Masters of the universe

For the last three years, I tried my darndest to be a walking public service announcement of the perils of higher education. Alas, the one closest to my insanity is the one who seems to have learned the least from my mistake. At this very moment our apartment is quiet. The silence is punctuated only by the clacking of laptop keys and the occasional heavy sigh. Scott is studying for the GMAT. And I'm getting a taste of what it must have been like to live with a test-crazed lunatic for three months. I imagine this is a prelude to what grad school will be like from the vantage point of the long-suffering spouse. We're all about equality in this marital partnership, with academic achievement being no exception, but really, why would anyone voluntarily subject themselves to what will surely be a spectacularly awful brain blasting stress fest after having lived through it vicariously already? I'm not entirely sure, but here we are: perpetual study mode, only the roles of participant and witness have been reversed. Props to you, my tenacious husband. Just be glad the MBA program is only two years.