Ah September.  A month of new beginnings, crisp wind, autumn colors, the glorious goodbye to being woken by the sounds of screaming camp children outside my window.

September?  SEPTEMBER!?  Uh…. Right…. School’s starting soon.  Like… next week soon.  Like… Wednesday soon which isn’t even a whole week away.  I have pre-homework to do.  I have to make sure I’m mentally prepared.  I have to go school supply shopping!

I’ve been to campus several times at this juncture, both for business and to walk around (and yes, after Tuesday’s kerfluffle I do finally have ID and Parking Pass in hand).  I have ordered my books (thank you, Amazon!).  I have begun to read the articles for my first class.  I have started to put together correspondence between my MA program and my PhD program to ensure that I receive cross-credit for language exams.  Overall, I’m on the right track.

There was, I must admit, a feeling of vertigo when I first glanced at my booklist.  There have been moments of panic which have extended into long afternoons of panic which have required the liberal application of wine to quell.  There have been the inevitable “am I really doing this?” bouts of squeamishness which were pleasant surprises despite their nauseous undertones.

Through all of this, I have come to one very important conclusion: this is going to be a great deal of work.

Oh yes, I was prepared for the concept of work, but the actuality is hitting me fast and hard upside the head much to the chagrin of my clenched and sore jaw muscles.  My long days of leisure are at an end.  This became abundantly clear today when I settled in with the first in my stack of reading and was only able to manage a third of it before my eyes started going numb.

Flash back to Wednesday and a meeting with the Chair of my department.  We went over pleasantries and exchanged your regular sort of questions and answers, as well as registration bookkeeping and the like.  It was then that he cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and set to business.  He reached for a first stack of papers, “Here is the syllabus for my class.  Please have the readings done before you arrive on Friday.”  I nodded.  The syllabus wasn’t horrible, a few pages double-spaced, your standard research paper and oral presentation, it was a little more reading intensive than I was used to but this is the big leagues after all.  “Here,” He said, reaching for a second stack of papers, “Is the current Graduate Handbook for the department.”  It was slightly weightier, but what would you expect from a book made of policies and red tape?  “Here,” He said, reaching for yet another stack, “Is a set of informal guidelines which I have put together for the writing of research papers at the graduate level.”  I nodded with a smirk.  I would surely give this…

paperwork... on my desk. And other things on my desk.

rather weighty document (eighteen pages double-sided single-spaced) a glance through, but I’ve read style guides before.  I’ve also been writing graduate-level papers for two years now.  I wasn’t going to worry about this.  “And here,” He said, reaching for the final stack, “Is your comps list.”  This was the breaking point.  Twenty-four pages, double-sided, single-spaced, with a quid pro quo at the end denoting that we are expected to keep up on contemporary theatre and since no single list can possibly hope to accommodate all new works satisfactorily we should simply know everything.

Induce panic. Oh god oh go we’re all gonna die.  Break out the chocolate.  Someone come rub my tummy and play with my hair.

It wasn’t too late to back out, right?  I wouldn’t be a total failure if I only kinda went for my PhD and gave it my best shot but fell flat on my face doing so?

Actually, yea I would be.  You see, I’m a homo sapien.  I have opposable thumbs.  I’m renowned throughout the animal kingdom for my intellect and ability to overcome obstacles in the face of enormous adversity.  I can’t let a measly little twenty-four-page list of books overcome me.  And if I get that far, I might as well just write the dissertation for fun.  You know.  Just to see if I can do it.  A lark on a Sunday afternoon.

And besides, my business cards are going to look WAY sexier when I can put those letters after my name.  Like… for reals.

A note: despite this flippancy, my reverence for the Academy extends deeply into the heart and soul of my book-nerdish self.  I assure you that my reasons for wishing to acquire this degree extend beyond sexy business cards and a title in front of my name.  But really, what’s life without a certain degree of affability?  If I can’t laugh about this… I may start crying.  And if I start crying, I won’t stop until five to seven years has passed.

Well… my life as I know it has ended.

Goodbye, cruel world.  I’ll see you when I’m done flaggelating with my textbooks.