No matter how much they insisted, I always turned them down.
“But tonight is gonna be awesome,” they’d argue. “Sooooo many people are coming.”
“I just … can’t,” would be my weak reply, defeated and barely audible.
Over and over again, night after night, I would go through this routine with my overeager friends, desperate to agree just once to a night of debauchery at the Grape. However, I was virtually a prisoner in my closet-sized room in the apartments, repeatedly offering to be the designated driver because at least that was one opportunity to leave my room.
No, I wasn’t on judicial probation. I wasn’t becoming a hermit or dedicating my life to Jesus. I was practicing for the LSATs.
I didn’t take the LSATs seriously until a meeting with an advisor who informed me that this one test is what law schools use to decide if you are even worth considering for admission. What doesn’t matter is your 21 years of life up until the date you apply; what does matter is your score, the result of a single four-hour test. I left my meeting in a panic.
Forget tour guiding, The Mirror, homework, that paper due tomorrow, and all other priorities: my entire future relied on this one test.
After nearly a month of solitary confinement and rigorous practice, I felt as ready as I could be for the test last Saturday. Nevertheless, as I took my assigned seat amongst a sea of fellow test takers, I noticed a curious shaking of my hand. I was nervous, more nervous than I wanted to admit. I glanced at the clock. 8:15 a.m.
Anxiety began to overwhelm. When would this thing start? 8:22 a.m. People are still filtering in.
8:31 a.m. Close the door already, if these people aren’t here by now, they should be locked out. How do they expect to become lawyers if they can’t make the exam on time?
8:42 a.m. Come on, really, close the damn door.
8:44 a.m. The door is closed finally, and I receive my test booklet. Of course, it’s sealed. I can’t help but stare at it in awe. So this is the enemy, an unassuming, pamphlet-like book.
9:05 a.m. Ridiculously redundant pre-test instructions and rituals are completed and all appropriate bubbles are filled in on the test sheet. I’ve signed my name repeatedly to documents that guarantee I’m not a cheater, I won’t share the test, etc. etc., and we are ready to begin. My heart is beating out of my chest right now, and I’m shaking so much, I think the person next to me thinks I’m having a seizure.
By the time an hour had passed, and we had taken two sections, I finally began to relax. The enemy wasn’t so fierce after all. Of course it was challenging, but once I allowed my anxiety to subside and convinced myself that I was going to kick this test’s arse, I was able to attack it with a clear mind.
I understand the need for a systematic method of comparing students from various backgrounds, but I don’t see why it needs to be weighted so heavily. There is so much more to a person than a three-digit test score. Nonetheless, as long as you take a deep breath, relax, and approach the test with a “Let’s-get-this-thing-started-biotch” attitude, you’ll survive. Remember, it’s only four hours.
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