Tuesday was some sort of national blogging day, apparently. 'National' in this case refers to Britain and blogging was being encouraged by the National Trust. I'm not really sure why; I had no idea that it was National Blogging Day Thingy until Welsh-language news programme 'Post Cyntaf' contacted me and asked me to comment on it.
I wrote a post, but then discovered that the National Trust blog thingy has a 625-word limit; I had written 1,800 words. So, I posted it on my blog. I was trying to create a sort of snapshot of my life for someone who doesn't know me, so it has a slightly different feel to it.
Among the seemingly countless actually-insignificant-in-the-grand-scheme-and sort-of-not-really-worth-mentioning-but-for-the-fact-that-I-have-a-blog-and-it-gives-me-something-to-write-about complaints I have these days is the fact that my class schedule burns me out by Tuesday afternoon. Sometimes before.
On Monday night I was so worn out that I kept waking up in a panic, not able to determine what day it was. At one point, I jumped out of bed, thinking that I had forgotten -- again -- to take out the garbage for Wednesday collection. It's a clear sign that the child bride has suffered me for quite a while that she knew without asking why I had jumped out of bed.
"It's Tuesday, Chris," she said. "Wednesday is trash day. Come back to bed."
Someone asked me today if things have improved at all in terms of my confidence in being able to deal with the class load and my expectations for myself, etcetera. I don't think they have. But I've mellowed a bit, nonetheless.
It's like those blokes in World War I foxholes -- the shelling doesn't actually stop, but after a while they just get a little more used to it*. OK, it is, in fact, nothing akin to the WWI experience. The risk of my getting blown into countless indistinguishable bits as a result of my learning Welsh is thankfully very low.
One thing I can say is that academia is bad for my posture. All the chairs and tables and desk thingies at Cardiff University (ranked No. 144 in the list of the world's top 200 universities, according to our flashy but poorly written student newspaper) appear to have been designed for petite women and lemurs. Being a normal-sized fellow means having to stoop over a lot. This, of course, means that my back always hurts, which makes me feel even older.
"Oof. Doin' all this sittin' for fancy learnin' makes my back hurt. I guess it's not a problem for you young whippersnappers, with your boom-boom-boom music and partying till all hours of the mornin'."
In one of those cruel twists of fate that sometimes affects perfectly good people, there are three girls in my Welsh Literature course who are stuck working in a group with me. I feel really bad for them that they have to put up with such dead weight, but I try to make up for it by being pleasant and offering to buy them tea.
Every time I see one of them, I think it would be really funny to say something like, "How's my lady?" with my head cocked to the side and me sounding creepy-pimpy. I have a feeling, though, that if I were to try to do that it would fall horribly flat and I would then have to try to explain myself amid a flurry of punches.
*Dear self, why did you write this sentence in the present tense?