Only a couple more weeks stand between me and the end of the semester, a thought which produces — as usual — both a wonderful sense of relief and a nagging, lurking terror.
I will be glad to be rid of the four classes I am currently teaching. A semester is a long time, people. It’s officially 60% longer than a quarter, which makes exactly no mathematical sense, but there you have it. Occasionally the thought occurs to me that, if I were still teaching at a quarter-system school, I would have been rid of these bozos over a month ago. Let me tell you, the thought infuriates me. (Let’s not forget, though, that at said quarter-system school, I’d have only just begun Spring Quarter, and be staring down the barrel of another eight weeks of school year, so there are ups and downs; strikes and gutters, etc.)
On the other hand, of course, there is always the panic that comes at the end of a school term: I have so much work to do still and so little time in which to do it! I spent Monday and Tuesday this week grading two sets of Literature essays, and will be spending a large amount of time today starting two sets of Writing essays, work which will no doubt carry over through the weekend. Let’s not even talk about the four sets of various short papers I also have to deal with, shall we?
I have looked over my schedule for finals week and determined that not only does it suck generally (Tests on nights and weekends? Grade submission deadlines on four different days, mostly occurring less than 48 hours after the exam periods? Check and check!), but it also will prevent me both from attending my honorary nephew’s first birthday party and from going to see Stevie Wonder at Jazz Fest. F— you, final exam week, you unrepentant booger.
On a cheerier note, these remaining days of class involve the glorious inclusion on my syllabus of The Week of Nabokov (hooray!) as well as small forays into The Davids Eggers and Foster Wallace. No one can say that is a bad idea.