The circle of life.

What goes around comes around.

And so it goes, the very place we had our matriculation fair should be the very same place that you venture to, in the last few days of your life as an undergraduate, to collect your commencement gown.

Multi-Purpose Sports Hall 1. Or Multi-purpose Hall as they call it.

The irony was not lost on me.

As I walked into the sparingly populated hall in the early hours of the Wednesday afternoon, I noticed the layout had roughly a similar feel to that of the matriculation fair. I hurried to fill in the hardcopy order form for black sheep who hadnt kept to deadlines and ordered their gowns online. I was bent over the first few tables lined near the entrance providing details about the circumference of my head and whether or not I was going to buy or rent the gown before proceeding to the cashier area cordoned off in another part of the hall to make payment. Even there, they had to segregate and distinctly differentiate between those who were supposed to be there and others who were “scheduled for another day.” I felt like an alien. The exact same feeling I most likely experienced when I stepped into MPSH 1 the very first day I was to be called an undergraduate. All eyes were locked on you when you collected your matriculation card. They were all making sure you were keeping in line and part of a bigger grand plan. You couldn’t be different, and if you were, you had to be filed into a different category.

The first section after payment was filled with racks neatly hung with crisp pressed blue gown sans their various coloured collars. As is expected, they were all labeled according to their sizes for ease of distribution. I veered past them and made it to Section 4 (or was it 5?) unscathed. This was the section for those who had opted to purchase their gowns. After a momentary wait, the guy at the counter who had picked my slip up and disappeared behind a make-shift panel that doubled as the entrance to a storage area, called me by name and handed me 3 separate plastic bags with the dark navy blue gown, collar/sash in GOLD no less (wo0o0ot!) and a very flattened mortar board.

If you thought that was the end of it, think again. I was to proceed to the following section to collect my gown bag, but not before I was ambushed by someone from NUSS (I think) to update my particulars on the computer for the alumni database. Arms full with a semi-dripping umbrella, 3 slippery plastic bags and a camera bag in tow, I felt like them klutzy ge3ks in those American high school movies who fumble even with the simplest of actions, ie, sitting down.

But that was swift and painless, and I moved on to collect a yellow environmentally friendly bag to lug the gown and other random nonsense that they started to thrust in my direction. RSVP form for some dinner, pamphlets advertising graduation family portraits, magazines of all sorts and even an NUS Alumni card which I have yet to research its perks.

It was matriculation all over again. Where they all wanted a piece of you. Back then, you were new; you were FRESH MEAT, and they were all waiting to pounce on you. Come join US they’ll say. Take a flyer here, take one pamphlet there, take another brochure there and by the time you reached the end of the maze, your bag was chock full of randomities more than half of which were forced onto you. This time, there wasnt anything different about the way the external companies marketed their services, the only thing unlike the scenario described above was the sheer number of stalls and knick-knacks distributed.

Still, at the end of the day, I landed myself with a huge package between my legs.

No no, Im no guy. But the yellow bag consisted of goodness-knows-what amidst 3 very important articles of clothing that marks the end of a journey much anticipated.

Tomorrow I join the ranks of working adults. NO MORE CONCESSIONS! Wo0oo0o0ot!

Goodbye undergraduate days.

Arts camp seemed like yesterday.