrating. I am cramming. I am grieving. I am sweating. I am wildly alive in a moment that is slipping through my fingers faster than this country’s weather can change. But please wake me up, because I’m probably late for something. And if you see a bobsled in the bike parking, it’s mine; tell me where you saw it because I forgot where I parked it.
CARLA ERASMUS