I have to take a test this weekend to update my teaching license, and it happens to be standardized. I haven’t taken a standardized test in ages. In fact, the last time I took a standardized test I couldn’t drink alcohol or rent a van, and I was only just old enough to vote. So maybe you can see why, eight years later, I am feeling just a bit apprehensive about this shindig.
I’m pretty sure I haven’t forgotten how to bubble in answers, and I guess college prepared me well enough to take timed essay tests, but even that was three years ago. Besides, one of the perks of attending a liberal arts college is also a drawback. Whereas my professors often rewarded me for thinking creatively and, to be frank, fudging my way through essays, standardized tests have . . . standards. Points are only awarded if I mention such and such theory and its corresponding theorist. I’m not prepared for this.
Which leads my rambling mind to another thought. I may never be able to go to grad school. This simple little, not-so-very-frightening test is keeping me up at nights and, I suspect, giving me an ulcer. Now, the GRE—which I previously thought a reasonable task—seems like a medieval gauntlet.
I’d blame all of this on my natural anxiety, but I have it under control. Really. Those little pills I take nightly are miraculous. It’s been months since I checked the oven ten times to make sure it was off before leaving the house, and I can’t remember the last time I drove back down a street just to make sure the speed bump I hit wasn’t really a person. So if it’s not ludicrous anxiety, what is it? An old fashioned fear of failure? Maybe. Or maybe I’m just too used to giving tests instead of taking them. I did become a teacher in order to transfer my residual worry to others, don’t you know. Karma sure does stink.
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