Well then. After deleting one email that turned out to be a near-duplicate of another as well as an invitation to a high school alumni happy hour that I won’t be attending*, I decided to tackle the most urgent message next: the notification of my tuition bill’s coming due, which I’d saved to remind myself to figure out what classes I needed to take this summer, which in turn would require me to sort out my degree plan for the next year.

I’ve put this off for almost a semester now, ever since I finally decided to go back to the Physics and Math majors. And oh, was ignorance ever bliss. Switching schools, the year I spent as a “Classics major,” and the silly, silly idea I had that I’d do the double-BA (worthless!) instead of the double-BS will make my senior year a bitch. Not only will it be tough to do, it’s tough to figure out *how* to do it, with all the rules and schedule conflicts.

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I’ve just submitted my final paper in Roman Historians. The three assignments together came out to 8309 words, in the end, most of which were written in the last 24 hours, of which I slept almost two. Let it be known that I do not recommend this experience to anyone.

It occurs to me that I am now done with spring semester, as my last final was yesterday. That’s a weird feeling. I’ll have more time to appreciate it in the morning—right now I’m drained, and my achy eyes can barely focus on the screen. I’m going to go email my professor my apologies for my tardiness and then crash. Kerrrrrrrplunk.

Today, writing about Polybius, I have seized an opportunity to casually refer to a certain stage in a government’s evolution as a metastable state.

This is easily the high point of my day. I have written about 2300 words of this assignment so far, and it has taken me five days. I have about 5000 words more to write in the next 25-ish hours. I have a final this afternoon, so even if I don’t sleep, that’s still only 20 hours or so. I wish I would write faster—I can do the math on this one, and it makes me want to punch things.

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P.S. Wouldn’t it be nice if metaphory (second-syllable stress) were a word?

If you’re counting on the final exam to salvage your lousy grade, and particularly if you don’t spend as much time studying for the last in-term exam as you should because you figure you’ll have more time to study later, you should make sure there’s going to BE a final earlier than, say, the morning of.

The look on my face right now is priceless.

Gritten? Gritted? Grit. This is the South, after all.

I have 1500 more words to write about Polybius, then 2400 more about Sallust and Plutarch. Then I really ought to learn some PDEs before tomorrow’s exam.

Suddenly I feel compelled to organize my kitchen. I can see the mess from here. I would also like a chili cheese coney and many many tater tots and a hot fudge sundae and some chocolate cake and a donut.

I will not get up. Will not will not will not.

My last class of the semester was this past Monday, and my finals will be Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday of next week. That would make this week my first wee taste of the glorious freedom of summer—before it’s snatched away by summer school, that is.

It’s not been a bad week so far, though it has flown by. I’ve had exactly one thing to do every single day except Wednesday, usually teaching in the evenings in random far-off suburbs. It’s mildly annoying to have to plan my relaxing around evening appointments, but I’ve managed somehow. At least it gets me showered and dressed and out into the sunlight every day, which can’t be a bad thing.

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I have just finished the first draft of my Chaucer essay sixteen whole hours before I’m supposed to turn it in. I started writing it last night, TWO DAYS before the due date. I don’t remember a time in the last six years when I’ve finished a first draft *before* going to sleep on the night before an essay is due. Snaps for Natalie!

This does mean that I haven’t finished my two Roman Historians writing assignments, but I’ll take essay-deadline victories where I can get them.

. . . began eight hours ago, when I finished teaching my last class of the weekend. It’s now the final week of the semester (modulo one extra Monday), the period when managing my time becomes crucial (upgraded from “rather important”) to my passing my classes and maintaining my sanity.

If my memory is correct (most of these things are written in my planner, but it’s SO many inches away), my next five days will feature two problem sets, four exams, one term paper, one eight-page writing assignment, and a few dozen lines of translation. There may also be a few homework assignments that have been allowed to ripen but really ought to be turned in by the end of the week if I am to retain any shred of dignity and honest dedication to my scholarship. Just a few. Like one. If you don’t count Modern Physics. Like seven if you do.

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Yesterday the temperature got up into the 70s, but for tomorrow the weather folks are all waving their arms about an ice storm. Ice pellets! Sleet! Freezing rain! (Is there a difference?) Think of the children!

School’s supposed to start tomorrow. It might not. We’ll see. All you folks in snowier climes are probably laughing at our precaution, but we Houstonians don’t know from sleet, y’all. Seriously. As soon as the roads ice up we all drive straight into the bayous for the heck of it. Also, few of us own gloves. Or warm socks.

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Once again it’s time to be deeply introspective, an about-face from this blog’s usual navel-gazing flavor.

I’m a bit intimidated by 2005, both the year itself and last year’s YiR. At the beginning of 2005, I declared it a “Year of Transition and Transformation,” and indeed it was.

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