THE NOT-HOMEWORK

I have recently done a lot of not-homework.  Not-homework is reading past midnight instead of studying for tomorrow’s test.  Not-homework is a fascinating biography in the guise of research, although it has only the slightest bearing on the paper that has yet to be written.  Not-homework is a book checked out on a friend’s advice, completely irrelevant to any class.

           

The children of not-homework are a baleful lot: not-sleep, not-study and not-prepared.  It is a torturous family tree, and their unfortunate acquaintance is at times a powerful deterrent.  But here they are again, and I am greeting them like old friends.  Have you come to gloat over me?  Go on then, if you must, and spur me into action for a day or two.  I fight them off with one hand and beckon them in with the other.

There are, on the other hand, some cases which blur the line between not-homework and not-quite-homework.  I was up later than I should have been last night, finishing a book that was assigned for a class, but didn’t have to be completely read until Friday.  This morning when the professor asked if anyone had read as far as such-and-such a part, I raised my hand and answered his question about the plot point. 

I didn’t admit that, in a frenzy of not-homework, I’d gone and read the whole thing.