where the boys are

Today is the first day of the last week of class. For real, finally. In my head we've been winding down from this ten week quarter for about five weeks. I've let my literature class leave early so many times I'm almost afraid it's going to show up on the evals as a bad thing--some of them leave disappointed, saying, "But I was so excited to talk about x, y, z"; the rest shake themselves from their slouched-down, not-asleep-because-she'll-kick-my-ass, let's say relaxed posture, rebundle themselves into their Arctic wear and slouch outside to smoke against the building wall for the next half hour.

An Impromptu Poem (highlighting my flair for irritating repetition in lieu of creativity)
Maybe because this winter has been so cold,
Maybe because I went off Lexapro and got the shakes and brain zaps,
Maybe because I've been teaching MWF and have had WAY too much face contact with students,
Maybe because it's my second quarter in a row teaching a pure theory class without any literature to contextualize, or soften things
Maybe because my literature class is something I haven't taught since my postdoc, that I pulled out of my ass and polished up when the Eng. dept. asked for a class
Maybe because I've been eating too much Kashi and quinoa.
Maybe I've just been saving my strength for spring quarter, aka, ten more weeks of class

But now I only have three more days, then three days of grading, twisting students' arms to get very late papers in, more grading, meetings and then

SPRING BREAK IN PARIS! Just me, my girlfriend, the Orsay, and that yummy white bean soup with ham and lots of crusty bread.

This will be the first time I've ever been to Paris as a person, rather than as a professor with a gaggle of study abroad students. Not that I didn't ditch them whenever I could/whenever they passed out, not that I haven't had lots of quality time exploring by myself, but this time I don't have to worry that I'll be awakened at 3am and dragged through the streets of the Latin Quarter by panicked, drunken students who have lost one of their own, who want me to retrace their steps to the jazz club where they last saw him, who want me to LOOK AT HIS VOMIT on the bathroom floor as proof that he was there at some point and somehow, somehow, use that to find him. As though I'm a bloodhound.

But today I am still here, still must teach (in about an hour), still haven't finished today's quiz.