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Here at UR, 90 percent of my hall is on the premed track.
I think being a doctor is a great profession, but when I look at premed schedules I get dizzy, and one of my premed friends has to take care of me. Yes, despite the fact that I am 6 feet 1 inch tall and I am supposed to be an independent college student, when I feel sick I need to be looked after like a small child.
So, why is the premed track so upsetting? Even though one may love the sciences, having to take four regular classes, two workshops, two labs and one recitation is clearly challenging. And this is where the beer goggles come on.
In high school health class, did you ever have to put on beer goggles to simulate the dangers of being intoxicated? Looking at a premed schedule makes me feel like I’ve returned to high school and fastened on my handy dandy beer goggles. I look at the schedule, and I see double of everything! Biology three times a day, chemistry eight times in a week — it’s exhausting! I feel like I’ve had six shots (which I obviously haven’t, because I’m under 21) when I look at a soon-to-be doctor’s schedule.
It only gets more intense as you continue. Teachers and advisors become like overly-large frat guys urging you to take more shots of science. Once you’re done with your basic sciences, the pledge master forces you to try this new class that his cousin told him about that supposedly causes seizures and possible blindness: organic chemistry.
Your schedule already makes you dizzy enough, but this extra class could put you over the edge. You pass out in your study buddy’s room. You show up to class the next morning groggy and confused. Just as you taste the last dry drop of “orgo,” the pledge master stares at you from behind her advisory book, looks at the stack of papers in front of her and asks, “You had enough of Thirsty Thursdays? Try Physics Fridays.” Your friends cheer you on as you get wobblier and more tired. You focus on how badly you want to be a Theta Kappa doctor or Zeta Delta nurse. Suddenly it’s four in the morning, and you’ve puked up the hamburger from Danforth that you waited in line for 20 minutes for. You try to gather your notes but a headache sets in. The room spins. All goes black.
Take off your beer goggles and take a look at your schedule. One writing class, one philosophy class, one psychology class and — just to impress your parents — an astronomy class. Surprise! You are an English major.
Weinberg is a member of the class of 2015.
