Appalachia Year

So getting into this one class was the difference between a summer in Athens to complete one stinking four credit hour class and a summer in Columbus rife with employment, productivity, happy hour patios, friends, and all the lovely things that accompany population density. I was turned away several times by the very irritable and curmudgeonly instructor last quarter. It felt a lot like trying to talk to the gatekeeper in Emerald City. He insisted the class was full. When I pointed out that the computer showed availability for the class, he looked puzzled, tapped at his keyboard for a moment, then turned to me to say, "Well, not anymore!" This happened several times and each time was more embarrassing and frustrating than the last. Who rang that bell?

So when I stood outside his office today for one last attempt to fenagle a spot on the class roster, I was steeling myself for an epic battle. Keeping in mind the loneliness and eye-scratching-out boredom that would accompany an Athens summer, I was prepared to make this visit as socially awkward as necessary to ensure enrollment. I'm talking curling up in fetal position on the floor until he signed my class permission slip. I'm talking plugging my ears and screaming and making raspberries, making myself throw up and then telling uncomfortable stories about my childhood.

So I walked in, introduced myself unnecessarily, and stated my rehearsed case. He smiled at me and said he was sure there was a spot for me in the class, and do I have a pink slip he can sign?

Really? Not to mix metaphors here, but it was like I walked into Dr. Jekyll's office having only met his other, less personable, self. Sitting in his office, I began to sweat. Am I trapped in one of my anxiety dreams right now? This shouldn't be so easy. I brought my crossbow with me for no reason.

So I got into the class. How about that? Now that's a horse of a different color!