Get Smart or Die Tryin'

I suppose Armageddon is not at hand. Reached this conclusion today, after waking to 30-degree weather. For the past three or four days, temps have been in the 60s and 70s. On Tuesday, I wore a t-shirt to class. Mr. President? Um, maybe we should’ve checked out this global warming thing. Or at least moved “the environment” farther down on our shit list. Then again, “Christmas in July” has worked well as an office-party theme. “July at Christmas” could be equally chic.

Just to be safe, I’m stockpiling Aquafina. Another ominous sign: 50 Cent may make Oprah’s book club. Is this the “club” Fitty envisioned all along?

http://www.nytimes.com/2005/11/16/books/16cent.html

Crazy times.

Unlike Ben Affleck, I can’t honestly say that I “don’t wanna miss a thing.” I wouldn’t mind closing my eyes and falling asleep for the next week or so. UVA has granted students a full week for Thanksgiving break, but this means a shorter pre-Christmas crunch. The co-eds have already traded beer pong for a game I call “Don’t Even Start.” Object: shame anyone who claims to have a heavy workload. I got lots of practice at Wellesley.

Player 1: Ohmigod! I’ve got soooo much to do! Three 5-page papers, two problem sets, and an American lit presentation in the next five days!

Player 2: Don’t even start. I’ve got two 20-page papers, three presentations, and a biophysics lab report in the next two days. And I’m donating a kidney tomorrow.

My contribution to the game -- class presentations on 12/1 and 12/6, a paper on 12/5, a research proposal on 12/9, and exams thereafter. So much for tofurkey and football.

Though I’m not looking forward to T Day in Charlottesville, I can’t complain much. In the spirit of our Puritan antecedents, I find some pleasure in denying pleasure. “Don’t Even Start” probably originated on the Mayflower. Pilgrim 1 said something like, “Ohmigod...what if we don’t find land? I only have enough water to last five days, and I feel a case of scurvy coming on.” Pilgrim 2 responded, “Don’t even start. My water rations ran out yesterday, and Goody Proctor just gave me the mumps.”

Things could always be worse.

The exams and papers aren’t causing me much concern, anyhow. It’s the presentations that might ruin my holiday. I realize public speaking is no match for religious persecution, discomfort-wise. But at least the pilgrims knew exactly what to expect in England: marginalization, jail, flogging. Public speaking involves a few more “what ifs.” What if my PowerPoint slides vanish into the techo wilderness, leaving me alone at the podium? What if my voice goes shaky and sheeplike? What if my legs refuse to perform their standard, torso-supporting function?

Count me among the individuals who fear public speaking more than death. Death might involve humiliation, but, by definition, you don’t have to live with the shame.

The 12/1 presentation is for Social Stigma, and the professor has advised us to frame our schpiel as a “story.” “What you want to do is tell us a story about some part of the stigma literature,” she explained. If you’re in the mood for a “story” --that is, if you’re not playing “Don’t Even Start,” and you have time to comment on my presentation draft -- please email me. Most of you are writers (newsies) or teachers (past or present) or both, and I could sure use your critiques. In exchange, you’re welcome to share my doomsday shelter or organic pumpkin pie.