I remember the day it all began. I had recently been accepted early admission to a fully accredited, non-online University, and my 12th-grade government teacher was about to hand back the first tests of the semester.

I feverishly flipped through the pages of mine as she walked away, smiling like a sphinx guarding the riddle that would determine my entire destiny.

There were some red marks, yes. I failed to identify that one Supreme Court justice who only served for two years and died of old age in his bathtub. On the essay portion I saw an ominous “efigurfy,” and lingered after the bell so I could understand.

Alina Yudkevich

Oh, she meant “elaborate.” But then she uttered the words that changed my life forever.

“Nice job, overall. Higher than the class average, even. According to state standards you have an age-appropriate understanding of the material.”

As a result, I triumphantly entered college as a political science major with pre-law intent.

I could not wait to apply my understanding of justice to the real world, in which I would routinely save people from the death penalty in an array of flattering pantsuits.

They would call me abrasive, but it would be a compliment. They would make a heart-wrenching Lifetime movie about my struggle to balance my career and family or whatever.

But when I got to the classroom, I realized it was nothing like the Lifetime movie I’d envisioned. So I signed the major change form with renewed purpose. Now what?

I thought about my other professional endeavors. I consistently read more accelerated reading books than required in elementary school. English?

I went to art camp once, and they did not forcibly expel me, indicating I had a true gift. Studio art?

I’ve read many Wikipedia articles about serial killers. Psychology major, criminal justice minor?

That one was dropped before it even became official. My schedule remained filled with political science classes, but like a relationship turned sour, I no longer felt anything for them.

One of my filler electives, sociology, finally began to resonate. I could do all of that, I thought, picturing myself with a tape recorder and perhaps a nameplate reading Dr. Yudkevich — which, in retrospect, sounds more like the name of the ambiguously foreign dentist you never want to see again.

Future textbooks would champion my commitment to opportunistic activism and sufficient adherence to research methods. But I would not be able to pick my own research paper topics until senior year. Meh.

I’m now in my fifth major, and at this rate, I’ll be the creepy old lady pledging the pre-business fraternity in 2047.

Maybe it’ll all have been for the best, and in some alternate dimension, I did graduate early and enter a mid-tier law school, much to the delight of my immigrant relatives. Maybe in some cozy suburb I’m a public defender, specializing in cases involving eighth-graders sneaking out after curfew.

But in this dimension, I’m still vaguely undecided. And in this economy, where working the drive-thru requires peer-reviewed doctoral publications on the subject, I refuse to believe it matters.

Daring to do what you love sometimes involves the ritualistic burning of resumes. Achieving your childhood dreams is sometimes a matter of meeting the right person at the right time, like when they’re buzzed off wine coolers at a fundraiser and want to do you a solid.

You can’t major in serendipity studies, of course. And if you could, you’d do what nearly every undergrad does at some point and impulsively change it the second something else catches your eye.

You’ll be here for a while — might as well join the others and me as we engage in something we could never turn our backs on: sheer, unadulterated panic.

Together we’ll calculate the opportunity costs and debts incurred from our exorbitant sample platter of specialty curricula. Each bite cost thousands of dollars and some may have judged you for trying to inconspicuously plunder one too many samples.

But the refined palette you get to leave here with will be magnificent. Intellectual curiosity — or just the confusion that makes us so enchantingly human — answers to no methodological master.

So let the chips fall where they may. There will always be a 32-year-old turf management major waiting to pick them up for you.

— Alina Yudkevich is a senior from Marietta majoring in film studies and advertising