My Greek grandmother used to knit me sweaters, elaborate wool concoctions in white, gray and blue. Each sweater took a good three months to make, and I was a growing child she hadn't seen in years. So she'd call and have my mother take careful measurements: How long is her arm, her back, her shoulders? And how quickly is she growing?

Then, uniformly, she would add two inches to all measurements, and hope that I grew symmetrically. Of course, in the rapid-growth years of pre-adolescence, it was rare that I'd add inches in the arms, back and waist in the same proportions, and so the sweaters--while indisputably works of art--always ended up fitting somewhat oddly, designed for the creature I hadn't quite grown into. Over the years, the magic formula varied--two inches, half an inch, elastic--with the same tangible effect.

Anticipating your grandchild's growth is not easy, but planning for your future self is no less complicated. I was reminded of this fact recently when I ran across the four-year course schedule I'd submitted for advanced standing status my first year, and realized just how far I've diverged from it. My concentration was the same, my rationale made sense, the principles applied, and yet the reality was completely different.

And yet I keep planning ahead, with all the certainty and assurance of an expert trader last November. I hedge my bets, indulge myself, anticipate--all weeks, months, seasons in advance. I had, for example, a summer job in September. Some of this is due to accident (my summer job was a natural continuation of the term-time one), and some to the kind of advanced planning that seems, here, to be a matter of survival.

I don't mean to sound organized. Mine are not unusual preparations, and these are not extraordinary timeframes. Perhaps hurry, as the sages tell us, is really a sign of not having mastered time. There is plenty I don't plan--dinner, coffee, a Saturday afternoon picnic, staying up all night to finish a book not for class. My plans are guidelines from the past, but they rarely interfere with an updated judgment. As evidenced by my errant Four-Year Plan, I'm not bound to designs once they cease to be personally relevant; particular times in the future are also tricky distinctions.

Indeed, when it comes to the Planning Game, I'm stuck in the minor leagues. Classmates' parents were reserving hotel rooms for Commencement the day the admissions acceptance cards were sent. Memorial Church, famously, is booked years ahead for weddings. MCATs taken the summer before junior year test knowledge that will be applied two years later and beyond. These actions, in turn, are not unreasonable; they emerge as necessary only because so many people consider them to be.

What will I enjoy in the future? Will I still want, come November, to go to China instead of Chicago for Thanksgiving? Will I want to be married in six years when Memorial Church is free, or graduate exactly on time to validate the hotel bookings? The haphazard can't be easily planned. So what happens when our lives catch up with our reservations?

But that's not the half of it. Wanting something, wanting it in the future and wanting it at a particular time in the future are also tricky distinctions. As W. H. Auden observed in his famous treatise on love, Dichtung und Wahrheit (Poetry and Truth): "I will love you forever, swears the poet. I will love you at 4:15 p.m. next Tuesday: is that still as easy?" Running headlong into our future plans can sometimes cause a bit of a train wreck.

The art of having wanted things happen at the right time, if they happen at all, is unparalleled. It is not unlike this column, which has been carefully written and stored days in advance, but will hopefully speak to you on the day you end up reading it, along with all the other news that has accrued over the course of an evening. How much changes in the few hours between when the printing press starts and when you read your paper over cereal and milk?

We are not here for very long: the library eventually closes, our swipe cards expire, classes run out and our friends move away. My time to plan here is running out. And in fact, when I think of everything I'll want to do in the future--everything I should make sure to plan--the one thing I can say I'll want for certain is free time. Time to fill with whatever project I'm in the middle of, whatever book I've meant to read or late-night meal I've been wanting to cook. I have never lamented the sudden appearance of a free hour.

Of course I want work, vacations, significant people of all kinds, lots of sunshine and several blocks of libraries. But I have learned better than to pencil these in: Besides living by libraries, developing your instinct for choices and taking your chances can be more trustworthy than plans anyone--even you--developed years ago, before you knew what you know now.

Ten years from now, I plan to fill my Tuesday evenings with free time. Sound good? You'll probably need reservations: Let me know by Wednesday and I'll save you a spot.

Maryanthe E. Malliaris '01 is a mathematics concentrator in Lowell House. Her column appears on alternate Tuesdays.