Unless you're an engineer or one of the few seniors who get into Math of Social Choice, you probably wouldn't consider registration "fun," per se. A new social order was established a few weeks ago when the registration times were released: Those with 8 a.m. registration times were the monarchs; 9−10:30 a.m. times characterized the nobles and gentry; knights and vassals occupied the 10:45 to noon slots, while the humble merchants and craftsmen shuffled in from 12:15 to 2 p.m.; finally, after 2 p.m., the serfs and peasants were allowed to scavenge what they could. The monarchs pranced about campus as if their registration times were bequeathed to them through divine right, while the less−fortunate wallowed in self−pity. Both these schools of people suck, and their antics shouldn't be tolerated.
As a gift for my fourth semester at Tufts, I actually got the half−decent time of 11 a.m. On Monday, I kept an eye on the 15−person sophomore seminar I was trying to get into and there were, miraculously, four spots left when, during Western Political Thought, the clock struck 11 and I logged in. Much to my dismay, this did not go smoothly; I didn't have approval from my adviser.
Naturally, panic ensued. After nearly pulling out my hair and causing a scene, I hastily emailed my adviser with the subject PLEASE URGENT and desperately explained my plight. About 20 seconds thereafter — when the remaining slots in the seminar slipped to two — I concluded that I needed a better strategy and made the decision to run to the psych building to see if my adviser was there.
My first challenge was slipping out of class without looking like a complete jackass. Unfortunately I was sitting in the middle of Cabot Auditorium and had to subtly climb over what were surely four of the longest femurs in the room to get to the exit — an arduous task, to say the least.
After making a fool of myself and leaving my classmates wondering what immediate family member's death must have caused my untimely exit, I made my way across the Academic Quad with an almost painful power−walk. I felt somewhat compelled to burst into a primitive run, but no one wants to be the goon running with a backpack, so I reluctantly settled for a stride that was half brisk trot, half awkward waddle. Despite almost being hit by cars on both College Avenue and Boston Avenue, I safely arrived at my adviser's office … to find the door locked. There was one spot left in the seminar.
Handily, having amazing composure under pressure and thinking quickly on my toes, I learned from WebCenter that my adviser was teaching a class in Barnum Hall that would get out at 11:45 a.m. It was 11:15 so I headed to Barnum to orchestrate a stake−out until his class got out.
It was at this point that some heavenly spirit descended on my soul and rewarded me for the karma−bolstering, altruistic deeds I've been sprinkling into my lifestyle, foolishly hoping that they would somehow bring me good fortune in exams. My adviser let his class out 20 minutes early, and I was teeming with excitement and angst as I dashed into the auditorium. Although he was talking to other students, he looked right at me and informed me that he had gotten my email just seconds before and approved me.
So everything worked out. I know a lot of people didn't get the classes they wanted, so I really can't complain. Missing half a lecture, suffering an extended bout of anxiety and having to change my shirt after drenching it with sweat from my combined stress and power−walking ended up being a small price to pay.
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