I almost forgot about the fateful date – Nov. 4. I had been dreading it for weeks. The long line, the two registrars with an eager line of 50-plus students waiting to reserve classes for next semester. I have had reoccurring nightmares since last year. All I could do was cling to the hope that somehow it would be different this year.
But to no avail. In between my hectic Monday of work from 8 a.m. to 12:45 p.m., class from 1 p.m. to 2 p.m. and work from 2:15 p.m. to 5 p.m., I had to decide how to squeeze in registering.
I figured school was more important than work, (at least that is what I have been told) so I ventured to the Registrar’s Office after class in hopes of registering in record time. Fifteen minutes, I prayed. OK, 20 minutes…
After following the happy paw prints to the back door of Woody Hall, I was greeted by 20 questions. My name, social security number, age, weight. All of that important information. After ten minutes of trying to explain that while it is true I am a junior, I am also an honors student, so I can register with seniors, I reached my next obstacle, my major and my adviser.
I have always been a journalism major. Back in 10th grade, when I was filling out career surveys and questionnaires, I marked journalism. I switched advisers three semesters ago, and there was never a question as to who my adviser was until this semester.
After knocking down the first blockade, I was handed an orange raffle ticket. I thought maybe I was going to win a prize for passing the first level of the registration test.
Instead, I was told to hold onto the small orange ticket, for it was the key to my final destination-the registration line.
I did as I was told. I placed it deep in my pocket. I was then told that the line in the front room of Woody was too long, so I would have to wait in the cozy back room, staring at “Forrest Gump” and a mound of chocolate walnut brownies.
I sat, while my list of “things to do” played back in my mind. “You have to start that report… and go to work so you can pay your bills… finish that assignment.”
For a moment, I lost control. I fled to the front room, as if I were breaking free from a prison cell. I was free from Bubba and the brownies, only to be faced with THE LINE!
I peered around the corner. Nobody had seen my daring escape. I stood in line after everybody else, and somehow I felt closer to registering.
I felt I had finally gotten somewhere in the whole muddled process. Then, an eager student darted in the front door and stared in amazement at the line. He looked at everybody, but did not step at the end of the horrific line. He walked up to the registrar’s window and uttered the magic words, “I am a graduate student.”
A hush came over the students as the registrars seemed to snap out of their lethargic trance and jump to his assistance. I was left 12th in a line of 12 and two more “graduate” students proceeded to jump to the head of the line.
In the meantime, I recalled a friend who remained trapped in the first phase of the registration process, awaiting her number to be called in order to advance to the front room.
Two ticket-holding students had jumped ahead of her somehow and her place had nearly been lost. If it had not been for me making a break for the back room and signaling her to take her rightful place, she might still be staring at Forrest running cross-country.
With the expiration of 30 more minutes, I finally reached the registrar’s throne. Ever-so-gratefully I handed her my paperwork and she processed it. Easily. A little too easily.
I waited in another hellish line at Student Accounts and, to make a long story short, a loan check had still not come in, so I could not officially pre-register.
I wasted over an hour of my day, waiting in a line so I could be told that I may have to wait another two weeks.
The moral of the story: In the hellish registration process, just walk through the front door.
Christie Reed, a junior journalism major, is editor in chief of the Campus Times. She can be reached by e-mail at reedc@ulvacs.ulaverne.edu.
