I don't mind the plunge. I don't mind the secret dread leading up to a plunge.
What I hate? Waiting after the plunge to see if my parachute is going to open or not.
And that's where I am with regards to the bar exam. By my calculations, I have 19 days before I figure out whether or not I shall crash into the ground or somehow float in a clumsy landing that doesn't involve me spending my 25th birthday wallowing in a pit of my own misery.
I've spent the last couple weeks on an extended vacation. First, Branson with my family. Then a cruise with my boyfriend and his family. But now, I'm stuck waiting. This means I should probably pick up some old hobbies I gave up while preparing for the bar.
Like working out.
And giving myself manis/pedis (because my tootsies are looking BAD).
And deep cleaning my house.
And preparing eleventy billion job applications, most of which I will not receive a response to, and the rest that will end up stringing my along or summarily dismissing me with a rejection letter (which is better than the aforementioned silence).
Somehow, I don't think this will make the waiting process any easier. Which might give credence to Blog Creeper's suggestion of a medically-induced coma.
Although I just may prefer a tequila-induced haze.
What I hate? Waiting after the plunge to see if my parachute is going to open or not.
And that's where I am with regards to the bar exam. By my calculations, I have 19 days before I figure out whether or not I shall crash into the ground or somehow float in a clumsy landing that doesn't involve me spending my 25th birthday wallowing in a pit of my own misery.
I've spent the last couple weeks on an extended vacation. First, Branson with my family. Then a cruise with my boyfriend and his family. But now, I'm stuck waiting. This means I should probably pick up some old hobbies I gave up while preparing for the bar.
Like working out.
And giving myself manis/pedis (because my tootsies are looking BAD).
And deep cleaning my house.
And preparing eleventy billion job applications, most of which I will not receive a response to, and the rest that will end up stringing my along or summarily dismissing me with a rejection letter (which is better than the aforementioned silence).
Somehow, I don't think this will make the waiting process any easier. Which might give credence to Blog Creeper's suggestion of a medically-induced coma.
Although I just may prefer a tequila-induced haze.
