S.N.A.F.U.

Remember when I said that I was anxious for classes to start? Well I was a fucking idiot. The semester is now in full swing and all I can report is Situation Normal: All Fucked Up. There's no point getting into the details of the textbook orders gone missing, the amazing computer illiteracy of the so-called techno-generation, the room-switch shenanigans, the dozens of emails sent to Ms. K-sley, the umpteen awkward welcoming meet-and-greets, the offensive things said in class that have to be tactfully policed (97% said by students, 3% probably said by me), the Sudden New Rules that make no sense but have to be followed to the letter, the new material that I have no business lecturing on but do so anyway, the wonky powerpoint presentations, the suddenly-changed passcodes, the unfixable funding proposals, the marathon faculty meetings, the palpable waves of hatred sent in my direction every time I say, "Now, let's get into groups and discuss-"... All of these things are just the things that happen every year, every time any one teaches anything. They are the rats that gnaw on the edifice you build erect when you write a beautiful, pristine, optimistic syllabus and imagine yourself rocking it out each and every class, Dead Poet's Society-style. I have to get better at dealing with the rats or at least not sweating them so much. I'm trying. My borderline-autism helps.

Things I've learned:
1) Turns out that the early modern period is seriously, like, it's own special thing that you have to go to grad school for for, like, a decade before any of it can make any sense. Early Modernists, I have not properly appreciated you enough and I know that I could never, ever, ever do the work that you do. One more mid-lecture question about the Pope and I'm going to scream. The modern and early modern historiographies are wayyyyy too disconnected and a class on, say, comparative empires where some dumbass 19th century British historian starts with the Spanish conquest can easily showcase the blackhole in my training in about 30 seconds into the lecture. I can't get to 1763 fast enough. I blame the division of labor within the discipline but really, I know, I should blame self. Note to self: read a fucking book.

2) (This may be a repeat of knowledge I've learned and shared before, but I've found out that it's still true): Going "off-script" is only rewarding when there is a script in the first place. Otherwise you're just being an asshole. Stream-of-consciousness might work for stand-up comedians but really doesn't for anyone else.

3) Really, really expensive pants are UNBELIEVABLY AWESOME. Over the summer, I decided to get a better, more-professorial wardrobe. I saved up, I made it happen. I was thinking of breaking the bank for a couple of blazer-jackety things and then buying reasonable shirts and pants to go with the jackets. So, in search of the jackets, I found myself at a high-end women's professional wear store in Calgary (! yes! They have them!) and of course the salespeople always inundate you with other shit to try on with the special jackets. That's when I met My Pants. I won't lie to you, they were grotesquely expensive. They represent two fairly decent trips to the grocery store or two installed winter tires or half the cost of flying to Baltimore for the weekend or two phone+internet bills. They were a pretty penny - especially for black pants made in Macedonia probably by Macedonian children. Of course, I put them on and they were ill-fitting in all kinds of ways but here's when the miracle happened: from out of nowhere appeared seamstresses who grabbed and measured and pinned and made promises that everything would be fine. It was like a scene from a gangster movie where I was the newly-initiated mobster getting measured for my shiny new suit. The salesclerk kept talking about how wonderful these pants were and how they'd go with everything, everywhere, in every way and I just let myself be taken in.

I felt guilty about it for a while but now the guilt is gone because, seriously, these pants are fucking amazing. In ways that defy explanation, somehow these pants fit me perfectly everywhere and make the parts that should be slim look slim and the parts that should be curvy look curvy. They are magic pants. They are made out of a wholly unnatural material (some kind of polyester-like polymer, so still organic, I guess) that deflects dirt, moisture, wrinkles, and bad vibes of any kind. They are neither warm nor cold, neither too heavy nor too light. The way I feel about My Pants is the way I imagine Batman feels about the Batsuit. Everyone should have a pair of pants that makes them feel this way!!! Go, go! Have pants tailored to your very self and feel the freedom!!! They fit me perfectly as is - I am under no obligation to suck in anything or lose any weight, alternatively I don't have to wear a belt and nothing sags or bags. They are a revelation.

Sure, I have no idea what other people think of My Pants - I imagine that they look like every other pair of black pants in the world. But that is exactly the point of prof-wear, to give your students absolutely nothing to talk about re: your appearance while still looking professional and pleasing-enough to the eye. So as not to distract from the web of made-up bullshit wisdom I weave in my lectures. . .

Whatever, my pants are awesome. They are giving me power this semester and I need power. Yes, I actually did just write 500 words on the subject of My Pants.

In other news, leaving for Baltimore in 6 days!!!!!!!! Can't hardly wait SO MUCH.