I have been a little nervous because one of the classes I have to take is only offered on Tuesdays until 5:30 and I have staff meeting every Tuesday at 5.
Walking to the class I told myself that most English professors are really chill and it should be no big deal. The sun was out, I had eight more weeks of class, campus was emptier than normal, and I was feeling all 500-days-of-summer.
I knew why.
I knew it was because I had all nice, fun, and understanding Professors for four years and I just couldn't graduate college without having one make me question my existence.
I knew it was because I had offended the Gods of Summer by signing up to go to school during these sacred sunshine months.
I knew it was because my life is so full of irony that the only time I ever had to leave a class early was the one time I was petrified to ask.
But I was hoping they were wrong.
I slowly walked the long green mile down to the back corner of the dark basement where my class was held. I could feel the cell phone service and internet access dwindling with every step.
I took the closest seat to the door, planned my escape route, watched the clock.
When the clock struck three the door slowly opened and a man walked in wearing a long dark coat.
He set his books on the table with his back to us, took off his coat and turned around....
This picture might seem like an exaggeration (almost everything I say is an exaggeration, deal with it), but it's closer to the truth than you think.
I was paranoid. I walked into class and this time the Professor was already in there.
I slowly approached him, keeping my hand at the level of my face (more a phantom of the opera thing but I was taking all precautions).
He asked me if I was the one who had left early last time and I launched into a long explaination of why, talking a mile a minute.
When I finished he smiled, rubbing his hook hand and said...
"Of course. I will e-mail you notes on what you missed each week."
And that is how I learned for the second time in my life not to judge people based on how they look or what people say about them.
The first time was in sixth grade when I told a kid he was weird for parting his hair and then I had a crush on him all through middle school.
Moral of the story:
I should have known. Hook is one of my favorite movies.