Full disclosure: Last semester was less than busy. I joined clubs, but hardly ever went to them. I'd pull the puppy eyes and manage to work no more than fifteen hours a week. I took thirteen credits, three of which the professor never showed up for to teach us about Twilight.
I mean, not that there's a whole lot to teach. Stephanie Meyer can't write, Bella's in an abusive relationship with a vampire, good job, the end, just say no kids.
As fun as it was to spend five hours a day watching How I met Your Mother, I realized I was anxious all the time. Chilling in my dorm room technically was relaxing, but my body tended to think free time was anything but glorious. I'd think there was something I could be doing, should be doing, but was ignoring. I'd compare myself to the hair-tearing students who had so much to do. Were they all just waiting until the last second, or was I just doing the whole college thing wrong? It got to the point where I'd go to dinner with my friends, they'd say "oh I see you're getting salad again," and my eyes would flash and I'd be all "WHAT'S THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?"
Not pretty, folks. There is nothing worse than angrily flung salad.
So I was pretty damn nervous before starting this semester. I resolved to take a normal course load, join two more clubs that I'd actually go to every week, and add five more work hours to the deal. While fifteen credits seems to be the new "slacker," I'm comfortable with sleep, so we're just gonna go with the previously accepted fact that fifteen reading intensive credits are a lot. Just reading ten pages of Derrida should be twenty thousand credits. Four weeks into classes, I haven't found out that "oh hey, this is totally a cake walk, I can go watch more formulaic television shows and live happily ever after!" It is a lot. I sprint through campus like I'm chasing a snitch. But I've realized that having a lot to do is not necessarily stressful. Maybe I'm just weird, but I've realized that because I'm rushing from one place to the next, I don't have time to think about how my life is going. I just go.
I mean, sure, I still have time to go to Starbucks six nights in a row with Maria, but when she says "oh I see you're getting a chai again," I don't flip shit and start flinging coffee all over the place.
When I was younger, I resisted structured time. Although money would have been nice, I rejected my first job offer from the Waffle Shop at age fourteen because I couldn't bear the fact that my weekends would be designated for anything but doing absolutely nothing. I don't know why it took me five years to realize that doing nothing is kinda miserable, but at least I got to that realization at some point.
Even at Shoshoni, I found myself going without really thinking. Not to be confused with doing careless work, I simply didn't question how I was spending my time or how I felt about engaging in such activities. Sure, I did a little happy dance about learning how to pick-axe, but it didn't turn into "do people like me here?" (much), "am I effectively spending my time? Does my hair look more unruly today than it did yesterday?" I was surprised to learn that the residents thought I fit in so well there because I claimed I was just going in, doing what was supposed to be done, and going to bed. It wasn't until 2 months later that I realized that was the whole point.
While this semester is hectic and less straightforward than being told exactly what to do, I still find myself calmer in lots of responsibility. Perhaps math class does stress me out more than it should, I look forward to the chaos, rather than resent it.
Do some stuff, join some things. A less anxious body will thank you for it.
Namaste.
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