And, for the record, I really like my shower curtain.

Last night. Oh, my, last night…

Full house. Standing ovation. Sheer exhaustion. After party. Kudos. The usuals.

Totally worth it…all the rehearsals, which in this case were rather tightly thrown together and quickly so, and the lines…oh god, the lines…I’ve never been that close to Shakespeare (he seems standoffish like my cousin Jonathan – sure, sure, he’ll speak, he’ll pass you the potato salad if you ask him, but he won’t really like doing it, and you’ll be able to tell from the look on his face, but it’ll be a private thing, not broadcast to the whole dinner table).

But, last night, Shakespeare finally gave me the potato salad and did so with a smile. 

No Holds Bard.

The Complete Works of William Shakespeare [abridged] is the show I’m currently in; we’re performing it as a fundraiser to help take our theatre to AACT for nationals. It’s a community theatre organization, and we’ve won state and regional competitions so far with Laddy Sartin’s play, Catfish Moon. 

He’s another Mississippi playwright. Though, we’ve not met.

This show, Shakespeare [abridged], is a physical tour-de-force. I not only had to learn to sword fight and master the art of the *quick-change*, but I had to do so while wearing tights and performing Hamlet backwards. Also, there are probably over 2,531 props that must be handled in each scene…and all for the viewing pleasure of You, the theatre-going audience.

(You’re welcome).

…it was fun, such fun, and illuminating, intoxicating…as was the after-party.

But, then, came 8:00 this morning. Morning and Night, two sisters who hate each other with the passion of a thousand burning suns.  

Ah, 8:00.

That’s when I realized that I was teaching summer school at the local community college, here…when and why I agreed to do this, I cannot now recall. I’m sure it had to do with money. But, so revved up was I last night after seeing the paycheck our hard work rendered (READ: standing ovation, not dollars), I simply couldn’t tear myself away from the after party.

And not from consumption of alcohol, per se, we were drinking something far more damaging: applause and adulation.

I think I perhaps got to bed around 2:45 in the bold A.M. (capital letters only please).

I don’t remember waking up but that’s only because I don’t remember sleeping. I vaguely recall hot water, so I trust I took a shower – don’t I usually? My bones were sad enough for the whole body, but my muscles did all the crying. Oh, that’s right, I said, the death scene…scenes…the falling down, the jumping up, the tackle in the football scene with Lear, all of it was slowly, achingly reminding me that I was a) not in my 20’s anymore, and b) neither was my body.

I got to campus with minutes to spare, and realized then that I had to make copies of my syllabus, and I didn’t even know how many to make. I tore off down the hall to the copy room, and there, as I should have expected, was a line of middle-aged women dressed entirely too well for 8:00 AM. I shot a quick look at myself; I had put on clothes, right?

Yes, so…good, so…yeah, so far so good.

I finally got my turn at the copy machine and that’s when it refused to cooperate. Murphy, I muttered under my breath. Paper Jam, Door 6B, Tray 3X-12A, whatever, whatever…it’s madness. Copiers.

Xerox this.

The jammed paper was located, pulled out and the machine continued, agonizingly slow, of course. Take a breath, Kris, you’re here, you’re the Professor, calm down. So, I did. I walked over to the teacher’s mail boxes and reached up to grab the rosters for the classes I was about to begin teaching. Took another deep breath, and trudged forward.

I checked the first roster to see what room number I was going to be in for the dreaded 8:00 AM class, and then, strolled toward that classroom.  This was going to be fine, I just need to get more sleep, that’s all, and I would tonight; there’d be no party, for starters. I opened the door, and there they sat, the students, with nerves pinched, and bright-eyed (I think mostly nerds take summer classes at 8:oo in the morning, right?  I mean, I did), and all but one student had already purchased the text book. Good sign, right?

Actually, that textbook. That was my first clue. The first sign that all was not well. For some reason they all had textbooks claiming the Fundamentals of Public Speaking.

But, for some reason, I didn’t register it, fast enough.

I walked to the front of the class, and was just about to begin my “Welcome to Comp. II” spiel, when a second professor walked in, with a book that matched everyone else’s. I knew him; I know him, rather. He is a very nice fellow, and though I knew instantly I had a significant and dangerously embarrassing situation on my hands, even if I wasn’t clear yet as to its full nature, I also knew he’d understand what I was slowly coming to realize myself: I was in the wrong classroom.

So, I did what my addled brain often does when cast into an audience, mistakenly. I took advantage of the situation, and I introduced him to his unsuspecting class: I regaled him as a quality instructor, and ensured them that they’d learn a great deal about Public Speaking from this man, this hard-working colleague, who truly cared about his students, and was someone I should emulate more often in the classroom, myself.

He stood dumbfounded, wall-eyed, nearly; there was the softest hint of an irrational stare to his face, I should say.

I, in turn, welcomed him to his own class, and wished him well. All of them, I wished them all well. I don’t even want to think about what they talked about, or discussed, after I left.

I’m usually more aware than this.

Used to, I’d get to the classroom before any of the students, and take a seat in the classroom, pretending to be a student, myself. I’d sit there and talk about the course, how challenging, how exciting, it could be…did they know anything about the professor, etc. The whole works.

Let me tell you, they pay attention to you after that.  Though one young woman, I guess, felt betrayed by my action…she stayed in the class, but I’m not sure she ever forgave me.  I don’t know why, either, it’s not like I swapped state secrets with her and then ratted her out.

I still try to pull this shenanigan.  I won’t be young enough for much longer, and it makes me laugh to do it.

Summer terms, of course, are by definition shorter, and so the class times are much longer. I’m teaching back-to-back, too, (again, why?), and as soon as I got home today, I began what will now become my summer term ritual: a nap. I dreamed of wrestling water buffalo, this afternoon, so I guess that means the “game is on.”

To me, he looks just fine without a nose ring.

In the dream, I’d taken my shower curtain down, and removed the curtain rings to put in the noses of each buffalo I was wrestling; I know that’s often done in Asian countries or Bangladesh, when their plowing rice fields, and the like, but what scares me is that I have no idea what to do with this as a metaphor for this upcoming semester. Or, my students.

And, for the record, I really like my shower curtain.