Little Victories

I drove around frantically, cursing my universities parking services for not programming the levers to open all parking when it should be open after 4:30 pm. I zipped from student parking lot to student parking lot- all full- as empty red, employee spots speckled the parking lots I should have had access to. I cursed under my breath, flipping through radio stations to try and distract myself.

I hustled a crossed campus and ran up the flight of stairs. 0309… 0309… I found the room and opened the door. I saw one of my old professors sitting with the class in a circle and automatically knew it was the wrong class: quantitative analysis does not do the touchy feely circle thing. Damn it. I walked out and pulled out my palm centro. 0309. I was at 0309. I called Sarcasman to have him look online. It was in a different building. Argh!

I ran a crossed campus, now 45 minutes late. I finally found the classroom, slinked in front of the class to the only open desk at the opposite side of the room and sat. The professor had already reviewed the syllabus and was now on to the lecture portion.

Probabilities. Distributions. Correlations. Ordinary Least Squares ANOVA. Chi-Square Analysis. Conducting Descriptive and Explanatory Analysis. Regression Analysis. Confidence Intervals.

%*(&!

I sat staring at the syllabus. Final exam and mid-term are 50% of the grade. Need a solid B to pass and graduate on time. God I hate math. If I got A’s on everything else, and bombed the exams, would I still get an A? I tried doing the math in my head. I quickly remembered that I hate math.

I left class disoriented. I felt… stressed? Anxious?

I felt like eating a Popeye’s #1 meal: chicken strips, cajun fries, and a buttery biscuit.

I walked back to my car flipping back and forth: get it, you deserve it! No don’t, you’ve already eaten your calories. God I hate math. God I need to get B. ANOVA? Need to input my syllabuses. OMG I’m taking 9 credits. I have reading to do tonight. I want a biscuit with strawberry jam. I have so much to do. Quantitative analysis. B.

My mind was spinning as I got into my car. I do NOT need to eat fast food. That will make me feel worse. Feel lethargic and greasy. How many parts are in that individual project? 8? I flipped through radio channels. Ok I need to calm down. What did Dr. Buddy say to do when my thoughts raced? Count back from 10. 10…9….8…. 6… *(&@! Stupid numbers and math!

My grip on the wheel tightened as I drove home. I turned to Dave Ramsey. Another reason I shouldn’t eat out- cost money. Yes. Cost money. Debt. Bad debt. Passed McDonalds. Mortgage, fixed rate. Blah blah blah. Not distracting enough. Britney Spears! That’s better; my guilty pleasure. Womanizer womanizer womani- Wendy’s- er! Oh aaahhhoo oh! Oh aahho! Womanizer Wo- Popeye’s- manizer…

I sang at the top of my lungs the whole way home. Hell, I sang nickleback- that’s how bad I wanted to not binge even though I wanted to binge so damn bad.

As I rolled past the last four traps (Burger King, Krispy Kreme, McDonalds, and Tropical Smoothie) on my way home I cursed the construction of fast food chains. And seriously… all on the road right outside my house? Screw you fast food industry.

Finally I rolled into my driveway. I finished my last song in idle, turned the key, and let out a deep sigh.

Those were little victories people. Seven to be exact.