Prepoceros

I didn’t have time* to study for this morning’s midterm last night, so I skimmed my class notes as I walked from the parking lot to the classroom. I was nervous going into the test, certain I’d have to hack and bs my way through it. The format—six excerpts from primary sources we’ve looked at, for four of which we had to name the author, title, genre, date, etc. and answer a specific question or two on the work’s significance—was dodgy; if you didn’t recognize enough of the excerpts (or image, in one case), you were pretty much screwed.

Luckily for me, I recognized exactly four. I’d narrowed the fifth down to two possibilities, and for the sixth I would’ve guessed a play I don’t even remember studying in this course.

Not only that, but I was able to dredge up enough detail about each of them to compose three solid responses and a fourth that was mostly there but disorganized and ineloquent because I was short on time. In short, unless she grades horribly pickily, I kicked this test’s ass.

I’m glad I didn’t study. I remembered enough of the material from class, and the things I would have studied weren’t even on the test, really, so it would have been a monumental waste of time. The only study plan that would’ve helped would have been rereading all the primary sources so that I could better identify the excerpts, but I wasn’t about to do that, especially since I didn’t know the format ahead of time.

I hate studying. I’m not good at it, and it bores me to tears. (I’m pretty sure those two are related.) I’d rather just pay attention in class and learn it all the first time around. I realize that’s not always possible, but it’s worked well so far—though I’ve gotten some terrible grades, I’ve never** done poorly in a course in which I’ve attended most or all of the class sessions. I’ve now started six sentences in a row with ‘I’—narcissist.

The exam was thus a thoroughly enjoyable experience. I got in the zone and powered my way through it, and I came out feeling like I could touch the sky. It’s sick and twisted, I know, but I *love* taking tests. Something about engaging my mind completely in a good challenge excites me. As it should, of course.

Actually, I don’t know why many people *don’t* like tests. I’m guessing it’s because they’re worried they might not get the grade they want, but I think the key to happy test-taking is to just not give a shit about your score. I want to do well on every test I take, of course—I want to show that test that I’m smarter than it, that I can meet its challenge and more—but grades mean very little to me.

And I’m not just saying that because my current GPA wouldn’t get me into any grad school at all, much less a reputable one. I know I’ve fucked up a whole bunch of classes. But when I do well in a class, or on a test, or on a paper, I know it. I can be happy for the success itself, not for the artificial achievement of a certain score.

Do I welcome corrections and comments? Of course; that’s why the prof has a Ph.D. and I don’t. But seeing those grades come up on my transcript? Couldn’t care less. Never have, really, since they stopped being straight A’s in about sixth grade. Or maybe the not-caring preceded the not-perfection, I forget.

Ok. Two more midterms this week: one in Logic on Thursday (which I didn’t know was coming up until I looked at my syllabus yesterday) and one in Latin on Friday. Bring ‘em on!

———
* I couldn’t squeeze it in between my fast food binge and The L Word marathon. Yeah, I fell off the resolution wagon, but I’m dealing with a bit of stress right now, k?

** With one exception, but there were extenuating circumstances.

Tags: school

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