Well, It's Technically A Marathon
It's finally happened: I can thank Boston University for wreaking scheduling havoc upon its students.
In just a few days, Boston University, along with most other Massachusetts institutions, will close in honor of "Patriots Day" and the general mayhem that results when thousands of runners tear down the major thoroughfares of the city. In order to prevent us students from losing precious days of class time when such an event occurs, BU usually reschedules Tuesdays by declaring them "BU Mondays," thus reducing the number of classes we miss. Remember that the next time you think BU doesn't care about its students.
There's a big problem with this, though: my schedule. My schedule lets me have no classes on Tuesdays and Fridays, putting the majority of my learnin' time on Wednesdays and until I dropped my philosophy class because of a mid-midlife identity crisis Mondays, as well. Therefore, "BU Mondays" usually result in my two busiest days going back to back, with no relief until blithe Friday arrives. This time, however, BU has decided to leave Tuesday intact, instead opting to replace Wednesday with a Monday schedule, resulting in brace yourselves, people a six-day weekend.
That's right. A freakin' six-day weekend. Now, I'm not telling you this to gloat or anything like that. It's just that I want other people to know about this anomaly for scientific purposes. You know, research or something. And for simple posterity. Events this monumental in the history of humanity have to be recorded.
Using this newly-discovered free time, and in honor of the Boston Marathon (which I am in no way qualified to even think about attempting to run), I will be running my own little marathon this weekend: a marathon of collegiate indolence and frivolity. I hope my work will help make this world a better place. And, both because I am a hardcore Type A personality and because I'd like to offer suggestions for others who may also be in the same situation, I have decided to share my plans for my marathon weekend.
After I get out of class on Thursday afternoon, I will run a "qualifier" before the actual marathon begins, which will consist of me sitting on my couch, watching TV and eating Easy Mac while stopping to take the occasional nap. On Friday, the actual marathon will begin.
I will rise at the crack of noon to meet what's left of the day with a beaming, determined grin. I will don a headband and jogging suit, and while I stretch, I will set up my computer to play only the most appropriate music. Songs such as "Eye of the Tiger," "Sabotage" and "None Of Your Business" will fill my head with inspiration, perspiration and sass, respectively. When I feel I have sufficiently prepared myself for my journey, I will take one more lap around my apartment for good measure before jumping onto the couch again to take a nap.
Twenty-four hours later, I will wake up and shuffle to lawless South Campus to meet some of my supportive friends. Here, we will experiment, trying to find out which blend of flavored vodka and sodas is the most delicious one. We will name the concoction after whoever discovers it. Then we will get scientifically sloshed. Crowds will line up on Beacon Street to cheer me on as I meander my way back to the Student Village. When I get home, I will attempt to announce my arrival with proper fanfare but will only succeed in tripping and falling onto the floor in front of my refrigerator.
I will divide my time on Sunday into equal parts of being unconscious and being hung over, curled up in the fetal position on my kitchen floor.
On Monday, I will rise early at 11 a.m. just in time to catch "The View" on ABC. I will watch this ridiculous program while eating my two pieces of wheat bread toast and two over-easy eggs. I will cheer myself on as I dunk the toast into the egg yolk to mop up its delicious cholesterol. I will then invite some friends over so we can reminisce about old Nickelodeon shows before spending the rest of the day playing GameCube. I will get three guest violations and not care at all.
Tuesday will find me refusing to dress myself. I will insist on walking around my apartment in my pajamas, bathrobe and slippers all day long. I will then write a letter to Chancellor Silber telling him all the things I've stolen from dining halls over the years, and how the letters he sent to my fellow students about them not living up to his skewed moral absolutism has only encouraged me to steal more. I will then walk to the chancellor's house to deliver the letter and throw stolen dining hall pies at his door until his secret police beat me to a bloody pulp.
On Wednesday evening, my marathon will end, and I will arrive at my Monday class the same way I arrive at all my classes: a broken shell of a man.