There I sat—an Asus laptop in a sea of Mac Books—looking around the largest Classroom I’ve ever been in. Classroom is not the right word. More like Concert Hall. Stadium. Colosseum even. My first class, Criminal Justice 100, at my new Alma Mater was a massive collective of nubile young women and hairless skinny jean wearing beta males. The tail end of the Millennial generation that has become known to some as the Worst. Generation. Ever.
I chose to sit up front, second row, towards the center aisle. The instructor, a man about my age, was pretty cool and laid back. I’m going to like this class I think.
On top of squeezing the best education my money can buy into my massively sexy brain meat, I’m also going to be getting into super duper hot body shape.
Tell them how.
I’m getting there. I’ll be getting into drop dead, firm body shape by-
Tell them already.
I’m fucking working on it! Quit interrupting me. I’ll be achieving world record, man of steel, Mr. Universe shape by…. You guessed it. Sprinting. I have 10 minutes. 10 minutes to get my soon to be gorgeous man bod, plus my decently weighted bag-o-books, from this Amphitheater housing 410 students clear across campus to my American Studies class. Much smaller. Maybe 30 people.
Again, not much different. Sit near the front. Why?
Yeah? Don’t you know all the cool kids sit in the back?
Probably the most notable thing about this course is that my instructor is an unannounced sports fan. He made more sports references within a 50 minute class than John Madden at a game.
Granted, this is the university that only two days early one the National Championship in college football. But still.
My personal favorite was when he was asked about extra credit. He responded with “There is none. You gotta play the game while the clock is ticking. Once it stops, Game OVER.” This cracks me up when it comes from an Asian man older than my dad with an Alabama accent.
This also brings me to the day before. Towards the end of orientation, I had to visit the little boys’ room. While washing my hands, as I was raised all gentleman with good hygiene do, from the stall I hear this guy yacking up his breakfast in an offering to the percaline gods. Now, admittedly this could all be due to his drunken celebration of football championship awesomeness, but I prefer to think that this presumably skinny jean wearing pencil-stache of a kid just couldn’t stomach the awesome experience that is college life.
I’m taking 5 classes for this semester, and trying to stay ahead of the game. It has caused me to put writing in the background, but don’t worry my lovely tribe warriors and warriorettes… I am a writer and a writer I shall be.
Well ladies and gentle dudes. I leave you with this: I’m gonna make college my bitch. Roll Tide.