I write this as I try and think of a presentation topic for a job interview later this week. Do you ever have those moments when you feel really accomplished, really on top of things, and the feeling lasts, oh, about 20 seconds before you lose your winter hat? Maybe that’s just me; I lost two winter hats last week. This was how I started the semester. I was on top of all my readings, applying to internships, accomplishing my new year’s resolution to be more involved; it was all going well. Sure, I saw people who lived on my own floor less and less. But I was handling it, whatever that means.
(Still no ideas for a presentation, and I’m starting to want to resort to a cliché.)
Before I start to sound like a vapid university student, or to recover myself from already sounding like one, I should say that I am not complaining. I associate complaining with passivity. Nothing about this is passive; I actively bring stress upon myself. I have a problem. I’m Naomi, and I’m a workaholic. But I’m not really. And I don’t really have too much work to do either. I remind myself constantly that university will probably be the freest, most fun time of my life, and that my workload and stress-level will only increase as I get older. The thought is scary.
(I finally thought of a topic, should I reward myself by taking the rest of the night off?)
I’m a freshman and I sometimes forget that. I also sometimes forget than I’m only eighteen years old. Not that I feel old really, but that I don’t have to take as much responsibility upon myself as I do. My sins and misadventures at age eighteen will be forgiven, right?
Yet, I know better. So I do better. I write that extra cover letter to submit one more application to one more summer job. Maybe that will be the one I get. Maybe it’ll propel my career forward. Maybe I’ll thank myself later. But I really, really just want to spend my last waking-hour of the day hanging out in the common rooms above me, laughing about something unrelated to my mostly self-imposed responsibilities.
(I do research on the topic and call it a night. By research, I mean copy and pasting parts of webpages into a Word document.)
I’m not a good juggler, and my balance is lacking. Clearly, I was not made for the circus. But now is the circus. Maybe it’s my life, maybe it’s just in my head, but there seem to be metaphorical trapezes flying and spectators are certainly everywhere.
I could end this post by quoting Tennyson. I wish I had the attitude of Ulysses right now. I wish this self-reflection led to newfound optimism and resolve. But I don’t and it didn’t. Instead, I have the attitude of an 18-year-old student who wants to go to bed, to talk to friends, to have mindless Skype conversations, to do anything other than something that will benefit her. For now, I have to live with it.
This post wasn’t supposed to me a diary entry. I have a neglected diary for that. It was supposed to be humorous, talking about all the McGill-specific things I’ve learned in my first six months here. It was supposed to show that I’m happy here. And I am happy here. In fact, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else (or at least at any other university…though Costa Rica on the other hand…) But I didn’t write that post. There’s always next time.
(I saved and closed the document. I don’t know if I’m going to sleep or not, but it’s early in the week; I have time.)
That’s the lesson: I have time.