This was for many semesters the end of my week; I had in front of me a blissful four-day stretch until the next occasion on which I had to walk into a classroom, four days in which I could read, write, and generally fulminate.
Fulminating takes time. Long, uninterrupted stretches of time.
Instead, I’ve got classes in the morning, then a much-too-quick two days, then classes in the morning again. I’m not complaining, mind you.
Okay, I am complaining, but not about the classes themselves — my students this semester (hi, students!) are fantabulous, and their discussions of the material have been (mostly) energetic and (always) thoughtful. What I’m complaining about is the frequency and the timing thereof.
Rather than finding myself alive with the thought of imminent fulmination, as I have been (or at least as my fuzzy nostalgic memory tells me I have been) for the last several years, I instead find myself exhausted, whiny, in need of many hours sleep, some inspiration, and a good whisky.
Hence, this post: whine, whine, whine, for I have nothing else of substance to provide.
(Except a program note: I’m headed to Louisiana for my step-grandmother’s eightieth birthday celebration. Since my parents have invested in the DSL, I may be able to post over the weekend, but if not, know that I’m there, enjoying a beer on the river, while listening to my beloved Tigers [sadly, still in double digits, according to the coaches’ poll (don’t even get me started on those yo-yos at the AP)] teach the Bulldogs a thing or two about how it’s done.)