Pre-class academic struggles

First world disaster: I'm too indecisive to choose classes. Looking at the course catalog for this semester, I've realized that... I want to take EVERYTHING. By that, I mean that I have 11 classes vying for my 3 (or 4) open slots. Can I help it if everything looks interesting? No. Can I help it if I'm horribly indecisive? Well, probably, but I don't really feel like trying to tackle that one.

I have one class set, my English honors tutorial. Unfortunately, the class time for tutorials is chosen at the first meeting, meaning that I can't even narrow down the rest of my schedule based on timing. Le sigh. The normal course load here is 4 classes per semester. I did the 5 class thing last semester, and promised myself I wouldn't again, but how am I honestly supposed to narrow 12 classes down into 4? I might have to go with 5 again. In true Tim Gunn style, I can make it work!

Thank the academic gods above for shopping week. It's pretty clear that I need a week to sit in on everything I'm looking at to figure out what to take. What I mean by that is "I really hope that something sucks, so that narrowing things down will be easier." Here's my current shopping week schedule:

At least Friday's free, no?

So, I may have bit off more than I can chew, as is evidenced by the fact that this calender looks like an entire Crayola box threw up on it (again, it would be really helpful if a few of these turned out to be terrible at the first meeting). There's a chance that two English classes, an English tutorial, an Italian literature class, and a GenEd course absolutely will might be quite a lot of reading, but I've been doing my best to convince myself that reading is my thing. I read like a champ. Books actually quiver in my wake because they know that I will read the crap out of them.

Okay, so I probably won't do the 5 class thing again, but that leaves me in the awkward position of having to cast something aside, which threatens to rend my saddened heart into two despondent pieces.

If anyone is shopping any of the classes shown above, let me know, because I love having a seat buddy (read: not having to sit alone like that girl with no friends). Oddly enough, approximately 99% (totally arbitrary statistic) of my amigos are in the maths and sciences, so I haven't received a ton of suggestions from them. Boo. In the meantime, I'll continue to ask "which seat can I take?"** until I show up to lecture and find that all of the seats are, in fact, already occupied. Hate that.

**Don't judge me. I'll never pass up a lame pun if I can help it.

Someone insinuated that I'm short today...again

I have an awesome job. Essentially, I get paid to talk about why I love Harvard. Thusly, I was more than happy to work Harvard's booth at a college convention for the National Urban League's college fair today. Like I said, I love talking to prospective applicants about the wonders of Hahvahd. So I'm wearing my school spirit T-shirt. I'm sporting a happy face and a peppy (but not overwhelming) demeanor. I'm chatting it up with talented peeps from all sorts of minority communities. Tell me this job isn't sweet.

But apparently, wearing the T shirt and sitting behind the booth with all of the Harvard pamphlets just doesn't tell everyone that I am indeed a student at the aforementioned institution. Once again, something has gotten lost in translation simply because I am a petite female. Here's a recount of a conversation I had with a rising high school freshman who just wants to be a psychologist (she unfortunately couldn't really pronounce the name of her dream profession, but I guess she's got a few years to figure it out).

Kid: "Wait, so you go to Harvard?"
Me: "Yes I do!" <--Exclamation point for extra spirit and pizzazz and sparkles and shit.
"WOAH!" But you're so young!"
"Oh no, no, I'm nineteen. I know, I'm just pretty short."
"Oh my gawwwwwd! I totally though you were like, fourteen!"

So apparently, I can pass for a child prodigy. I guess that's cool? More ironic about this interaction was that I was sitting in a chair with my legs hidden behind a table skirt, meaning that she based her assumption that I was a pre-teen solely on the height of my torso. Is my mid-section really that small?! I always thought it was in the legs.

Here's a quick PSA to everyone who notices that I'm below average height (so, everyone) : I will be twenty years old in a few months and I do not have dwarfism. If you decide that you must announce that I look like a teeny-bopper, YOU ARE NOT THE FIRST PERSON TO DO SO. In fact, I prefer short jokes to flat out statements that I'm tiny (I'll probably totally regret saying this). At least if what you're telling me has some sort of punchline, I can assume that you're willing and able to think creatively, rather than simply notice and state the very painfully obvious.

And if I tell you my age, you don't have to respond with how young you thought I was. I know, I know. I'll appreciate it when I'm 40. But not until then.

On the upside, I'm going to be a freaking adorable little old lady one day.

The World's Most Awkward Sunburn

It's not the one that turns you into a lobster from the back and it's not the one that results in awkward sandal tan lines. It's the head sunburn, the one that you get in the strip of scalp where your hair parts. There's not much you can do about it besides rock the up-do or wear a hat. Unfortunately, My newly short hair looks kind of ridic. in a ponytail, and I so can't pull off hats.

The part-sunburn, which will now be referred to as the partburn, is an elusive creature. One would never think to sunscreen his or her head, because that's greasy and icky. The beating of the sun feels hot, but not dangerous and I generally assume that so long as my cheeks and arms aren't turning pink, that my Native American/Italian genes are effectively keeping the UV rays at bay. It's not until I get into the shower at night that I realize the misfortune that has befallen me. It's always the same: step under the perfectly-temperatured stream of water and WHY IS MY SCALP ON FIRE AND IS THIS WATER OR BOILING OIL? What a pleasant surprise. When I actually look in the mirror, the awkward red stripe on my head is practically glowing. Fantastic, now my head is partially discolored and shampooing feels like self-mutilation and torture.

It gets even better in the following week or so. Like any sunburn, the partburn often peels, which looks an awful lot like dandruff. So now my head is cherry-lollipop red, it itches, which often results in me scratching my head like a confused capuchin monkey, and now it looks like I could use a bottle of Head and Shoulders. Perfect. Love summer.

In other news, I also walked into a sign in the bookstore, because fortune has decided to rain itself upon me.

This summer, I struggle.