Flashes of Panic

I’m pretty sure I was recruited today.

That is, a specific professor—the one who taught the only class I feel like I’ve done well in, out of three this semester—flagged me down in the hall and specifically asked me to take her 200-level class in the fall, specifically for the purpose of figuring out if I could be useful to her research. (She didn’t put it quite that baldly, but she also hasn’t completely cracked my shell of cynicism yet.)

(Now would probably be a good time to tag on a pseudonym: let’s call her Prof. β, which is logical for more reasons than I’ll go into here.)

Unfortunately, I’m well past the satisfaction of the final exam grade from her class, and wallowing in the pure frustration of two other classes where I haven’t been able to do anything right since before spring break. When I talked with Prof. β, I was far from my sharpest, and I suspect she walked away from the conversation wondering why, exactly, she’d thought I might be worth recruiting. I was confused, stammering, and not really contributing much to the conversation—I suppose I wasn’t really feeling worth recruiting, either.

I’m not sure this is necessarily a good match. The area she’s steering me towards is not one I’ve seriously considered before; it’s likely to tax my (sorely deficient) math skills and grasp of theory. On the other hand, if I can wrap my head around it, it could be wicked cool.

I should probably write an email apologizing for my inarticulateness and at least register for the class.

Either way, this does provide some evidence that I may not be paranoid.

Now Playing: Better Things from End Of The Summer by Dar Williams