Only one class today. Sociology. Professor's from L.A. Black frizzy hair with a pointed face. Thin lips. Broad smile. Very charming woman. The years seem to have been kind to her. Laugh lines around her eyes and mouth attest to that.
The girl in the seat next to me has been spending the past two classes drawing in her binder, a little anime-style female with hair swept over one eye and a loop through her bottom lip. Kind of resembles the student. Imagine that. I like the girl's shoes, one foot bobbing lightly where it is crossed over her knee. Red and black plaid heels with an open toe. Very cute.
"In the beginner's mind, there are many possibilities. In the expert's mind, there are few."
The professor was writing those words on the whiteboard when I walked in and took my seat. Dr. Q seems kind of frazzled, kind of tired. She keeps slipping up with her comments, tripping over her words as she takes attendance.
Oh! That's why! She's dead on her feet from commuting every week from FLORIDA. Jesus christ, no wonder. Flies in early Monday morning and flies back Thursday afternoon after my class. Wow, that's got to be tough. I can't fathom spending all that time away, not to mention all that money. Very expensive.
"Give a two year old a spoon," she says. "There are many possibilities for them. A shovel, a weapon, a drumstick. But a spoon, to us, to adults, is just a spoon. Because we are, in so many words, experts on spoons. A two year old is a beginner."
Conscious effort is needed to use a beginner's mind. Block out experiences and pre-conceived notions. Difficult to do. This class is definitely going to be interesting, I think.
We are programmed to judge, thanks to the media. The food you eat, the color of your hair, the music you listen to. Clothes, cars, the crowd you hang out with. As far as the quote goes, you are an "expert" on a person within five minutes of meeting them. And you are often taken by surprise when your pre-conceived notions about them are tossed out on their ears.
As I was walking down the aisle to sit in my seat, in the very last chair, the guy who sits in front of me glances up. His feet are sprawled across the walkway, beat up Vans untied, trendy pre-frayed cargo shorts faded on purpose, with a Hollister t-shirt on. His hair is brushed to the side and dangling over one eye. Kind of like the girl who sits next to me. Only he doesn't have a lip piercing.
I stop in front of his feet. He's got long legs with blonde hairs on them, but he doesn't move his feet. He just watches me. I start to lose my patience. I hate stupid people, and arrogant fuckwads who think that because they meet society's standards for attraction, the less lucky individuals like myself must fawn all over them for it.
"Excuse me," I say. Eye contact. He blinks and glances away. That's right, bitch.
"What?" He asks. Still won't meet my eyes. Doesn't move his feet, though, and I don't want to trip should he decide to move them while I'm stepping over.
"Move your feet." Frowning. Starting to get irritated now.
"Step over them." Oh, what a stubborn little jack ass.
I give up and kick the side of his shoes, the toes of my sneakers connecting with his ankle bone. He jerks his feet under his table and mumbles under his breath, "Cunt..."
Coming from the same guy who, on the first day of class Tuesday, turned around after my name was called during attendance, and told me in a stereotypical stoner voice, "I really like your voice. Victoria. Sounds like royalty."
That's nice, fuckwad.
This class is going to be so much fun. I can already tell.