So I’ve never registered for classes during advanced registration before. No, seriously. I’ve always miraculously either slept through advanced registration or procrastinated to the point of Real–Housewives–of–D.C.–reunion–show oblivion, and watched advanced registration period become a blip in the distant past.

Although, between you and me, the above is only the official story I tell people when they gasp in horror at my irresponsible nature. Forgetting to register hasn’t always been the principal reason I haven’t signed up for classes early. Mostly, it’s because I hate to plan ahead. I suppose, to a certain extent, I’m a creature of spontaneity. I hate that irksome feeling of obligation that settles into your stomach the day of an event you agreed to attend weeks ago, when really what you’d rather do instead is dance to Duran Duran’s “Rio” in front of your bedroom mirror, hairbrush in hand. I hate when people ask me what I’m doing for Spring Break. No, I don’t want to buy tickets to a bizarre cruise, no I don’t want you to save me a seat in your New Orleans–bound car, no I most certainly do not want a spot in your den of Acapulco iniquity. I just want to pack a bag the day of Spring Break and go somewhere dodgy.

I wasn’t always this carefree. In fact, I used to be a massive stresspot, spewing venomous frustration at the slightest unknown variable in the study that was my life. But there was always something so incredibly enticing about being impulsive, even though I could never quite get to there. High school saw my desk peppered with calendars, day planners and fun–shaped memo stickies. But then I came to Penn, the land of obsessive planners and schedulers where penciling in a lunch date with an old friend three weeks ahead is the prescribed norm. Unsurprisingly, my reactionary instinct told me that this was the right time to shift gears. I therefore threw my metaphorical-day planner (I still hold on to my real one, so that I can at least know when my papers are due…) out the quad window and haven’t really looked back since.

It’s now senior year, and I have no idea what I’m doing six months from now. Whereas this might sound like a Chucky–sized nightmare to many of my fellow near–graduates who are drowning in pre–professional Penn propaganda, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m weeks away from submitting grad school applications, but I won’t be hearing back till March. I’m also fully aware that I might not get into any of them, let alone my top choice, but I really don’t mind. The thing is, I know that I’m going to end up somewhere doing something, and that’s fine by me, for now. I have nothing to prove to anyone other than myself and I’ll eventually be doing something in line with the high standards I’ve set for my own future. I want to bask in this delicious uncertainty for a while.

Next year could see me in grad school or just grabbing a toothbrush and moving to Kabul for a while. I’m going to cross that bridge when May rolls around, much to my mother’s dismay. But for now, my volatile relationship with PennInTouch is going to remain intact, as I stick to my usual approach. You know, desperately harassing professors come January to let me into their classes…


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