Final exams: check.

I laughed out loud multiple times during that last exam.  The absurdity of one professor’s contextual questions for McKenzie technique; the little jokes that playfully teased a professor from different courses while regarding differential diagnosis; naming one case study’s patient Page Turner, a 46 year-old librarian who power lifts and has “obvious hypertrophy.”  My hands shook while completing the last five questions, realizing I was almost done, but they somehow steadied in the two seconds it took to walk to the front of the room.  

I withheld from jumping and dancing right there in front of the class, though admittedly I now wish I had done so.  We so needed release from the delusional tunnel vision of the last two weeks – hell, from the last two and a half years.  But I did not want to gloat, did not want to make anxious those whom I know are not the best test-takers despite being incredibly smart.  I left the room, walked to the end of the hall, and saw a first-year student at the water fountain. 

He unknowingly asked, “How’s it going?”

I threw my bag on a chair with bravado.  “I’m done.” 

“Wow, you finished?”

I slam-dunked my pencil and eraser into the bag.  “DONE!”

And I proceed to jump and dance like I was on fire.  Moments like this beg for uncoordinated, haphazard, flailing exuberance.  Anyone who knew me in undergrad would have been ashamed to admit I was once a dancer, and that’s just fine by me.  A minute after I finally calmed down, Danielle came down the hall with a big smile on her face.  Cue yelling, bear hugs and reinstated exuberant spaz-dancing.  Add cheering, and this was how each subsequent classmate was received, one by one, decibels increasing linearly.  Those who finished later said they could faint hear each time someone reached the group down the hall.  You’d have thought we’d each won the Superbowl as the underdog.

The younglings went off for their itinerary of lunch (with beer), massages (with beer), and specific bars for their specific drink specials as the night progressed (obviously each with beer).  I lack such social and alcohol tolerance, so instead I opted for long put-off errands, a visit to Heather and baby Sid since they will be moving to the west coast come January, and starting my first post-semester fun read. 

The next morning (Saturday) I ran in the Ted Corbitt 15k in Central Park at 8 a.m., wondering as the race began if I was a complete idiot for volitionally giving a hard effort the day after the semester’s end.  Turns out my usual tendency to perform better when slightly tired held true.  Not to mention running much longer distances than 9.375 miles on a regular basis means that by the time I start swearing to myself since I don’t have much patience for shorter races the race is, conveniently, nearly over.

That night I was in bed by 8:30 p.m., did not wake until 6 a.m. the next morning.  That how we “old” folk celebrate – early to bed and early to rise, enjoy the next morning with no schoolwork compromise.