The Lemon Life | online magazine offering a fresh perspective on post-grad life.

Words by: Adina Siperman

Image by: Jason Ryall

Applying for grad school, I was led to assume that my educators were fairly intelligent people.  After the first day of orientation week for my Master’s degree, however, I had learned differently.  Don’t get me wrong.  Professors introduced themselves to the students and promised an academic year of intellect, debate and reason and they undoubtedly later delivered.  But, please tell me whose bright idea it was to have students – physically exhausted, mentally fried, nutritionally malnourished and fresh out of a grueling exam season – be required to complete a 50+ page thesis during the carefree days of summer.

In that orientation week of September, as an eager, wet-behind-the-ears, naïve grad student, I pledged to have my research summarized by June, my writing finished by July and my editing completed by August.  I promised to ignore my pale skin held hostage by library stacks and silence my ringing phone with invitations of late night patio parties and BBQ’s.  The one factor, however, that I did not take into account was falling in love.

As a means of not living below the poverty line, I supplemented my paltry research grant with a part time job at a tanning salon.  To be honest, I loved it.  One day a bronzed customer would come in and I would play up my role as “tanning salon girl” by clacking my gum and inserting “like” every fifth word.  The next time she would see me, I’d be lost in a mountain of books, translating ancient texts.

The low humming of the tanning beds surprisingly proved to be a conducive environment for me to write my final papers.  With a summer of early sun, I had hours of uninterrupted concentration.  It was only the wisp of a ponytail out of the corner of my eye that could break my academic spell; Dario - the gorgeous Latin loading dock attendant.

It began slowly.  I was consumed with final papers and endless exams.  But as they passed, one by one, Dario and I began to spend more time together.  I quickly forgot about my summer academic responsibilities.  Every so often, amid a sticky, sultry salsa club, I would hear my thesis advisor’s voice quietly in my ear, whispering, “Annotated bibliography.”  As I sipped tequila on candlelit verandas, I would hear him gently remind me, “MLA formatted footnotes.”  June passed without a single trip to the library or journal researched.  By the end of July I had not put a pen to paper once.  Who could think about scriptures of the past when I had a Don Juan of the present?

Quite by chance, in the beginning of August I ran into a classmate of mine at a coffee shop as Dario and I were taking a leisurely afternoon stroll.  Her uncombed hair sprung out in every direction, her eyes carried baggage fit for a European holiday, her crumpled clothes held pencil shavings.  This frazzled creature was such a departure from the composed, kempt, articulate student I sat across from only months earlier.  She hurriedly explained to me that if our theses were not handed in by month’s end, we were required to pay full tuition to the university until they were.  Suddenly the once soft whispers of “annotated bibliography” and “MLA formatted footnotes” became alarming shrieks.  And so, an hour from that run-in until the meandering hours of August 31, I ignored my Latin boyfriend, bulb-ripened customers and unproductive need for sleep.  While my friends sipped mojitos and relished the dog days of summer, I sat locked in front of a computer, researching, writing and editing three month’s worth of work.

And you know what?  I handed in that 52-page thesis on time.  If there is one thing I know, no lover, no matter how sexy, no matter how Latin, is worth a semester’s tuition.

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