This morning I had a psychology exam. I love my psych class–learning about what makes us tick is a great tool for realistically portraying people in fiction and, I mean, it’s also just super interesting anyway (who doesn’t want to learn the differences between selective amnesia and dissociative fugue, right?).
However, despite already having taken psych in high school and learning a decent amount on my own, I’ve been doing bad in this class. Not failing bad, but–well, let’s just say I’m pretty sure the students who didn’t even show up for the first exam scored better than I did.
So, with the second exam set for Thursday morning, I decided I was going to turn things around this week. I was going to read the text books. I was going to review my notes. I was going to memorize flashcards like nobody’s business.
Monday, I had a full manuscript critique to finalize. And an astronomy assignment. And hair that hadn’t seen shampoo in more days than even some of the people from our case studies would voluntarily admit. So I put off studying.
Tuesday I had classes all day. And a literature quiz to study for. And OMG GLEE WAS ON. (And we all know watching *spoilers* New Directions lose at Nationals to Skylar Astin *end spoilers* is a far more effective use of time than studying, anyway.)
… Then it was Wednesday. The day before the exam. And I had yet to even glance at the five hundred pound text book, lying on my floor, for longer than it had taken me to kick it off the futon so I could sprawl while watching Glee.
But the exam was in less than twenty four hours, and I. Was going. To study. I really was, this time.
7:00 PM, Wednesday: Classes were done for the day. I’d cleaned my room to parents-are-visiting level and exhausted Buzzfeed quizzes. I fell into my bright pink desk chair, resolved to not fail this exam, and ran a Google search for psychology flashcards. It was too late to drag myself through the text books, but maybe I could still absorb something from someone else’s study tools.
Found a deck. Settled in to flip through all two hundred and eighty nine cards. This psych exam wasn’t going to know what hit it.
Things went fine, at first. I looked at a couple cards. Made myself Bagel Bites. I looked at a couple more. Filled a mug with water, then managed to dump 90% of it down my shirt (I used what was left to make peppermint tea). My mom called. I flipped through a few more cards. I reheated the tea. I checked Facebook. I checked Twitter. A couple more cards. I checked tumblr (I don’t even use tumblr).
Then, the banging began.
If you have ever lived in a college dorm, likely you know what kind of banging I’m referring to. This is not the kind of banging you want to hear while reviewing Masters and Johnson’s studies.
When it became clear the happy couple was probably going to be going at it until long after I was done studying for the third psych exam, I gave up on working in my room, grabbed my laptop and tea, and headed for the closest hall lounge. Only that one was occupied. As were the other two on my floor I passed. And they weren’t just occupied by other people struggling through schoolwork like me, but happy people, watching Netflix and Skyping with boyfriends and discussing weekend plans with friends (how dare they).
It was at that point that I ran into Hannah, ever valiantly hobbling her way around the hall on her crutches. (Some jerks didn’t bother deicing the sidewalk outside their house; as you can tell, it did not end well.) She suggested trying the lounges one floor up, because they were generally quieter. So I trooped upstairs, and–thank God–the first lounge I came across was completely empty.
My heart skipped a beat; the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding escaped my lips. I settled onto one of the dorm’s hard-as-a-rock couches with what little warmth was left in my tea seeping across my fingers, and flipped through the first online flashcard.
Good. Good. I could do this.
I flipped to the second card and a cheerful voice came from the lounge entrance: “Julia?”
And there stood a friend I hadn’t seen in ages.
“What are you doing up here?” he asked as he stepped into the lounge, obviously expecting to stay for a while. “This isn’t your floor.”
“Oh, you know. Studying.” I motioned to the laptop open across my legs. “My floor was loud, and I have a psych exam tomorrow morning.”
… At which point, bless his heart, the friend struck up a conversation.
Moral of this long and rambling story: Procrastination has a “pro” in it for a reason. Leave it to the professionals. Because you never know when literally the entire universe will conspire against your studying.
(On the upside, I managed to answer all but two of the questions on the exam, so I’m almost positive I did better on this one. But still. STILL.)