Get up, sit up
You know that dream where you find yourself suddenly back in a high school math class? The one where you realize in a panic that you somehow never knew you were supposed to be in Calc II instead of hanging out in study hall and now it's one day till finals and you have no idea how you'll pass. And if you don't pass Calc II, you'll never graduate and then you can't go to college and your life will be one long series of horrible jobs that require the wearing of aprons and hairnets.
Or there's an even scarier dream, the one where you find yourself back in high school PE, lying on one of those smelly gray mats, waiting to gutting up into 100 sit-ups for the monthly fitness torture-test.
Yeah, that's a nightmare and a half. So why am I signing up for a four-week fitness bootcamp that sounds exactly like a grueling PE class? It's for grown-up ladies who haven't done 100 sit-ups since Carter was in the White House.
And it's outdoors. At 6 p.m. three nights a week.
Me skeered. But me also feeling flabbo, so I'm doing it. Progress reports will be duly posted. My typing fingers will probably be the only joints that won't be too sore to use.
Thanksgiving break approacheth. Had lunch with a prof pal the other day (not Prof. Lunch-Guy, who has vaporized into the ether, where his weirdness can commune with the weirdness of my other weirdo datemates of this year and yesteryear). She regaled me with tales of her undergrads who began cooking up excuses last week for why they should get a full week off for turkey day and not just the scheduled Thur-Fri-Sat-Sun. Some students left last Thursday, skipping this week's classes entirely. When they return, they'll have just two more class days, then reading days, then finals. It's all over by the first week of December.
My prof friend summed up the early-extended-vacation syndrome this way: "They don't realize how insulting it is to teachers when they ask if it's OK to skip our classes. No, it's not OK! Why ask?"
Look, kids, you've paid for college. Gut it up and go to class. All of them. You won't be sorry. That hour might be the one where the lightbulb goes on and it all begins to make sense.
Real life awaits you in all its flabby splendor on the other side.