The West Wing had just come on when the phone rang.

"Fletch, this is Tammy with the dean's office..." [insert two second pause that more closely resembled two years] "...You can celebrate. You've got all Bs except for a C in your atmospheric science class. Congratulations and be careful tonight."

Of course, Tammy didn't know that her wishes for a safe celebration were almost 24 hours too late... And that I'd partied a little too hard last night as I anticipated the news that I would, in fact, be graduating Saturday.

Wow. It sounds weird, almost. Me. Graduating. Saturday. It's no longer something that's going to happen "one of these days" or "next year." I's happening right now... or, at least, three days from right now. Even as I spent the entire semester preparing to graduate, something in the back of my head always suggested that someone or something would come along and keep from the big day.

Until last year, I had a nasty habit of dropping one of my classes every semester. I don't know why I did it... and certainly, it wasn't a habit that I wanted to have... But every term, there would be one class that drove me insane and I'd withdraw from it at the last possible minute. When I sat down last summer to look at what I had to do to graduate, it him me that I had to break the cycle of dropping classes. I enrolled in and passed six credit hours in the second summer term. I enrolled in and passed 19 credit hours during the fall. And then I enrolled in and passed all 21 hours this semester. I guess some would consider such a performance to be expected of a guy in college... But for me, it was a big achievement. This time last year, roughly 44 credit hours stood between me and a degree when I'd never earned much more than 30 in a single academic year. Yet, I did what needed to be done and I've been rewarded with the prize.

I'm proud of graduating... But I'm really proud about what I did in the last year to make it happen this semester.

* * * * * *

I used to be a big drinker. I really enjoyed tying one on and get three sheets to the wind. Even before I was motivated to drink copious amounts of booze by the events of the Spring 2000 semester, I did it because I enjoyed it. Looking back, I was obviously nuts.

My ugly drinking habits ended on the last day of the Spring 2000 semester. I'd reached an all-time low and found myself a drunk, emotional wreck on the curb outside of a bar being comforted by Jonathan and Macy. I woke up the next morning and decided that I wasn't going to do that again. With only a few exceptions, I've abided with that decision.

The result of me drinking less is that I make fewer booty calls, I talk less trash, I keep from being the loudest at parties and I don't do as many things in social situations that I'd regret later. Those are the positives. The negative, of course, is that my tolerance isn't what it used to be.

Jonathan, Nate, another guy and myself went bowling Tuesday night. After two games, I had a nice three-beer buzz (in the old days, the buzz didn't start until beer five) and in Big Lebowski fashion, I suggested we go somewhere and make White Russians. We stopped off at the store for some Kahlua ($20!), Vodka, milk and ice and headed to Sara's apartment for fun. More than a few folks were over at her place and the party was anything but boring.

White Russians go down like candy and before I knew it, I was tanked and wondering how I got to that point so quickly. Once I did reach the point of drunkenness, I did my best to keep the party interesting. I thought I was whispering when I pointed a girl out to my friend as being "the fat one." After the entire room joined in a collective gasp and that particular girl left the party, I realized that I... well... uh... wasn't whispering after all.

I also made a 43 minute bootie call that briefly turned into an effort to score a threesome with this girl and a friend of mine. In the end, the girl stayed in bed alone at home and I rejoined the party with a new drink in my hand. Forty-three minutes! And no one had sex. What a waste. At least that was 43 minutes I wasn't drinking.

Don't get me wrong as there were highlights to the evening. I did spend some quality time with folks I may never see again. And a buddy and I found ourselves in a bathroom with a girl that wanted to show us her nipple piercing and prove to us that she wasn't wearing any underwear. The great thing about that event was that her boyfriend walked in on the show and my buddy and I managed to escape with our lives.

When I finally made it back to my dorm room at five this morning, I could already feel the hangover setting in. I downed three Tylenol and crashed for about seven hours. When I woke up, I would have felt like shit had it been any other day. However, considering the booze I consumed, I felt great. I took more Tylenol, drank some Gatorade, took a shower and felt good enough to run the many errands I had to do. My stomach finally settled down late this afternoon and my headache disappeared shortly after.

I think God offers up these lessons to me every now and then as a real life application of things I should know. I knew that I didn't need to drink that much... But I overlooked that knowledge for the sake of celebration and racked up a long list of things I should have never done. (Trust me. The list is long. This entry doesn't even scratch the surface.)

Of course, I can chalk it all up to my "crazy college days."

After Saturday, however, I'll have to find another excuse because as of 2 p.m. or so, the college days will officially be over. Sigh.