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An Intern’s 5 Awkward Ways to Say Goodbye

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1. The non-committal hug

When you’re saying bye and realize you never actually touched him (or her) before! Maybe you did – maybe you accidentally grazed their boob once or went for the same spoon and touched their hand. But it won’t stop your intended warm embrace from turning into an enormously awkward getting-only-so-close that you can smell their hair and touch their left shoulder blade. Avoid standing there after and exchanging complements and things you say you’ll miss (but not really) – the awkwardness doesn’t get better.

2. The side hug

Get grabbed at the waist and kindly accept the “It’s been nice knowing you, kiddo!” Yeah you too, bud! I should never have told you my age. (-_-)

3. The wave

The last memory you’ll have of them is seeing them 3 feet away and waving as they walk away. You think you knew them well enough that they deserve more than that, but there’s no official in-between for “not close enough to hug” and ” friendlier enough to not shake hands.” I wish I had enough nerd-to-the-max gutsy humour to bring out my Star Trek alter ego. Live long and prosper!

4. Hug overkill

When you’re looking for ways to get off the hugger that started rocking you side-to-side with overwhelming happiness and vigor! Agree with everything they exclaim loudly into your ear whilst they hug you, they’ll let go eventually. As you escape, quickly switch your attention to someone else before they decide they miss you already! ;)

5. See ya

It doesn’t get much worse then receiving just, “see ya.” You might never have been sure if they really liked you at all or not, the kind of person whose social invitations you declined because you think they expected you to. Thanks for being nice about it though! If you don’t mind, I kind of hope I don’t, “see ya,” … I’ve run out of excuses for avoiding you. O_O

April 2

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Transitions are uncomfortable.

Puberty was uncomfortable. So is moving, leaving, switching into a higher key in a moving song, refreshing your wardrobe, deciding whether it’s finally time for a bra (least much of the world’s adult female population has an idea of what that feels like). To my discomfort, I remember all of those times just too clearly, both with bewildered fascination at my changing surroundings and reluctance to embrace it. It’s the worst when it’s any longer than a week. Anticipation going nowhere, apprehension dragged out. Then you’re all too tired to be excited anymore.

Grade 7 and all the way through university is frighteningly full of it. It never ends! It starts with a patient wait to the final year of elementary. Then it’s GRADE 9, followed by shaking off the “niner” title, then prepping for senior year, then senior year itself. Wait months to get a letter in the mail, wait seconds to pull it out and read “Congratulations” or “Thank you for your application…” Waiting in the car ride with all your stuff for rez, ahead of you lies transitions into new jobs, new friends, new parties, new summers, etc. Graduating looms heavy in the near future, piggy-backing the entirely foreign concept of finding a real job. Quiet, gnawing panic sets in when I realize:

I’m not ready.

There’s no sleeping in or calling in sick to avoid this one. Hide in your parents’ basement all you like – it knows where to find you. You’re on your own kid – the movie line echoes from a hazy memory in my head.

32 days til I move out again.