I didn’t have a 4.0 in college. I really wanted one. Like, bad. The semesters I did get one- wow. I’m pretty sure childbirth isn’t that awesome.
(Also. Less amniotic fluid.)
(And no episiotomy.)
But thanks to the commonly held belief that four semesters of natural science is going to make me a better historian, that was not meant to be.
(Because that makes total sense right? I mean, I remember so much from all those science classes. Like, a good 75% of their names. And they were so carefully chosen. A monkey throwing darts at the course catalog could have come up with a more cohesive scientific syllabus than I did.)
But I figured that if I couldn’t have a 4.0, I would damn well get the best honors I could. Hell, I figured if I had to inscribe the damn diploma myself, I was going to get those honors.
Turns out I wouldn’t have had to bother learning calligraphy! And maybe I could have memorized a few less industrial revolution statistics! Because I just could have BOUGHT A FRICKIN’ STICKER after graduation and made myself feel all accomplished.
My diploma arrived this week. It’s beautiful. I love it. But the little part that denotes the honors with which I graduated? Is a sticker. That’s peeling up.
DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW HARD I WORKED, UWM??? HUH?? AT ALL? NO? I DIDN’T THINK SO.
My mom looked at it and said, “Huh. Mine’s written underneath my name in pretty handwriting.”
Yeah. How nice for you. Apparently the credit crunch cut into the university’s calligraphy budget.
It’s still pretty cool, though.