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Senioritis Tell a girl she's been accepted into grad school, and what happens? Well, she's no longer interested in writing the final paper of her undergraduate career, that's what. I've got this long paper due in nine days, and I'm a little less than nine pages short of the total. While I know I must finish it, and not only finish it, but finish it well (if I want to graduate with highest honors), I am just filled with procrastinatey badness. Tons of it. Mountains. I was already not interested in finishing it, or writing it at all. I'm not incredibly interested in my subject matter (the use of the female child narrative voice in Bapsi Sidhwa's Cracking Indiaand Arundhati Roy's The God of Small Things), and I am interested in making cookies and reading lots of novels and going to the gym and cleaning the house and going shopping for fun and calling friends and seeing my family and dyeing my hair and thinking about a vacation for next year and planning out a savings budget and watching DVDs and playing Boggle and shoveling snow and cooking dinner and writing Christmas cards and doing just about anything I can think of to avoid finishing the paper. This all means I have a couple of scary days coming up - paper days filled with crammy badness. One of these days will be tomorrow; one will definitely be next Monday. And maybe some on Sunday. Maybe. Definitely not Saturday, because I will be in New York with some cool people. It's kind of scary how easy it is to procrastinate. I can't believe I'm technically graduating from college in eight days. I'll walk in graduation in May, but I graduate in eight days. And then about three weeks later, I begin grad school. I think I know a little how December birthday people feel now, because all of this very exciting news is sort of getting swallowed by the holiday and damn it, I want a little fuss. I am graduating college! With honors! After twelve years of classes! I am starting grad school at last! At a very good institution! Where, despite my husband teaching there, I got in all on my own merit! I don't want a big fuss. I just want a teeny fuss. But I want it. December babies, you have all my sympathy now. Your birthdays get swallowed by Christmas - and so does my fuss. Sigh. So I think I'll buy myself a present. In the New Year. After we recover from whatever it is we're spending on Christmas. Maybe I'll have a big spa day, or something fun like that. Woo! Graduating! Grad School! Boo! Finishing this paper! Double boo! |