Fatal Flaws

Orientation drags on forever. The professor speaking is an older woman who lectures on American history.  Ignoring attempts at asking questions, she walks past several raised hands, continuing her speech. Her long, purplish green flowing dress sweeps the ground with each stride. Passing by the open window, the sun reflects off the random jewels spread across her dress, glistening.  

The flowery scent of her perfume scatters throughout the classroom with each gust of wind that flows in. But her short grey hair remains perfectly pinned in place by a rose barrette, not a single strand astray. Despite her beauty, she looks miserable, with a sour expression across her lips. Wrinkles heavily mark the corners of her beady, dark eyes, making me assume she must've enjoyed life at some point. The age lines etched into her skin tell a story of laughter, love, and happiness. But years of dealing with disrespectful students and parents have worn her down. It's enough to break anyone, being subjected to underappreciation and overworked days. Teaching is a demanding job, I could never do it. 

Walking past, my eyes follow her toward the front of the class. Picking up a sheet of notes, she begins reading from them. Each time she glances down, her thick gold-framed glasses slide along the bridge of her nose. Before continuing, she pauses to adjust them. After shoving them into place, she searches for her previous position, clearing her throat and restarting her lecture. This whole situation is made worse by her voice being monotone. It's like listening to a robot speak. I'm honestly trying to pay attention, but the longer it goes, the harder it becomes. Her voice fades as I lose focus, allowing my eyes to drift, studying my surroundings. 

Despite this room being decent-sized, there are only ten rows of chairs, five on each side. Designed for college-age students, they're similar to the older elementary school desks but larger. Big, blue plastic bucket seats that are surprisingly comfortable, with the right side being made into an armrest, ending in a desk area for writing. The left is wide open for easier access  sliding in and out.

The sudden sound of her voice amplified causes me to glance up. From this angle, most of her body is hidden behind a dark podium. The attached microphone explains the sudden volume shift, making it harder to drown out, but not impossible. Allowing my gaze to drift, I focus on the older wooden desk beside her. Stacks of papers and a glass apple holder, jammed full of pens and pencils, sit on it. "Number One Teacher" is written on the oversized apple container, probably a gift from a student.  Along with the mini chalkboard fastened to its front, "Best Teacher Ever" is scribbled on it in chalk. 

My focus shifts back to her. While speaking, a white projector screen drops from the ceiling behind. Without missing a beat, she transitions into incorporating the slides, pointing to them as she talks. Each slides designed in a different color, containing several paragraphs and photos. So far, the pictures have been the best part of this whole presentation. They've brought life into a never-ending, drawn-out lecture. 

Pinching myself, in an attempt to wake up, doesn't help. Forcing my eyes open, I observe the wall nearest me. Portraits of random presidents and first wives in green frames are hung in a crisis cross pattern. Each with their name and the dates they were in office written below. Swiveling my body around, pretending to stretch, I keep looking. Towards the back, two giant multicolored world maps are taped to the wall. Each labeled differently using multiple languages, pointing out countries and oceans. Between them sits a large, stand-up globe, covered in a thick layer of dust. It takes a lot of self-restraint to suppress the urge to run over and spin it, watching the different colors whiz by. 

Listening to her continue to drone on, my gaze shifts to the opposite side of the room. It's less decorated, instead, occupied by several tall, thick oak bookshelves. Overcrowded and packed with hundreds of books in various shapes, colors, thicknesses, and heights, placed in no specific order. Unlike the globe, there are no traces of dust in sight.