The Autopilot of Life

College clocks always take forever during the last ten minutes of the class.

College clocks always take forever during the last ten minutes of the class.

It’s the third week of my senior year at college.

Everyone has settled in by the third week of college. We all know just how tough our professors are in each class, and most of us can remember where we’re supposed to be at a class, job, or internship. But! That’s just the time when the rut of the semester starts to sink in.

Remember how every semester seems to breeze past once you’re at the end of it? Week three is when that running-on-autopilot feeling starts to sink in. Sure, you think it’s practically the start of the semester, but that’s the trap! It’s practically the beginning, but it’s not really, and you’ll spend a few weeks in mindless appreciation of this thought before it’s the middle of the semester, and then it’s practically the middle right up until it’s practically the end!

The only answer is to live in each week while remaining alert to your own collegiate mortality. Soon another semester will have slipped through your fingers, leaving you another day older, but with little to show for it! The only solution: you need to shake things up right now.

Volunteer for something! Research something to impress a teacher! Pile on a side project, like making a movie, playing a little tennis, working out, or running a blog! Carpe that diem!

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Looking and Leaping

Today I’ve got a special treat! I’m actually posting about my life, rather than reviewing something. Surprise. You have last semester’s class to thank: this is an assignment in which I had ten minutes to write an anecdote about my family.

That's a stairway, all right.

Everyone in my family uses eye correction. All eight of us. Sixteen, if you count individual eyes. My youngest sibling, Isaac, was one of the last to be diagnosed, and also underwent the most dramatic change as a result.

Isaac, my other brother Eric, and I all enjoyed jumping down stairs as kids, and Isaac would always launch himself gleefully down the entire carpeted flight with abandon, covering 12 steps in one leap despite being half as big as I was. When Isaac got glasses at age 7, this practice stopped. He abandoned his abandon.

Once Isaac saw his path a little more clearly, even though he has always brushed himself off after every past jump, he chose to play it safe. I’m not sure if there is a pat moral to this story, really. He may have missed out on something he considered beyond his ability, but to be honest it probably was. I mean, that sort of jumping can give you a lot of joint problems later in life.