Every morning, at 8:18, I walk out of my room and out the door, passing the custodians who inevitably say good morning. I smile and say good morning back. They make me happy: they keep my bathroom germ-free, they keep the garbage bagged, they make our dorm a nicer place. Yet on a daily basis, good morning is all I say to them except in rare instances where I’m desperate to brush my teeth and I ask if I can go ahead and use a sink while they’re cleaning the bathroom.
At 8:24 I’m in my class, six minutes early. My bearded professor mouths good morning because he thinks I wouldn’t be able to hear him if he actually spoke aloud. My earphones are in. I say good morning back then pretend to be extremely occupied with my day planner.
The professor for my second class depresses me. She’s very anti-male. And non-optimistic. Not pessimistic, just not optimistic. There’s a difference. She wears the same nondescript blue jeans and light blue men’s dress shirt (except for the two times she wore a pink men’s dress shirt) and cheap canvas sneakers that clearly have no arch support. My feet would be killing me. Actually, they are, well, my ankles are. But that’s beside the point. Today she told us that life’s not fair.
In my third class, two girls sat in front of me, each writing furiously about post-modernism, Don DeLillo, and the media. They both had Bic pens, one clear, one black and white. The caps were both neatly appended to the butt end of the pen, with the clips chewed and bent into perpendicularity with the pen itself. It was interesting.
I had a nice chat with a squirrel today. And I smelled the buds on a tree. Then I lamented the death of the daffodils, early bloomers, my favorite flowers that are now gone for another year… or so.
Life is strange but I’m kind of a fan.