John-Boy’s MA application packet is due by 4pm on Wednesday, so we are frantically finishing the final edits and print-outs, checking all the letters and transcripts (and the application fee) twice and thrice in anticipation of the big day.
Never was there another application, or plane for that matter, that has been through such an extensive pre-flight inspection plan… except, maybe, my PhD application. That one, as Christine and Catherine may well remember, was legendary in its four-month festival of pure fussiness.
Makes a body wonder why, now that I am finally into a PhD program, I am so lackadaisical towards my higher education. Oh well, scratch it up to the grand mystery that is Holly.
In keeping with this mystery, this week yet another Tuesday was wiled away by excessive “recuperation” (I feel that my Marathon Mondays entitle me to some R&R on Tuesdays). True, some recuperation is warranted. Like watching a movie and lingering over my morning coffee for an hour? Yes, that would be appropriate.
But twelve hours spent lounging in pajamas eating peanut butter, while listening to old Tonight Show clips on the net, watching Broken Blossoms (1919), and reading 40-year-old transcripts of You Bet your Life…? There’s no way even I can interpret that as research.
Thus another Tuesday has passed without me preparing for Wednesday’s ritual studies seminar, so I am looking forward to yet another Wednesday morning of scrambling to finish readings and prepare my weekly presentation. Again, all at that last freaking, hair-raising moment. And what do I say every week? “Never again will I let this happen.”
Well, I will spare you all from having to hear that again this week. I give up… This shall certainly happen again. I have dropped all of my Fresh-New-Year illusions. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, and that goes double for old students.
But now, as punishment, I must get through another manic and depressing Wednesday.
However, then I am free again until Monday, and it is off to the movie house with our friend Sio on Thursday night. Ah, for the relaxation of some worship at the local Temple of Cinema… What a great break from sitting at home slacking off and watching movies.
If I leave the house to gawk at a screen, it is better, right? I mean, it’ll require pants, so it must be civilized. (Yes, I know that I have a pretty low standard for the definition of “civilized.” But, in my defense, if I didn’t have a low standard, I’d never qualify. Besides, mind your own business.)
In the meantime, though, the $100 secret word for Wednesday’s class is “Screwed.”
Yet again.
4 comments:
I think you should write your final paper for your ritual studies class on the grad student's ritual of procrastination. In that vein, I think that you should unclench about preparing late and accept your weekly late preparation as more of a spiritual experience, gaining fullfilment from the excitement and stress of preparation.
Fulfillment, huh?
And here I thought all I was gaining was ulcers!
What would I do without you?
(Unclench??? I hope you weren't suggesting anything rude there. This is a family blog. Or maybe it was just a Yoga thing.)
Yeah, unclench does sound a little blue... Sorry. It's not a very pretty word, is it? Not musical at all. Clot. Unclench. Yeah - ugly words.
It just reminds me of how my dad used to describe the metaphorical buttocks of people who couldn't relax.
Frankly, I can think of no better word to evoke an image of Harper... No wonder he is having heart troubles.
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