I am overwhelmed.

(It’s totally obvious, and it’s only September. If my appearance deteriorates as much this semester as it did last time, I’ll be a snaggle-toothed hag by Thanksgiving.)

I think I may have finagled a way into the Jane Austen class.

But—as these things usually go—I had no sooner begged the professor for a slot in the elusive class than I felt an ulcer take residence in the centre of my stomach lining. Six full-length Austen novels to read? On top of Literary Theory, Art History, six other Victorian novels, and a creative writing class? And driving to campus (no small feat, for it’s a forty-five minute commute one way, and icy roads are looming around every weather forecast) four days a week whereas before I’ve only ever gone two days? And racing home three of those four days to teach piano lessons?

When will I have time to read, and research, and write?

Perhaps I should’ve left well enough alone.

Yet I know that if I hadn’t tried everything in my power to get into that class (a class that only comes around once every three years), I would’ve regretted it to the end of my days.

So maybe this will be a heinous semester. But it’s really only a few months, and then it’ll be done. I can wake up a bit earlier, go to bed at 10:00 every night, double up my daily dosage of DDP. I can do hard things, and I can rock at them.

And anyway, it’s not a sure thing that I’ll even get the Austen class.

But I’m resting easier knowing that I’ve done everything in my power, and if God deems that I should take a class on my favourite author of all time, Dude’ll make it happen. And if He knows myself better than I do (not unlikely), and foresees that it would be the death of me, He’ll see to it that I am good and thwarted.

Truly, though, it could be worse.

I could be enrolled in a math class.

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