AWKWARD ANNIE
Special to the Lampoon
Nothing compares to the feeling you get when you open your eyes in the morning, look at your phone and realize that you have successfully turned off your alarm in your sleep — it is now 20 minutes into your 9:00 a.m. class. It’s like the part on a roller coaster when you’re in free fall and your stomach climbs its way up to your throat. You try to come up with logical explanations for why your clock is lying to you. Maybe you missed daylight savings time, or the power went out? Or maybe time has stopped and you need to seek shelter before the world ends. But much sooner than you’d like, you have to decide to show up a half an hour late to class or just skip it entirely. Let’s be honest: you are not putting on real people clothes and brushing your teeth for a lecture on some dead poet whose last name is more perplexing than their work.
A few Fridays ago, I was walking to my earliest class feeling like death because I slept for probably a total of an hour the night before; I had the idea that Starbucks was absolutely essential to get through the next 50 minutes. I checked my phone and it was about quarter to 9, so that latte and muffin were happening. The line didn’t reach the lobby of UC yet, so I thought that I could be in and out in like 10 minutes tops and still make it to Fenton on time. Someone should have just slapped me.
After ordering my soy vanilla chai and blueberry honey yogurt muffin, I waited anxiously, with the crowd of people in the same boat as me, while a new barista struggled to accommodate the masses. Obviously it was her first day, why wouldn’t it be? I started nervously pulling at my flannel, trying to slow down time with my mind. After a prolonged period of anxiety, I finally got my food and started walk/running to class.
I tripped over the sidewalk and took way too long at the part where the diamonds are in the way, as latte foam was running out of the top of the lid of my drink. By the time I was passing by the library, the bells from the clock tower started chiming, followed by a song that sounded like a nursery rhyme from hell. You know you’re late when the only people outside are you and some man walking a little ball of fur that has legs and a face. I flew into the side door of Fenton and just as I reached the door to my class, the professor shut it in my face. He was talking to the rest of the class as they watched the expression of sheer panic consume my face through the tiny window in the door. I felt like even more of a bitch when I shuffled to my seat with my Starbucks, clearly letting everyone know that I thought I had time to get breakfast this morning.
Being late for class is definitely frowned upon by most college professors, and an unexcused absence puts you on the naughty list. It’s even worse when you convince yourself that sending an email to the professor to see what you’ve missed, and trying to make up an excuse as to why you weren’t there, was an amazing idea. So now that your professor hates you, be sure to never miss a class again because that B- you were hoping for will become a low C by the end of the semester.