Ah, weekends. No classes, no obligations, nothing between me and the mall but the parking deck’s little robotic arm barrier. This semester my schedule magically aligned so that my weekends essentially start at 11 a.m. every Thursday and last ’til 6:30 p.m. every Monday. It’s beautiful.
That said, I work my ass off ’til then. Tuesday is my sucky day; I have the class I GA at 9:30, then Intro to Research at 6:30. Sounds great, yes? Maybe if I didn’t have what my adviser calls the “baptism by fire” class, Europe to 1800 (hereafter 705), the next day at 3:30 instead of 6:30, and didn’t have grading to do before that.
Blech. I keep swearing that I’m going to do the bulk of the readings for 705 on Saturday and Sunday, but that never happens…which means I stay up ’til 2 or 3 a.m. each Wednesday morning reading for pleasure to stuff my brain back in through my ears after trying to make sense of another series of thirty-page Jacques Le Goff articles. We get it, Prof, dude man was an exemplar of the Annales school, and as such can’t make a straightforward statement to save our lives. But sheesh, new blood, please! Thank Jesus we’re moving on to Marxist history next week. I’m pretty sure Le Goff didn’t touch that with a ten-foot pole.
PS: I keep meaning to swing by Greensboro’s library and other points of interest, but they’re all downtown, which still scares me a bit—and by a bit, I really mean “gave me heart palpitations when I drove to my bank a few days ago”.