Class III

I consider last night's class to be ok in that it had good content. The teacher brought in an interesting woman who talked to us about her passions, and we interviewed her in a press conference setting. Her passion, and man was she passionate about it, was puppetry. PERFECT! Here is the type of person I most like to interview: someone who is a bit odd, but still is a fascinating and sympathetic character. This is the type of interview that makes for a great piece on NPR, and I was sitting right smack front-and-center where I could ask all the questions I wanted. I had a whole slew of them ready that would provide us with intimate knowledge of her. I had all this, and all I wanted was to go home.

I don't know exactly what was wrong with me, but do I recognize the ailment. This plagued me all throughout college -- and I can't believe I had forgotten about it until now -- but often, when I sit in lecture, I feel a desperate urge to escape. It sounds trite, and maybe it is, but it's extremely powerful and won't be denied. Even when the lecturer is engaging, and the topic is one that I'm interested in, I have to get out.

As an undergrad, it wasn't so hard to deal with - I just quietly gathered my things and slipped outside. I wouldn't even necessarily go home. I was perfectly content to sit on the benches outside of the building watching the squirrels mug for sweets. As an adult, it's been more trying. When I was working in a research lab, our weekly meetings to discuss members' research were agonizing. Now, the only reminder that I have of this exitlust is the writing class I so need to take in order to advance towards becoming a journalist.

Fortunately I was reminded of yet another one of my tendencies, this one a remedy: IRE. Fiery, seething wrath that bubbles below the surface of my skin and burns away my desire to leave along with any other concerns. Mind you, no one else is ever in any danger from my anger. The only harm I might cause someone would be if they happened to be in the blast radius when my head exploded.

Last night, the focus of my rage was a fellow student. She had asked the puppet lady, "Why do you do what you do?", a decent question, sure to provide insight into her motivations, only mildly annoying in the way it was posed. It was later, after the interviewee had left, when she asked the professor, who was giving us interviewing tips:

Speaking of not being offensive, I asked that one question earlier, but I didn't...I...I hope I didn't offend her when I asked her why she does puppetry. Can you...can you tell me a better way to maybe ask...that...question?

I immediately saw through her ruse. She wasn't at all worried about any offense she may have caused. She was merely panhandling for validation. Indeed not only did the teacher provide her with it, several other students chimed in as well. "Oh no, that was a good question!" "Yes, it's a great way to get deeper information." She positively glowed with each compliment. Only by jamming my pen in my neck could I keep my own question silent, "HOW DO YOU PLAN TO LEAVE HERE ALIVE??!!!"

Alas, though powerful, rage-a-hol is a fleeting salve. Like the timed release of a self-administered morphine injection, it is soon metabolized leaving you with not only your original pain but also memories of your short-lived reprieve. Three minutes later, I was staring at the clock, willing it to jump an hour. Just one hour.