Last week, I opened the door to hustle the baby to the bus stop, and gasped when I saw a big, flat package on the porch.
My diploma. My Master’s degree. Live and in the
Faced with a cartoonish amount of student debt (when I think of the total, which I’ve been advised not to do, I automatically picture Scrooge McDuck as the symbolic beneficiary as he cackles and holds two large sacks with dollar signs on them), and the *^%#(*^ dumb luck of graduating during the worst economic climate in generations, the husband and I have both been experiencing some sort of…buyer’s remorse about our degrees. I may have whined about this here before, but we’re both dealing with bummed out thoughts about aiming too high or something and that we’re as embarrassed of our student debt as we would be if we had burned through credit cards or invested in swampland or something.
Self-esteem: we has none.
Anyway, it’s over. No going back now. And in May, I’ll don my cap, gown, and Master’s hood and participate in a little good ol’ pomp and circumstance. And then figure out what to do with this monster.
I offer my hand for scale. The thing is huge. Also, please note my mad Photoshop skills. I’m not so paranoid, but for whatever reason, posting a picture of my diploma with my full name on it seemed like a bad idea.