The Never Ending Class
There you are, trapped, unable to do anything about your situation. The sound of the instructor’s voice seems to you a hammer pounding away at a nail that just won’t go in. It mirrors the pounding of your head, inundated with blurry information, punch drunk and battle weary. You just do not feel like being in class today. You would rather be doing almost anything but what you are doing right now – sitting in Dr. Pindlesnip’s mandatory attendance Intro to Algebraic Poetry class.
Oh, you have sat through similarly bland classes, but there is an unending nature about the one in which you sit that gnaws at everything you consider humane and acceptable. You have been trapped in The Never Ending Class. You have tried everything you could think of to alleviate your suffering. Doodling was quickly abandoned, as you realized that you could scarcely draw a straight line, much less anything worthy of presentation. It’s depressing, really, how horrible your drawings are, so you seek other methods to get you through the incessant droning emanating from somewhere in front of you.
You decide to write a letter to your significant other, but your mood has sunk to the point that you are not sure just how significant he/she is anyway. You just want the class to end. Counting the number of dots on the ceiling quickly lost its value as a distraction, as did flirting with the person next to you. You really shouldn’t be flirting anyway, but you had to try something.
Now you are counting seconds in your head, but the seconds seemed to have transformed themselves into minutes, and the minutes into hours. The droning continues, and you adjust the position of your buttocks against the wooden desk that holds you captive. Of course, doing homework for another class will not work, especially after John Inglebrick got caught the other day. The old trick of putting a magazine in front of your textbook will not work either, because your book is only slightly larger than your hand. It would have to be a pretty small magazine, and you aren’t into reading that much for that matter.
Only 35 minutes left now. Wait a minute. Weren’t there only 30 minutes left the last time you checked? You don’t remember. Great. This class will never end, will it?
You have bitten (or filed, for those refined, couth, readers) your nails, tapped your foot, and popped your knuckles, but there you sit, affixed to your seat like a patient on his deathbed. Half of your rear end has gone to sleep, and your head begins to nod, as if it would like to follow suit. Hastily, you snap yourself back into reality. Linda Wonderbraski got singled out for snoozing last week.
Have you truly discovered Hell on earth? Suffer even this, my friend, for there is a solution to this incessant torture. What? I am offering a solution? Yes, I know it seems dubious, but I actually have a suggestion.
Pay close attention and take ridiculously copious notes. I know, yada yada yada, you are sucking up to the University or some abstract power that be, but I assure you, this is not the case. I kiss no asses, nor do I brown any noses. Now, let me tell you, this works! It really does. Even in classes that are grotesquely boring, I have found that it helps considerably to just give up and make an effort to take interest. Take it for what it is – not for what you want it to be. After all, you have to do it, right? You might as well get your money’s worth. Besides, deep down, you really do care what grade you do or do not make, so stop lying to yourself.
Well, it works for me – sometimes. Give it a wholehearted try. You might be surprised. If it doesn’t work, then your quest to survive The Never Ending Class might be as futile as Gary Coleman’s chances of becoming Governor of California. Then again, you never know.
