Soooo... fast-forward 2 months. Although I can only breathe through one nostril at present, because the best part of being a high-school teacher is the germs, the never-ending ever-changing germs, I have gained admission to 3 count 'em 3 English PhD programs, with 3 heard from (moderate preening). Which means that I do not have to, necessarily, continue to wallow in 10th grade respiratory ailments.
However, said admissions process is really cramping my reading style. I have a whole shelf full of checked-out new fiction (The Invisible Bridge! Wolf Hall! Matterhorn!) and I just can't make it happen. I'm fidgety and distractible and God help me reading Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang for this new book group that I'm trying out (and let me tell you, their first choice is NOT PROMISING). I can't even cuddle down with P.D. James: I have two more Adam Dalglieshes to read and I don't want to waste them on my agitated brain, which knows that I should be starting to think about decisions -- at least making criteria for decisions -- at least not blocking out the eventual necessity of a decision -- at least not purposefully burying my acceptance letters under forms from the DMV and then taking up the brain-numbing needlepoint I'm making for my brother-in-law's wedding gift and watching countless back-to-back episodes of late Grey's Anatomy.
