And A New Semester Begins...

The signs of an impending summer are all around. Mid-America thaws from a deep winter freeze. The sickeningly sweet stench of Bradford Pear Trees pollutes the air. One can hardly drive through a "revitalized" neighborhood for the pedestrian traffic. The entire city seems to be flying out of their offices and on to the golf courses. But, for me, it brings pain. It begins the worst of all of the semesters, Spring 2.
Certainly, many have argued deftly that other semesters are the most difficult or painful. The parking situation exacerbates the bitter cold of Spring 1. Lines clog and classes fill as new students take a go at it in Fall 1. Jolly holidays disrupt Fall 2 and prohibit true progress of any nature. The extreme heat of summer sessions melts students as they opt to sweat the season out in dilapidated Pearson Hall studying Philosophy. But, Spring 2 is the cruelest mistress that a student can have.
I hear my colleagues heading out from their desks for margaritas on the deck at Schniethorst's. I see them suiting up for a leisurely jog in Forest Park. I will not know these pleasures. Why? Spring 2.
Spring 2 mysteriously creates a perverse disconnect between teachers and their students. My marathon lecture class invariably meets in a room more akin to a closet than a proper setting. Then the professor, generally a kind and venerable teacher, strongly believes that the class should last until the last second allotted by administration. Professors who have never before seen a schoolroom clock strike eight suddenly find it imperative to drone on until the janitorial staff ousts them from their podium.
As a student, this scene is like a reccurring nightmare. No matter how carefully I select a professor, the Spring 2 fever strikes. I sit in my strangely hard chair knowing full well that I am missing the most gorgeous evenings of the year. Knowing that, just a few months prior, I had often been dismissed to enjoy the bitter January evening as best I could. But now, I will be held captive.
The deep admiration that I generally form for my benevolent masters does not exist in Spring 2. Disappointment and sorrow replace it. During an especially magnificent spring, I despair. I ponder why I chose this path. I debate the merit of simply calling it quits. I could join the ranks of the "normal" and accept that one day school must end. But no, I have chosen a different path. Ironically, those longing for the perpetual youth that comes with school are denied the youthful joys of spring.
Tonight, I will again sit in that dark room. I will silently pray for a fire alarm to ring or for another student to go into labor. I will hope against hope to feel the warm night breeze on my skin before the rest of the world sleeps. A professor will crush these dreams. I will go home, again, go home broken.