Before the final bell rings signalling the end of youth and the beginning of the perceived drudgery of adulthood, a certain state of limbo imposes itself on many a student emerging from the warm, embracing and protective cocoon of a university life. The sweet, liquor soaked, carelessness of the first stages of this ‘higher’ education are ebbing away while students are overcome with sobriety as they become overwhelmed by the reality that the dreams of becoming an astronaut or world renowned DJ are probably unobtainable. With this in mind, it becomes pertinently obvious that the search for a job, much like those of our parents, is resolutely unavoidable. As a reflex reaction, a student in this situation will seek new endeavours and exploits to repel the juggernaut of horrors which includes mortgages, tax receipts and, God forbid, two point four children. These adventures may take the form of planning an extended world trip visiting ninety per cent of the world’s surface paid for by nothing more than six months menial labour or maybe more simply a foray into the world of dating, itself an inevitable consequence of maturation. Thus, it is here, without subtlety, that we find the quarter life crisis.
In the beginning life was good. On arrival at university opportunities were abound, the shackles of an oppressive parental regime shed and a student unleashed upon an unsuspecting town. Ater a brief period of time it dawns on a student that his energies need not be focused on work but on the marvels of unabashed hedonism. A week was measured in bottles of off-brand vodka, unnameable cider/beer/brandy/cocktails and clumsy rides upon other booze-addled students whose names were as important as the following day’s deadline. This, paradoxically, is considered the high point of the university career. One year progresses to two and the novelty of this unbridled and ungoverned life dwindles slightly, although not to the extent of actually diminishing the desire for alcohol’s lubricating effects or for some good, wholesome penetration. This is now routine. Work may find itself a small place each week and then suddenly exams come and go and yet another year swiftly passes by with no souvenirs except an average mark, a scar from a night out and quite possibly chlamydia. For many a student the third year is a foray into the world of work or to foreign climes. Horizons are expanded and important responsibilities are professed to have been imbibed, despite the acutely observable fact that the only difference this year has from university life is the pressing need to actually turn up at the right time in the morning. Thus we enter the final year.
Weighting most of a four year course on the final nine months initially seemed to be a gift. However, upon entry into this period it becomes apparent that actually the gift is just faecal matter wrapped in some pretty paper. A huge number looms over the student’s head, seventy per cent. That is seventy per cent of a degree in twenty five per cent of the time. The thought of the sheer volume of work required sits at the pit of the stomach like undigested cabbage and in panic a vast raft of lists is hastily drawn up detailing each week’s unachievable workload. However at some point a horrifying realisation becomes apparent, the end is in sight. The next forty years or so are inching ever closer. It is now more obvious why there were careers fairs and cold people distributing dodgy, branded biros with leaflets around the university; a misshapen bar of chocolate may indeed entice a student to apply for a company in his state of blind panic. There is no time on any of the precompiled lists and schedules to apply for jobs and investigate graduate schemes. It is highly possible that said student might think that consultant is a grand title, why not apply for that, despite the fact there seem to be more people consulting on certain areas of enterprise than actually working in them. Every suggestion seems appealing for a fleeting moment until the brain casually asks if this is really what you wish to occupy yourself with for the rest of your natural life. The cycle continues as you flirt with many briefly exciting career ideas until beside every option it is marked ‘probably not’. And in making this life changing indecision no progress has been made toward the seventy per cent. Depression, or rather more aptly, pessimism and premature world weariness arrive and the excitement of university finally abates. So, how best to deal with this melancholy?
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