It was a long semester. I’d taught the course three times before since I started grad school, and it was always about as exciting as watching paint dry. Take the attendance, give the lecture, hand back the papers, go home and grade the exams. It’s not a terribly exciting career, but it has it’s perks. Many of which are the students themselves.
Every day I get up there, usually bleary eyed and hungover from the night before, shirt half tucked in, and tie too long on the wrong end. I fiddle with my notes for a few minutes as the students file in, and finally look up. There before me, day after day, a room full of bright eyed, perky young women, all eager to hear what I have to say. I’m running seminars for the Social Work program this year, so this class of 40 students only has a handful of guys. I never notice them. Don’t even know their names. You wouldn’t either, not for all the leggings, crop tops, short skirts, halter tops, and yoga pants sitting in front of you. Most of the time, it’s just overwhelming. A sea of gorgeous girls fiddling with their buttons, playing with their hair, or sucking on their pen caps. But every once in a while, there’s that one. A cut above the rest. This was Katie.