Time, Anyone?

Time, anyone?

We have all the time in the world.

Seriously? Who says that because I don’t feel like I have any time at all. My day spins by so fast I’ve barely registered sunrise before its suddenly dark again. Up, coffee, boots on, car started, off we go for another round on the carousel.

Today is cold and the car hesitates, not wanting to start.

“Com’on” I mutter, slapping the dash. “You can do this.”

Another crank and it groans to life. I sit and let it idle a minute, another moment lost to my  in-a-hurry morning. Putting it into gear, I take off.

I arrive at the university five minutes before classes start. I charge up the stairs, pushing past students on their way down and other faculty members chatting in the hall, like they’ve been here since 6:00 am. I’m lucky to make it by 8:00.

I drop my bookbag full of student papers off in the office, then rush to the faculty lounge, hoping I can scare up some coffee. Back to the office, frantically digging through my bag for the 8:00 class less-than-stellar papers and then trot off to the classroom.

My students are straggling in, some still in their pajamas, some drinking coffee or eating a biscuit. They are sleepy and would rather be in bed. Me too, kiddos.

“Good morning, everyone” I say cheerfully. I’m good at faking it. “I have your papers back for you with comments, of course. If any of you want to try a rewrite to improve your grade, I’m open to that.” (Why do I do this to myself? Do I really want to read any of their dribble again?)

“I will say, you did cover some interesting topics. Chelsea—could you tell the class what you wrote about?”

Chelsea perks up and starts explaining her in-depth exploration of pop music and its impact on teenagers. I can’t help but notice she talks about it much better than she writes about it.

And so the class goes.  And goes. On and on and on. I stifle yawns. And then there is another class, and another and another and a faculty meeting where everyone argues over what phrasing the proposal to the dean should use. Is required (too strong!) better than suggested (too weak!). How about recommended?

I doodle in my notebook, feigning interest in predictable arguments. I’m no better than my students.

After the meeting, a friendly colleague asks if I want to go for a drink and shake off the faculty meeting doldrums. Hell, yes, I would, but it’s Thursday, and I have that 5:00 class.

The 5:00 class is the dead opposite of the 8:00. This class is wide awake and lively. They’ve had enough coffee to ward off their hangover headaches and have eaten some combination of breakfast burritos, sushi, and strawberry smoothies. They are good to go.

The students come in chattering and full of energy. The good part about this class is that they are so talkative. The bad part about this class is that they are so talkative. They are easily engaged, and they are easily distracted. I plow through it—sometimes delighted and sometimes dismayed, but I get through it and, of course, collect papers at the end.

It’s 7:00 by the time I get home. I feed the cat and put on a pot of coffee. I pull off my knee-high boots and skirt, replacing them with slippers and sweatpants. I pull papers out of my book bag (did I mention I teach academic writing? Why would I do that?) scattering them across the kitchen table. I pour a cup of coffee, adding cream and a strong shot of whiskey. Sitting down, I get to work.

By 9:30, my stomach is growling, and I notice I have gone from commentary that reads “Nice start, but I think you need to develop your argument and add supporting evidence” to “Seriously? Come on—you can do better than this!”

Must be time to quit.

By the time I fall into bed, I feel brain dead. My sleep is full of dreams where I can’t find my classroom and I’m running late. I charge up and down steps, but nothing looks familiar. There are clocks everywhere I look, but I can’t locate any of the university buildings that I know. Next thing, I realize I have showed up to class half naked and forgetting what I teach. By the time morning rolls around, I am exhausted.

The next day I am on repeat, except there is no faculty meeting. Instead, I am holding office hours, hoping no one comes by so I can get more grading done. I bring some music up on my computer and pull a soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwich out of my bag that I haven’t had a chance to eat yet, even though it’s 4:00. Trying not to smear any jelly on my papers (I often return them with splashes of coffee or wine), I try to buckle down to work.

As I’m reading and marking, I hear a soft and timid knock on my open door. I look up, mouth full of peanut butter, to see a young man with dark curly hair standing there, uncertainly looking in. Of course, I know he is my student, but my mind must race through the pictured faces in each of my classes to produce a name and the class he is taking. I gulp down some water, but my mouth still feels sticky.

“Michael,” I choke out, then swig back more water.

“Come in, come in. Here- have a seat,” I offer, tossing my bookbag out of my “student chair” and into a corner.

“I’m sorry,” he says, awkwardly. “I don’t want to bother you.”

“No, no—you’re fine. What can I do for you?”

Michael settles himself in the chair and after chatting with him about an array of irrelevant subjects, he seems to relax and launches into his issues. Which are many. I nod my head, listening.

He explains all the reasons he is having trouble keeping up with writing his papers. How he is always exhausted (you too?), needs to work a job while trying to keep up with his studies, and his advisor keeps pressuring him to choose a major because you’re supposed to declare by the end of your sophomore year, you know? And I don’t have any idea. I mean, I know some things I might be interested in but declaring a major and committing myself to that one thing for the rest of my life, I mean—what if I hate it? Then what? Then I’ve just wasted all my time and energy and what—start over? That’s nuts!

He shakes his head.

“I’m only 19!” he wails, “How am I supposed to know what to do with the rest of my life?”

He looks at me, expectantly.

“Look, Michael,” I say, “I don’t blame you. Heck, I don’t even know what I want to do with the rest of my life.”

Michael grins.

“I know your advisor expects decisions, but don’t let anyone push you into thinking you only get one choice, one time, and then you are done. Just pick classes you think will interest you and explore. Find what excites you and if nothing excites you? Well, maybe that means you are following the wrong path. At any rate, you are right. You are only 19. Take some time to discover yourself. And you know what?

You have all the time in the world.”

Except, of course, when it comes to finishing this paper.