Most of my mornings start within the healthy range of 9 a.m. and 5 p.m. Today I woke up peacefully around 11 a.m., primed for another day of academic indifference.
I listen to my body and give it all the beauty sleep it needs. After all, how you present yourself at a school such as McGill is by far the most relevant indicator of success.
In that vein, I take the next 45 minutes getting ready. McGill is a runway; it’s imperative that I look classy (without looking like a finance bro), accessorize uniquely (without going all out Plateau-y), and try hard, but look effortless.
Around 11:45, I’m finally set, and if I do say so myself, I’m pretty proud of this outfit. Blue Adidas Spezials to match my blue, asymmetrical sweater, and thrifted grey dress slacks. Plus, I even curled my bangs today.
My first class is at 11:35, so I grab my tote bag and head out the door.
WHAM!
Striding down my steps onto the sidewalk of Milton, I immediately slip on a monstrous ice patch hidden underneath a pile of nice, brown Montreal slush. Before I know it, I’m face-up on the sidewalk, my hands, behind, and ego badly bruised.
My tote bag has taken off, skidding full-speed down the street. I consider getting up and chasing it but quickly consider the consequences—Slush Girl, they’ll call me. The incident will go viral on YouTube, and I’ll be the subject of Spotted: McGill posts and Tribune articles for decades to come. No, thank you. No recovering from that. I call off my 11:30 class and scramble right back up to my apartment.
It’s not as if class would’ve served me much anyway. After all, my usual seat during chem class in Leacock 132 is the table. You know. The table.
Plush chairs, no one behind you to judge your 90-minute Pinterest scroll, and excellent proximity to the lecture hall doors for easy last-in, first-out access.
If you don’t know Leacock 132 has a table, chances are you are in fact not a 4.0 student.
For the next few hours, I heal from the horror of this morning’s slip-up by practicing some much-needed self-care: Some online shopping, a facial with my aloe mask and Jade Gua-Sha, and a midday snooze seem to do the trick.
Around 3:30 p.m, I head over to campus with one goal—start my history paper. I skip on over to Schulich, first grabbing my obligatory ‘little treat’ from Dispatch, fifteen dollars worth of toast and coffee.
An hour later, I head back home. I feel drained but proud of the work I did. Not only did I finish The Washington Post crossword, but I mapped out every single possible schedule option for my next three years on Visual Schedule Builder, I perfectly curated my LinkedIn profile, and I created the Google Doc for my essay.
Later that evening, I head to Bar des Arts with some friends. The theme is Snug as a Bug, so naturally, I dress up as a sexy cockroach. A few Sleemans deep, I ditch my friends to go on a side-quest and investigate the large crowd outside Leacock 132.
I spot my blissfully-unaware-of-the-Leacock-132-table friend in the crowd.
After listening to her spatter off her usual “I’m so nervous,” and “I’ve barely studied,” and “I only got a 52/55 on the practice exam,” I come to the sobering conclusion that the big event of the evening is, in fact, my forgotten Chem midterm.
I actually learned a lot from my adventures in academic indifference:
- Benzene rings are very hard to draw under the influence
- A 25 per cent midterm is practically nothing (I’ll easily make it up with the final)
- Snug as a Bug actually meant dress in PJ’s, but damn, do I make a super cute cockroach
