While sitting in class a few mornings ago, I took one of the ultra-fine-point Sharpies I love using for writing out of my bag and scribbled BALANCE on the back of my hand. Later in the afternoon, I penned just below it the names of four people whose phone calls I needed to return, but those were soon inadvertently washed away with soap and water and I was left wondering who exactly I had been meaning to get in touch with. This speculation and uncertainty were compounded by the fact that I couldn’t remember what the hell the BALANCE was supposed to be about either.
I am so not with the program these days. Over the course of yesterday, a total of five different people said to me, puzzled: “You have a final exam on Friday? I thought all finals were on Thursday,” which ultimately freaked me out enough that I emailed my professor to verify the date. Yes, it’s on Friday, just as I thought, but I really shouldn’t have had to second-guess myself.
The whole thing reminds me of the second round of midterms during spring quarter: I showed up to one class armed with scantrons, expecting a multiple-choice exam, only to find a paralyzing sea of essay-exam blue books awaiting me in the lecture hall. The thoughts racing through my head as I raced across campus to the student store to buy a blue book are not fit to be published here. And, then, there was another class in which I took my sweet time and wasn’t overly worried about the fact that I kept dozing off during the course of the exam, only to realize during the last half-hour that what I had mistakenly recalled as a two-hour class was in reality only one hour long and I didnât know most of the material we were being tested on. Yeah, it was grand.
Anyway, I’ve just compiled two lists: one of people whom I need to call, and another with names of people I need to email, and soon. What is the world coming to? I’m turning into my father.
BALANCE, you will be pleased to know I remembered later, turned out to be a reminder that I needed to check my bank account and ensure I had enough money for gas before I stopped to fill up the tank on my way home. But because I wrote it with a permanent marker that withstood all attempts at soaping and scrubbing, the word stayed on my hand for the next three days and served as a reminder of everything I need to currently do with my life; namely, browse other peoples’ weblogs less and update my own more often, spend less time on AIM and more time writing cover letters for potential employment opportunities, reply to emails and make phone calls, stop reading three books at once and turn my attention to studying for my neurobiology final exam instead…
Speaking of cars, another thing I need to work on balancing is trying to figure out how to survive ever since my car broke down on Monday afternoon and was towed off to Sacramento for repairs, after which it will most likely be sold, good riddance. Yes, you read that correctly. Yasmine, without a car?! This is anathema to my entire existence as Commuter Child Extraordinaire. But what I am most annoyed at my car about â even more than its lack of cooperation in choosing to die on me â is the fact that I had indeed checked my account balances that day and just filled up the car with a nearly-full tank of gas. Thirty dollars! Think of how much food I could have bought with all that money! [I'm sure that 2Scoops, self-appointed Nutritionist Extraordinaire, would be proud of this line of reasoning.]
Taking over the daddy-o’s SUV yesterday was a grand experience, though, I admit it. Today, since I was off from school, the daddy-o dropped me off at a local coffee shop so I could study all day. When he returned in the evening to pick me up, the first thing he noticed when he stepped inside the coffee shop was the sight of my feet carelessly propped up on the seat of the chair across from mine at the tiny round table I had been sitting at for the greater part of the day. He crossed the room, frowning disapprovingly. “You should learn some manners,” he scolded me sotto voce. I scrunched up my face unrepentantly and retorted, “You know I always have to sit with my feet up.”
So tomorrow is my NPB final. The end is looming near, which is mighty exciting, considering that I’m passing all these “multiple guess” [as my father calls them] exams by a nice margin, even though I still don’t understand parts of it. Stupid fetal blood circulation and your complicated-ness, I hate you. Who told you to bypass the lungs anyway, dammit? I mean, this diagram has roman numerals and plenty of arrows, and I still don’t get it. How hard could it be?
But I’m going to pass the ass out of this class if it’s the last academic thing I ever do, so help me God.
Silly fetuses, thinking you could thwart my plans.