*Unlike my usual midnight posts, I’m even making a change in the time I publish things, weee. This was finished at 9:34 in the evening. Pause for applause. The night is young, haha. If you’re a crammer, you might relate 😛
“I’ve been a crammer my whole life,” I confess with a misplaced sense of pride in between the highs of getting there in the middle of the night, the more indescribable highs of actually getting lucky, and the lows of only recently failing to.
Who wouldn’t feel like gray-hoodie sporting Rocky at the end of that Gonna Fly Now scene, after getting through almost anything and everything last minute? Claiming I work best under pressure, almost appropriately I show up the morning of the exam in a sweatshirt. Inserting a quote about diamonds in the rough; linking an over-shared meme because we all relate. I’ve romanticized my own bad habits, blamed technology, referred to my Myers & Briggs type, given power to my own opponent―time and pressure, then likening it to a skill that happens to work wonderfully well with natural smarts and talent.
I realized I wouldn’t look back at my 17 years of schooling and think sentimentally of the latter “mornights” trying not to doze off to 40 more impossible pages. A clock never looked so scary. I’m searching for an excuse not to make it to class. Can I afford it? Nah. It’s a crappy feeling, for lack of a better word. I stay up beyond the suggested number of hours. I wake up (and I mean in the right mind finally) two weeks later, reading a draft I previously submitted full of typographic errors, ranging from minor spelling mistakes to greater mishaps―something about a dog and McDonald’s, and maybe some Freudian slips here and there. My pre-med progressive penmanship, hieroglyphics to the untrained eye, on daunting piles of yellow pad paper, has proven I’ve been half asleep through my classes. I have as well been more than half asleep through all that late night homework. I might even be a half-sleep-talker and it translates in writing, now a half-sleep-writer, apparently there may be such a thing.
My cool “winging it” academic life motto has lost its charm. I hope to say I used to call it, “The Art of Winging It” in my own head a lifetime ago, even if it was just yesterday and predictably a preview of the following weeks. It’s not an art, it’s no beautiful mess. It’s just messy and sheer luck; two things that aren’t going to keep getting me very far. Like every other thing that has for a while seemed shiny and my own: the night, yummy 3-in-1 coffee, starting after 12, and the relief after the storm; it gets old.
As I threw caution to the wind, taking time off what I’m currently cramming, to write about it, I’m shedding the heavy pair of
broken wings that have carried me just inches above from metaphorical waves of those scary 0.0’s time and again. Call me a recovering crammer, I won’t be winging it anymore. I never want to need more time and I want to start drinking coffee while the sun is out, like a proper adult.