Well, finals are among us. Another semester come to a close, and it’s gone by so fast. They all do. Now that I am over half-way through my degree, I can see a light at the end of the tunnel. It’s a little one, but if I put on my glasses, squint, and tilt my head just the right way I can see it.
As I sit here at work – yes, I’m at work, but I can explain – I am lacking the drive to study or to finish my final paper that is due tomorrow. Instead, I’m listening to Christmas music and drinking copious amounts of coffee. I’m going to need all that caffeine in my system as I stay awake all night doing the things that I really should be doing right now. But, such is university life sometimes.
I am often plagued with the little voice in the back of my head while I’m studying or writing,
“What is this even for? What is the point of finishing this assignment? What on earth am I doing with my life? How is this paper going to help me in five years?”
Truth be told, it probably won’t help me. My archaeology lab test isn’t going to come in handy in my life. I may eat my words and head an excavation someday, but I doubt that. All the communication theorists and papers on social media in politics and unconscious motivations of dialect code-switching are wearing me down.
Let me clarify, I in no way think that the core work of my degree is useless. Quite the opposite. But you see, that nasty little voice in my head that feeds off of procrastination and failure likes to try to make me think so. It’s hard for me to stay motivated when the reward is long-term.
Usually, when I write a paper, I make word count marks for myself to hit and reward myself. More often than not, I like to reward myself with ice cream. Or an episode of 30 Rock. In those moments, it’s the little things that keep me going.
This semester seems like it has been especially difficult, though. It has taken quite the toll on me. I have set higher expectations for myself, and pushed myself to the limits to achieve them. It’s times like these, at work, that I see the bright future that I can achieve if I just keep trucking along.
Forgive me for the materialistic stance I am about to take, but I like pretty things. And working in a showhome on a quiet night by myself gives me a little bit of a chance to play house. I look around and can think that maybe this is what I will come home to, not visit three times a week. Granted, any home of mine will not be decorated as nicely, or as clean, but it’s something. A little addition to that light at the end of a very long tunnel. A hope that I will not be in my little basement suite forever. That I will be able to move on to bigger and better things.