Hit Me Baby One More Time

Having been public-schooled all my life, there are a couple things that I found out about attending a 1) private 2) Jesuit institution that threw me for a bit of a spin.

• A hallmark of major research universities: genius professors who are horrible lecturers. Just because I'm paying 4.5x more tuition doesn't mean the quality of teaching is that much better.
• Getting way more days off that a public school would never even think about giving its students. Columbus Day? Good Friday and Easter Monday? What on Earth are those?
• Crucifixes. Like, everywhere. Almost makes me feel guilty about swearing under my breath every time a prof goes over a really dense topic really fast (which, incidentally, is practically every single lecture.)
• Corollary: boldly walking into Dahlgren Chapel of the Sacred Heart without use of holy water nor making the sign of the cross. People definitely shoot me funny, irreverent looks.

Seeing that it is once again exam week (but then again, when isn't it exam week), I left the library at a rather late hour, somewhat delirious from cramming eight different metabolic pathways within the span of six hours. I have this bad habit of reviewing things and talking aloud to myself while walking to fight the goddess Athena trying to taking my hard-earned wisdom away from me. Unfortunately, I also love to blast Ke$ha while walking. This is clearly detrimental to me on two fronts:

1) Facts like "proteins are built from amino acids" become "proteins are built me up you break me down my heart it pounds yeah you got me."

2) Pumping loud dance music means that my hearing, one of the five senses key to human survival, is eliminated. This becomes a huge issue when crossing the street.

I saw the little white walking man and eagerly bounded across the asphalt when a gray Camry screeched to a halt, six inches from obliterating every last bone in my body. "Deer-in-headlights" would be the understatement of the year. I looked at the driver, expecting it to be a tiny Asian lady. Instead, the driver and her companion were both old, wrinkly nuns, wearing their full habits and looks of terror on their faces. Any desire I held to curse out the driver and all her ancestry dissipated. How terrible of a person do you have to be to yell at a nun?

The irony of almost being slaughtered by some of the kindest people on Earth is still beyond me.