Today, I realized I had been living a lie. When I changed my major from journalism to English last semester (big mistake – but that’s another story for another blog), I thought “Hey, sweet! I can catch up on classes this summer by reading classic lit (poolside, albeit), expanding my already-extensive vocabulary with words like ‘subtilization’ and ‘castrato’ and still work on my tan!”

Apparently, I had fallen prey to my university’s (and um, my so-called ‘friends’) pernicious lies about the elusive evil that is summer school. Both my advisor and financial counselor had blissfully encouraged me to spend my hard-earned work/study cash on summer classes because, well, they were going to be so much easier than the normal, semester-long demons I would inevitably have to struggle with during the fall semester. It sounded like a pretty good idea, and when I consulted my girls who had all previously taken summer classes, they too said that summer school was way easy. And okay, I got a little excited when I realized that this meant I could wear flip-flops and jean skirts to class every day if I wanted– something northeast Ohio school years rarely permit.

So, I took the plunge. I signed up for summer school…with little to no idea about what was in store for me.

I was still floating on cloud nine after a post-midnight romp with an attractive boy when I waltzed into my first English Studies class - totally ready to tackle Faulkner and Woolf with ease. However, as soon as the syllabus reached my freshly-manicured fingernails….I practically went into cardiac arrest. Read More »