On the way to my last final of the term — the second-to-last final of my undergraduate career — I passed on the stairs a professor, a relatively young man with a shiny head and two young children, who politely asked how I was. To which I replied, without need for much thought, “Tired.” I sensed slight mischief in his reply: “Yeah? Well, it gets worse.”
I know. It is something beyond physical exhaustion that makes my parents retire so early each night. It is what at a recent senior cookout made other profs complain about assigning too much work (which they then must grade). Enough; I am done. And I have only one more month to play.