Whenever anyone asks me if I'm excited for school to start, I always tell them I'm just excited for the novelty of the first couple weeks, because after that, it just becomes routine. But recently I've started to realize that even the first two weeks are generally the same.
I brave the walk and the resulting pit stains up Bascom Hill year after year to meet my first professor, whose heartwarming smile and maternal voice make me yearn for my mother's lap and footie pajamas.
Somewhere between her promise that she'll always be there for us and her adorable mumbling that could almost be mistaken for baby talk, I suddenly imagine the two of us skipping giddily through fields of dandelions, wearing long, flowing dresses. She tells me I'm special and holds me while I cry in her arms.
That's usually when the boy sitting next to me taps me gently on the shoulder and asks if I'd like to talk about it later.
After that I make a quick pit stop in the bathroom to make sure I don't still smell like the underside of a grazing cow after the walk up Bascom, and that my eyeliner didn't run during my emotional awakening the previous hour.
Then I hike back down the hill to my next class, with a professor who has the confidence of the droopy lamp on my nightstand with its discolored, dented shade.
This professor assigns two papers in addition to a weekly assignment that we can do if we want. But we really shouldn't dislike her because other professors give us homework too... and just because she's giving us stuff to do doesn't mean she's a bad person... or that we should bad mouth her on pickaprofessor.com... or that we should write evaluations saying, Psycho bitch should pull the razor-shaped stick out of her ass and beat herself over the head with it.""
Before I walk to my last class, I run to the bookstore to sell back my books from my second class - it's obvious I won't be needing them. I congratulate myself on my fantastic luck in picking Professor Mentally Unstable and walk slowly down University Avenue, not caring that I'm 20 minutes late for my last class.
As I open the inevitably squeaky door almost halfway through the lecture, the harsh-faced professor stops speaking, looks up and says, ""I tolerate tardiness almost as much as I tolerate my wife crawling into bed at 4 a.m. smelling like her yoga instructor.""
I quickly disappear into the back row where a bunch of my peers appear really uncomfortable.
""Damn,"" the freaked-out guy to my right says. ""This dude gets way too personal.""
I direct my attention back to the front of the class, where the professor has asked a girl from the front row to stand up.
""See, Sarah here obviously has a serious acne problem. It's OK, we're all friends here. But seriously, it looks like at the slightest touch her entire face might pop. However, on the inside, I'm sure she is a wonderful and intelligent woman waiting to blossom. And that's what my goal is, to help you all blossom.""
She runs out of the room crying, followed by about half of the class, covering moles and scars while they make a beeline for the exit.
When I finally melt onto the couch in my apartment, my roommate plops down next to me and asks about my first day.
""Eh,"" I say. ""Just status quo.""
""Well you won't believe what happened to me,"" she says. ""My bio professor had chalk stains on his ass for the entire class.""
I smile. ""Sounds pretty crazy.""
If you'd like to tell Kiera why you ran out of the lecture hall crying, e-mail her at wiatrak@wisc.edu._
