The 'Mrs.' degree

It was a sort of epiphany - without the lights and little dancing angels of course, but I do recall a slight ringing in my left ear.

Spending nearly a month in bed with mononucleosis does that to a person. A disease, by the way, with the pleasant side effects of a 103 degree fever, tonsils and neck lymph nodes the size of tennis balls, as well as enlarged organs I never knew existed.

After acquiring my new narcoleptic habit of falling asleep on visitors determined to see me at my worst, I had it all figured out -- my lifelong goals, my future career, the perfect minor to my already mile long list of degrees.

My M.R.S. degree -- a.k.a the "Mrs." Degree.

As piles of unread textbooks and exams yet to be taken piled up, I saw my GPA flying off for a visit to Hogwarts, and the idea of finding a man to fall in "love" with and sponge off of for the rest of my life began to sound extremely appealing.

Hey, the gals in the 1950s did it, and their divorce rate is significantly below the one out of four married couples that end up in divorce today.

Besides, girls don't really need a degree anyway.

What could be more perfect than the title of "Mrs. So-and-So?" I'd much rather wash dirty dishes and cook elaborate dinners for my man and kiddies than brave work in the professional world any day. Let's face it, gals, it's the perfect degree to prove we're smarter than men. They work, and we reap the profits.

The women's rights movement had it all wrong.

I began to make lists of required classes to present to UB's administrators when I gave them an outline for the most progressive degree of the 21st century. This was going to put UB up there with Princeton and Yale.

First of all, I would need to buy a whole new wardrobe. Conservative styles will get you nowhere. This degree calls for a makeover and a weeklong shopping spree in NYC.

Look for tops that reveal just enough decoupage to spark the interest of even the most narrow-minded nerd -- but absolutely nothing slutty. You're aiming to be the "Mrs.," not the "Mistress."

In between stores, stop for a mysteriously golden tan, hairspray, an eyebrow wax and perfectly manicured nails. It may require the use of Daddy's credit card, but this is an emergency after all. Your future is on the line. Mistakes could cost you -- instead of the wife of a surgeon, you'd end up the wife of a man with one of those useless Ph.D.s.

And immediately start a diet -- no one will look at you if you are anywhere over 115 pounds.

At the start of the semester, sign up for the hardest 400- and 500-level classes in science and law you can find, even if it means illegally sitting in on medical lectures.

But don't pay attention to the lectures; those majoring in M.R.S. have much higher aims.

Instead, look for the "professional" students -- the ones with pens lined neatly at the top of their notebook and who raise their hands annoyingly often. These are the studs that are going to go all the way. Settle for nothing less than a future doctor or lawyer.

Mentally weed out the ugly ones, the fat ones and the ones with mysterious odors. Make lists of the "hotties" and "potential hotties." Then, sit by your favorites in class, and fail the first test so you can ask your potential "Mr." for "help."

If that doesn't work, spill expensive coffee on his wrinkle-free notes so you can offer to have him copy yours. If your future "Mr." just isn't catching on, or doesn't seem interested, extreme measures are allowed. Otherwise, dump him and consult the original "hottie" list. Don't waste your time on duds.

The M.R.S. major's motto is "Ring by Spring." Those who succeed in earning said engagement ring by the spring of their senior year pass, while those who fail should pursue a career in a nunnery.

I can't wait to make my Mono-induced proposal to the UB administrators. If they object, I can always make a call to Daddy, or even major in English.