The semester is over and I killed it, but almost not.
Three classes plus work experience, which was just me getting credit for working in the greenhouse which you know that I love, resulted in three As and a P because I guess you can't get true letter grades for working.
And since the semester was moving by so smoothly and my grades were nice and solidly in the A range, I did that naughty cheater thing of calculating what I needed to get on my final exams in order to hold on to my As.
I was tired of studying, friends, that is the truth.
As my newly polished math skills showed, I really only needed to get a 56% on one exam and, like a 60-something on another to hold my As.
Fine. I shall slack completely off, not finish the reading and take the approach I took during my undergrad times which was to ride into the final on a wave of "If I don't know it by now, I'm not going to know it." and just see how it goes.
Except that I totally still studied because I've become a total A-loving nerd and couldn't face the idea of What If I Don't Get an A on the Final?
And then, even with all the studying and not slacking off, I managed a 74% on a final exam that I should have aced if only I'd been studying the right content.
A is for ass. At least with that final. Except that I didn't get an A on that final. I got a C. And let's not go into what that might stand for because the point is that I still got an A in that class even though I'm ashamed of myself for that hideous C that I wouldn't have even known about if my professor didn't post all of his grades online.
Which got me wondering how many final exams I've not aced but have still led to getting As in the class and then the anxiety started to take over and WHATEVER THEY'RE ALL As AT THE END OF THE DAY AND WHO'S READY TO DRINK?
That was a long bullet. Sorry.
I started to look the gift horse in the mouth and then decided to shut my yapper.
So, I got this nice little scholarship at the final hour and it's paying for my final semester of classes and I'm stoked.
Free money is a nice thing. Not having to pay for classes is a nice thing. Getting a refund to my credit card from the college is a nice thing.
Going back to the scholarship awarding committee to tell them that their organization's name is improperly punctuated is not a nice thing.
The irony is that it's an organization for writers and the name of the organization itself is, in my opinion, improperly punctuated. Like, it needs an apostrophe and you know how I feel about apostrophes.
But I decided not to include that with my scholarship application and I've decided not to include that with the thank you letter that I will be sending for the award and so, yeah, now I just have blue balls of the brain with regard to the unrequited finger-wagging over the missing apostrophe.
Probably also that last sentence made very little sense.
My feet are Old As Fuck forever plus bonus Weird As Fuck diagnosis
So after my initial Old As Fuck diagnosis of my Crossfit-inspired foot pain and the x-rays that proved that I had extra Old As Fuck bone growth causing extra Old As Fuck foot pain, I decided to be a grown up and accept the referral to the podiatrist to see if he could do something about this Old As Fuckness.
Plus, also to confirm that I didn't have gout. Which I don't. Hooray for that.
What I do have, apparently, is Weird As Fuckness.
See, I made an appointment to see the podiatrist at 9am. So, Bubba and I traveled up to the doctor together via train because we were going to the city to go bowling afterward and that is the most Old As Fuck sounding day of events I've ever constructed.
I had an appointment to see the doctor at 9am, so I showed up at 8:45 to fill out the paperwork they were sure was going to take 15 minutes to complete prior to my appointment, and at 9am I was sitting in the doctor's exam room with my shoes off waiting for his excellency to bestow his footly wisdom upon me.
When he actually walked into the room at 9:01am I'm sure I looked surprised because I expect that all doctors are going to be late because in my experience they mostly have been.
What I did not expect was to have the doctor register my existence with surprise and then go on to tell me that he expected ME to be late because "All 35 year old women are late to appointments."
Um, not THIS 35 year old woman, thankyouverymuch and why are you saying that I'm 35 years old because obviously I'm still 23 which is my perma-age and I'll thank you to remember that next time, Dr. FIX MY FUCKING FEET.
I think he saw the offense on my face because of the fact that I'm punctual as fuck - like, I take time management seriously and do not accept tardiness in myself or others - and also who are these 35 year old whores just wasting everyone else's time by showing up to shit late all the time and ruining my good reputation?
Bubba assumed he was talking about 35 year old women who are mothers and trying to wrastle children into minivans against their will and such, but whatever. My mom was a 35 year old mother at one point and that gal IS NEVER LATE.
I love her for that. And other things, too, but I love her a lot for her punctuality. It's an admirable trait. Enough about my lovably punctual mother though, this is about my Weird As Fuckness.
So, I was weird for the punctuality. Fine.
Then the doc proceeded to tell me that there wasn't much I could do about my "minor" foot pain since the bone spurs weren't "too bad yet, so just wait until the pain's really bad and then come back for surgery or maybe we can make you some orthopedic insoles for your shoes that are really expensive or you could customize some Super Feet or whatever quit your bitching while I tug haphazardly at your toes and feet while you recoil in fear and horror."
Or whatever. That's basically what he said. And did. The haphazard tugging was truly terrifying.
And when I pressed him on what the recovery time was like for the surgery, since I'm not super wild about this whole "wait until the pain's really bad and then come back for surgery" thing, he said that it's only a few days off your feet and then a month and a half in a boot, but don't worry because you'll still be able to drive when the boot's on your left foot.
Except that I drive a stick shift.
Which is apparently Weird as Fuck.
As in he looked up from the wrastling of my feet he was so terrifyingly doing to eyeball me with surprise and then say, "Oh. One of the remaining few. Hmmm..."
Then he made a comment about how long my jeans were (I've been meaning to have them hemmed, but they were tucked into boots for the day so I didn't think I'd be taking lip off of anyone for it), gave my feet a few final horrifying tugs and left me with zero resolution other than that I was now Old, Weird and destined to be old and weird. As fuck.
Oh, and also I have arthritis in my feet and that doesn't get better, only worse, so look forward to that you old, weird, punctual, stick-shift driving freak.
So glad I went to the doctor.
|I slipped on my too-long jeans while we were bowling and so had to have three glasses of champs to feel better.|