"I'm spreading my eggs too thin."
The girls in my humanities class -all 500 of them- were getting ready to fight for the kill. Anything with cleavage that actually shaved their legs that day was seen as a threat. The skirts felt vulnerable as they eyed each other; mentally challenging their opponents over the lone hot guy who “accidentally” signed up for a girly class and undoubtedly will “turn” gay by the end of the semester. “Go ahead,” their perfectly glossed lips sneered before returning to perfectly practiced pouts, “Try me.”
And then the real reason we were actually there with full face make up and styled hair at 10:30 AM on the dot walked in. Our professor. Names aren’t important. Played by George Clooney.
I, like everyone except the lesbian in the corner majoring in art history, am taking this particular course because the professor was rumored to be ridiculously hot. I could have taken the 2 PM with the instructor who spits her lectures, but waking up a little earlier is worth it.
“OK,” he says at the podium, whipping his reading glasses off and flashing us a dazzling set of perfect, white teeth that must have taken thousands of dollars in veneers because nobody is that flawless, “If there’s anything I can do to make this class more enjoyable, I’ll do it.”
I half want to shout out “Grope me”, but I think it’s the girl hormones taking advantage of a situation and I am far too classy for that.
My English course is another story all together. I received James Lipton as my self-proclaimed psychic professor. I have to think he's telling the truth and he really is psychic because I love to suspend my belief. Or maybe he just happens to have a complete set of interns who run background checks on his students and then report back with our vital stats and a list of every major motion picture we've ever appeared in printed on little blue index cards.
“Stephanie, is it?” he asked me when I walked in one minute late to our second class, which I consider on time.
I was taken aback, and could no longer remember my full name. “Yes?” was all that I was able to barely squeeze out since my vocal chords were still congested with phlegm collected during sleep.
“Let’s try to be on time for now on,” he says from his position in the front of the room.
He had warned during the first class that if we caught him staring at us, he was just trying to memorize our names.
“Aww,” I said from the back of the lecture room, just quietly enough that a selected few could hear me, “Not ‘cause I’m pretty?”
My goal is to be The Quirky/Funny Girl in class. I manage this by occasionally popping up with interesting and witty comments in class, always making a grand entrance (three minutes late), and wearing only brand names. I’d settle for The Nice Jew, too, but I’ll take what I can get.
Quote of the day:
Prof. S: “We’re on a search for truth!”
Stefi: “Truthiness!”
- in English class
And then the real reason we were actually there with full face make up and styled hair at 10:30 AM on the dot walked in. Our professor. Names aren’t important. Played by George Clooney.
I, like everyone except the lesbian in the corner majoring in art history, am taking this particular course because the professor was rumored to be ridiculously hot. I could have taken the 2 PM with the instructor who spits her lectures, but waking up a little earlier is worth it.
“OK,” he says at the podium, whipping his reading glasses off and flashing us a dazzling set of perfect, white teeth that must have taken thousands of dollars in veneers because nobody is that flawless, “If there’s anything I can do to make this class more enjoyable, I’ll do it.”
I half want to shout out “Grope me”, but I think it’s the girl hormones taking advantage of a situation and I am far too classy for that.
My English course is another story all together. I received James Lipton as my self-proclaimed psychic professor. I have to think he's telling the truth and he really is psychic because I love to suspend my belief. Or maybe he just happens to have a complete set of interns who run background checks on his students and then report back with our vital stats and a list of every major motion picture we've ever appeared in printed on little blue index cards.
“Stephanie, is it?” he asked me when I walked in one minute late to our second class, which I consider on time.
I was taken aback, and could no longer remember my full name. “Yes?” was all that I was able to barely squeeze out since my vocal chords were still congested with phlegm collected during sleep.
“Let’s try to be on time for now on,” he says from his position in the front of the room.
He had warned during the first class that if we caught him staring at us, he was just trying to memorize our names.
“Aww,” I said from the back of the lecture room, just quietly enough that a selected few could hear me, “Not ‘cause I’m pretty?”
My goal is to be The Quirky/Funny Girl in class. I manage this by occasionally popping up with interesting and witty comments in class, always making a grand entrance (three minutes late), and wearing only brand names. I’d settle for The Nice Jew, too, but I’ll take what I can get.
Quote of the day:
Prof. S: “We’re on a search for truth!”
Stefi: “Truthiness!”
- in English class