Among other afflictions, graduate school is known for triggering anxiety dreams.
My wife dreamed once that, to earn her Ph.D., she was required to lock her cat in a room with a typewriter. While she went about her business, the cat – assuming it cared about her academic career – would type out her dissertation. This was perfectly routine stuff, according to the logic of the dream: her peers in the program all had very busy cats, all performing splendidly.
But whenever she checked on her cat, it was just licking itself. The paper was blank. She never heard typing.
She´d gripe to her peers: “My cat isn´t doing anything.”
They´d say: “Close the door and leave it alone. It´ll type when you aren´t paying attention. Mine does.”
And she´d respond, sensibly: “Are you sure? It´s just a cat. Does the department really expect us to do it this way?”
By the time she woke up, she was plenty ticked at the cat. And we don´t own one.
I teased her about it, until I got accepted to grad school and had my own anxiety dream – six months before classes. I dreamt I showed up early to my first seminar and secured a spot in the front row, center seat, from which I could make a good impression. But as I watched the other students, I became nervous.
All around me, my classmates were setting bowls and spoons on their desks.
Obviously, I had missed some sort of message or posting – something vital. My only hope to avoid first-day humiliation was if some other students had missed it, too. By the start of class, however, there were 20 students in the room, and I was the only one who hadn´t brought a bowl.
Well, maybe we won´t need them today, I thought, hopefully.
When the professor showed up, he had two students in tow. One hefted a jug of milk; the other carried a box of cereal. And they started going desk to desk, pouring.
I swallowed my alarm and thought furiously. Students don´t usually do things if they´re optional; so I was obviously dealing with some kind of breakfast requirement.
How did I miss that announcement?And what do I do when they get to my desk?
Ultimately, I faked it, cupping my hands in front of me. They proved lousy for holding cereal, and worse for liquids. Milk dribbled down my arms to pool in my lap.
While the others ate, I fretted: I had no spoon, no free hand. But, certain the professor would notice my lack of preparation if I didn´t eat, I planted my face in my hands, munched, and prayed he wouldn´t notice.
Of course, I was sitting front and center.
Past my fingertips I could see the floor and the professor´s shoes; he was pacing as he lectured. Then, suddenly, he stopped in mid-sentence. And then those feet came over to stop in front of my desk. I looked up from the mess in my palms, milk dribbling down my chin. He had noticed. His expression was stern.
In my head, I was screaming: It isn´t fair! How was I supposed to know? It´s only the first day of class!
“You weren´t here last week, were you?” he asked.
Please fill out our comments form. for suggestions regarding this web site.
© 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007 Graham Robert Scott