Strider

Day 13: I hit the snooze button three times this morning. Each time, I told myself that all I needed was ten more minutes, and, each time I knew that that was untrue. I didn't need ten more minutes. I needed a day. Two more days. A week, even.

Walking to class wears me out. There. I've said it. Admitting it makes me feel like some sort of out of shape corporate American schlub which, itself, makes me feel twice as awful because it's accurate. At my last job, I sat at a desk all day and ate, occasionally moving the piles of food aside to slam my hand into the keyboard at my desk and check my email.

When one class ends, I have ten minutes to get to the next and find a seat. That's ten minutes in which I have to pack up my stuff, put on my coat, find my way out of the building, trek across campus (none of my classes are close to the other), find a seat (if there's one left, else I stand), unpack the things needed for that class, and take notes.

For the first two weeks, I'd barely make it in time. I'd show up to class sweating, huffing, leaning against the wall, willing myself not to pass out. Then I'd immediately have to nab a seat, focus, and start learning/noting. The professor would spout material so quickly, my hand would cramp from noting. I'd drop my pen and massage my paw, hoping to be able to catch up.

Most days, I'd leave class feeling completely out of my league. I questioned whether or not I'd even make it to midterms. I wondered, sincerely, if I had made a mistake coming back to school, taking on more debt and stress in the process.

But only for a moment. Because, before I knew it, I was in another class. Sweating. Noting. Learning. Cramping. Hoping.

And then in my car. And then home. And then homework. And then sleep. And then alarm clock. And then class.

The days have cycled by so quickly, I haven't yet had much of a chance to entertain quitting long enough to do anything about it. But, if I being honest with myself (and you, reader) I have to admit that the feeling was there.

The feeling IS there.

In the midst of one of these funks, I found myself in my adviser's office. I didn't precisely mention how I was feeling but she must have sensed it anyway. She talked with me about persistence - "stick-to-itiveness", she called it - and the importance of pushing through to the end, regardless of the consequence of failure or any perceived lack of ability. I took her words to heart and decided to focus on finishing class strong, for that day.

And I did.

The next day, I woke up sore from all the walking I'd done the previous day. I rolled over saying to myself, "It's early in the semester. I can miss ONE class." But my adviser's words haunted me. And, with them, the spectral skeleton of my attempt at college loomed, giving me a reason to get out of bed. And run.

Today, I found myself walking to Spanish with my headphones on, wondering why everyone was walking so slowly. I got to class with enough time to grab a seat up front, and with 5 minutes to spare. I was still worn out, still breathing heavy, still sweating like a convict, but I was faster. Fast enough to get a seat. And then fast enough to keep up with the professor. And then fast enough to get to Statistics early, so early that I had time to check my email and buy a soda.

"Stick-to-itiveness", she called it.

I still worry. I'm worrying as I type this and, likely, as you read this. But I'm still going.

After Statistics, I made my way over to the library, taking note of how the walking felt. My knees hurt a little and my back was sore. Wind shot out of me in great white bursts. I was miserable. But, for the first time, it felt like something that I might be able to get used to.

If only for today.