How to avoid responsibility

As spring creeps toward summer, the mercury rises and my motivation drops. This happens every year, and every year the effect becomes more pronounced -- my work ethic is fighting a losing battle with sunshine and good vibes. My daily mantra of late has been, in the words of one Ferris Bueller, "How could I possibly be expected to handle school on a day like this?"

But every time, just after the words leave me, I clap a guilty hand over my mouth, my conscience shaking its finger at my irresponsibility as one would admonish a naughty puppy. My overdeveloped sense of academic duty is determined to throw a wet blanket on these gorgeous spring afternoons, but lucky for me, its plan has more loopholes than a hunk of Swiss cheese at a firing range.

The trick is misdirection. For example, if I were to declare my intent to loll about on the beach at Golden Gardens for several hours with friends the day before a midterm, the entire left half of my brain would erupt in a violent tantrum. It would scream accusations of slacking and sloth, and so thoroughly riddle me with guilt that I would have no choice but to slink off to the library with my tail between my legs. Instead, I tell it: "Relax, I have three full textbooks right here, and I will study the whole time." Sure, I say, there is sun and sand and idle conversation to be had in large quantities, but look at these textbooks! Just look at them! How could anyone resist them? Nine times out of 10, I grudgingly agree to let myself go, thus ending phase one of my intricate self-deception.

Phase two is where things get dicey. Once I have arrived at the pleasure spot of the day, what is to keep me from fulfilling my empty promise and burying my nose in books like a good little honor student? In order to keep the angel of scholastics resting on my shoulder happy, I do have to keep that promise, at least ostensibly. This means a book must be open on my lap at all times, or at least lying within easy reach. However, if a guitar or a portable CD player happens to find its way on top of that book, I am not necessarily disqualified, as long as I can persuade myself that I am making an honest effort.

The good news is I am easily fooled. You would be amazed to hear the things I have convinced myself count as academic endeavors. Dozing blissfully in the sunshine counts, because that is how I gather my mental energies for the blitzkrieg of coursework that will no doubt ensue. Plucking idly at blades of grass counts as well, because an important aspect of any education is learning one's place in nature. Doodling in the margins of a critical essay is my way of "drawing parallels between key concepts."

Eventually, I run out of ways to distract myself, so it is important to have other people around. Friends are best, since they are more likely to engage me in conversation than strangers, but in a pinch, passersby will do. If I am perilously close to finishing the first paragraph of the assigned chapter, my fellow humans can always save me from myself.

After all, if those around me are too noisy as they revel in the bright day, who could blame me for glancing up from my engrossing reading, and who could fault me for letting my gaze linger on the distracters? If, after that, the bright sunshine has so fatigued my poor eyes that I need to shut them briefly and rest my head on my book, who is to say I am skirting my duties as a scholar? I cannot, and that is what counts.