I remember when back to school meant breaking out the Bee Gee’s lunch box, buying new tennis shoes and a trip to Venture to pick up school supplies. Sweet nostalgia, how times have changed.
At age 37, going back to school doesn’t have quite the same lore. Last week I started graduate school. A four-hour class, one night a week, for eight weeks equals three credit hours. Pack in five hours of reading and 1-2 papers per week and there you have it – my life outside of work for the next three years.
Let’s look more closely. Four freakin’ hours of class. Yes, it’s as long as it sounds. By the last hour I’m doing the econ head-bob I perfected in undergrad. (Taking econ as an 8 a.m. class is just stupid. Every class was an exercise in not falling asleep. Hence, the head-bob.) This class is 6-10 p.m. I usually get up at 5:30 a.m. You can see the problem.
Weekend intensive courses are another gem. While appealing in theory, the reality looks awful. Friday night 6-10 p.m. and Saturday 8:30 a.m.-5 p.m. In advance, please read these 200 pages and do three case studies. I wonder if bringing some sort of caffeine drip would be inappropriate. Or my laptop to watch Project Runway.
Last night the instructor handed back our first graded assignment. 40/40. I was feeling pretty good about myself until she said she gave everyone 40/40. What???? Her reasoning was the paper was due the first day of class and we couldn’t have known her expectations, so she just rewarded the effort. Does she realize how long I labored over that stinking paper? (A ridiculously longtime, by the way.)
So the journey begins. When contemplating getting my masters, a friend told me the time will pass anyway, so might as well start. She was right. She just didn’t mention about the time passing so slowly.
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