The first day of my senior year of college, I illegally parked at the Baptist student union and headed towards North campus where my college of arts and sciences was located. Being an English major was easy: I no longer had to pay for text books—all of my required reading could be checked out from the library. There were no cram sessions for finals because no one was going to re-read a novel. Scantrons and number-2 pencils had been traded for blue books: college-ruled sheets of paper stapled together with a cheap blue cover. I pressed the button to illuminate the pedestrian crosswalk, and took a deep breath. "This is my last first day of school," I thought.
I remember that moment clearly because I repeated it the first day of second semester too, only this time my truck got towed for parking illegally and my last semester of college actually took 3 semesters to complete, so I had a whole slew of last first days.
The little ritual I play with myself has carried on. Only now I'm standing in the mirror making sure my hair is acceptable. Then I pick up the lip gloss from the counter and apply it before one last inspection. "This could be my last first date," I think. I've had a whole slew of last first dates as well.
And I'll be thinking it again tomorrow night before my date from Plenty of Fish.