in medias res

Leggings are back. When I first saw them in NYC, I thought there was just a disproportionate number of dance students roaming the streets. I don’t know if I can go back. I just can't believe that big on top, skinny on the bottom is really a fashion philosophy right now.

Outside of a gym, that much fabric should never cling that closely to anyone’s body. This is boring, but I’m responding to my roommate’s “constructive criticism” to post a new blog. Nothing is going on here. I’m all moved in, pictures are on the wall, and I’m down to two small bags of miscellaneous articles.

I’m in my second week of teaching. Somehow, I’ve always avoided teaching more than one class by working as a tutor or as a mentor. This semester, I am a non-waiver teaching assistant teaching two classes. If I had actually finished my thesis, I could be an ad junct making more money. Instead, I have to pay for the one hour of thesis I’m taking to keep my student status. And - the big blow - they took away my desk in an office. At the beginning of the semester, I verified that I was supposed to stay in that office. “No problem!” is what I was told. One week later, the line I got was that, “Since you’re not a teaching assistant and there aren’t enough seats for the other assistants.” Oh, but if it talks like a teaching assistant, walks like a teaching assistant, and gets paid like a teaching assistant and is required to hold office hours...then it deserves a desk in the Williams building.

Instead, I’ve scrounged up a desk in Dodd Hall Basement. I’m not above being in the Basement; I have many memories from my days there. It’s dirty, covered in pseudo-intellectual grad student graffiti, and floods occasionally. At least four different departments house all of their grad students in the Basement, making it the worst place on campus for holding student conferences or catching up on my own work. It reeks from the constant intellectual pissing contests. All of the romantic appeal - the grittiness - of the Basement disappeared after the first year.

And I actually used my office more than most. I had a regular buffet of quick-fix meals that I offered to other grad students. I sometimes spent more hours in my office in one week than people spent in theirs for an entire semester. I’ve already passed out my course policies guide with my office hours and location. I almost walked my students down on the first day. Now I have to tell them that I no longer have that office.

Returning to the Basement is especially humbling. In my small life, it’s ugly pride at its worst. In the grand scheme of things, this is nothing. I’m a little ashamed of my self-indulgent rant.

Really, it comes down to feeling a lack of validation. I thought that they were in need of instructors and that I was actually helping meet a need (and I needed the money). Now, I feel like I’m a burden, like I’m unwanted here. On top of that, they didn’t process my paperwork quickly enough and I don’t get paid for another two weeks. [Insert Debbie Downer “wah-waaaaaaah” here.]

On the bright side, I like my students. I spent an entire weekend planning my semester. I’ve vetoed all of the touchy-feely “tell me about your feelings” papers. I didn’t want to hear all about how someone’s high school prom showed them how they could be successful in life, blah-blah-blah. Critical cultural studies instead. In both of my classes, I can already guess which students will work the hardest, talk the most, or actually take my teaching to heart. I’m balancing the theoretical reading with the practical reading, and giving reading quizzes that invite discussion and ensure that they have read. And, these students are fun. Their energy is invigorating.

Other signs of aging - I bought a new computer, and I signed up for health insurance. I feel so big. After at least forty hours of research, and several designed-but-unbought additions to my virtual shopping cart, I bought the computer. She’s a sleek and sexy beaut. And when I start an application, I don’t have time to get a drink or take a shower while I wait for it to process. The old one was loud, hot, and hasn’t been the same since I launched it across the room in my sleep one night. This one has more power and features than I know how to handle. The only thing it lacks is MS Word, which means my thesis continues to be on hold while I work through my TO DO list. (READ: Watch all of Season 3 of Arrested Development.)

In other news, I will be making my directorial debut this fall in a documentary called “FCAT Packaging Instructions.” I got the job by default (I was the sucker who didn’t attend the meeting), and I have been dragging my feet the entire way. When it was announced to the entire Assessment team that I was in charge of the video, I realized it was time to put my bad taste and sense of humor to good use. Meet F.Cat. I’m thinking something very Conan O’Brien with the still picture and a moving mouth. Maybe a long furry arm can be used to point to the graphics throughout the video. I have one week to pull it together. And I have to make it simple enough that it will get approved. What is the line between amusing and disrespectful? How close can I get? Why are they letting the least technologically-able person do this? I think it’s age-discrimination. And it’s hard to do an image search at work when Google: Images is a forbidden site.

Now, my work beckons. Next stop – Sundance. (My delusions allow me to face the new day.)