Here it is, another semester at our darling University. Time to reunite with friends we haven't seen in weeks, exchange stories of who had the best - or most boring - break, and discuss the ache in each of our hearts from returning to U.Va. It should be a pleasant period, filled with lunches and coffee dates to see everyone we've had to go painful hours, days, even weeks without. And for those first few early days before classes start it is. And then, Jan. 18 hits.
The battle of the add-drop period begins. This is a time when those who are unsure of what courses they need to finish their major, or worse, graduate, tremble a little inside. This cycle is dreaded by those who slept through their appointment to register, or those who discovered their desired courses were full by their appointment time. This year, I was one of the unlucky few and by Jan. 15 I armed myself for battle with course action forms, well-worded emails and the persistence of a toddler asking for candy in the checkout line.
I thought I had my schedule figured out and when my 9 a.m. appointment rolled around I was ready to click 'enroll.' But such things never work out as planned and by the time I was able to enroll, my classes were already full. In a panic, I enrolled in two courses necessary for my major and let it be. I spent the next few days attempting to fill the spaces with things I might enjoy. After three days of watching classes fill up little by little, I gave up, wait-listed two other classes and resigned myself to wait until the beginning of the next semester.
The first day of syllabus week rolled around. In my first class, a 300-person lecture to which I luckily arrived early, people had to sit on the ground. One poor soul was forced to sit at the very end of the line of students against the wall, right next to the professor. The professor did his best with the limited space, but his pacing and gesticulating left that unlucky student cowering in the corner until finally, albeit accidentally, the professor delivered a swift kick to that unfortunate student. Little else was said after that, and class ended quickly. The rest of my classes went similarly.
The first class I was not actually enrolled in took place at the end of the day. I was 12th on the wait list. Here the war began. I again arrived early enough to find a seat, but as class time neared, at least five more people were forced to sit on the floor. I spent the entire period refreshing the wait list to see how close I could get to enrollment. After class, I performed the usual routine, asking the professor about course action forms. "I like to let the wait list work its magic," I was told, and my heart sunk. Not being in this class meant attending a night class during which I could barely keep my eyes open as we reviewed the syllabus. The titles of the readings were as fascinating as the ingredient listing for shampoo.
For the past two days I've whined to anyone who asks about being waitlisted for the class which could make or break my schedule and received many eye rolls in return. We have all been there I'm sure. That nervousness you feel when you realize that you will have to take Conceptual Basket-Weaving instead of your dream class, Studies of Naptime and Minimal Effort. The little nagging voice in the back of your head telling you to check waitlists repeatedly, obsessively, until friends close your computer and demand you come to dinner with them. All I can say, dear friends, is persist. Studies of Naptime hasn't given up on you yet.
Simone's column runs biweekly Tuesdays. She can be reached at s.egwu@cavalierdaily.com.
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